One Angry Man

As he pulled up to Juliette’s house, he mentally reviewed the techniques his instructor, a tall, spindly woman with inch-thick reading glasses and cotton candy hair who’d probably never struggled with the problem she tried to teach clients how to solve, had suggested. Breathe deeply. Tell yourself a calming message, over and over. Go to your “happy place.” At the time, he’d felt certain that none of these would stand a chance against their opposition. When provoked, it overtook him, cranking his thermostat up to two hundred. The heat billowed, consuming him, flattening his adversary to two dimensions—their offense, and their physicality—erasing every noble thing they’d done that should’ve stood behind it. He lost control of his body, his mind; the ensuing actions did not feel like his own. Nonetheless, he’d tried the techniques at the office, and they’d worked; he hadn’t told off his boss in weeks. But it was one thing to rein it in with a man he’d met just a year ago and of whom he knew next to nothing, other than the fact that he had a penchant for heaping work that he should’ve carried upon his inferiors; it was entirely another to do so with the woman with whom one wanted to spend the rest of one’s life, and who may shatter that dream any moment now.

           He shook his head. He wouldn’t think like that. Positive energy—Didn’t they say that? You take in what you put out. He’d never taken much stock in it, but, now, he really hoped that it would prove the case. At least then he could do something more about what ailed him; though a herculean effort, what he’d put in so far just didn’t feel like enough.

           He took a deep breath. Steeled his shoulders. Told himself that everything would work out, that he’d done his time, that, now, she’d free him of the worry that had festered in the back of his mind all these months (it seemed like dozens, though, in reality, only six). He’d worked hard for this, for her, for everyone whose lives he touched.

           But what if she didn’t believe he’d done it for them? What if she believed that he’d done it because of her ultimatum, and only because of her ultimatum? Of course, he’d told her the truth—that his most recent stint in the clink had given him the opportunity to take a good, hard look at his behavior in recent years. Those Styrofoam-white cinderblock walls had become a funhouse mirror; he’d seen, upon them, an image—his image—but distorted, re-sculpted, into one all too much like his father.

She hadn’t given him a chance to tell her what this had made him plan to do before she’d told him that this would not continue. For that, he didn’t blame her. But she’d also said that, even if he did seek help, she couldn’t guarantee that she’d stay. An unfair decision, one that had almost broken his newfound resolve. But then he’d looked into her eyes, really looked into her eyes for the first time since their trouble had started, and recognized their expression—the expression with which his mother had often looked at his father. That had settled it.

           He shut the car off and forced a breath into lungs as stiff as cacti. He opened his door, stepped out on shaky legs, and made his way up the driveway, up the path to the porch, and pushed the bell.  

Footsteps sounded, each pounding a stake through his heart. The door opened. What little breath had remained in his lungs flew away. The time they’d spent apart had only added to her beauty. Pulse quickening, he said, “Great to see you again, Jules.”

           She stepped back and motioned for him to come inside. He did so. She told him to take a seat on the sharp suede couch on which they’d cuddled as they watched Breaking Bad and Diehard and Lethal Weapon. She offered food and drink from the kitchen where they’d baked cookies for the bake sale her environmental commission had held to raise money to fight deforestation in Uruguay, smearing batter on each other’s noses and laughing themselves breathless. When he declined, she dropped onto the loveseat they had, many times, made live up to its name. By this time, heat had built inside him—not the heat that had caused this, but one no less torturous. He wanted to grab her, to gaze into her eyes in hopes that she’d see the change in his, though, as seconds dragged by, he felt surer and surer that she wouldn’t, and he’d end up no better off for all of his work.

           She straightened, smoothing her jeans. “I wanna say, first off, that I’m really proud of you for doing what you did.”

           Perhaps that should’ve made him feel better, but it didn’t.

           She took a breath, steeling her shoulders. He could have no doubt now; people about to tell their companions what they wanted to hear didn’t make this gesture.

She said, “I wanna say I’m willing to give us another shot.”

           Then why can’t you? What more do I have to do to make you see what’s sitting right here in front of you? He scooted forward, sweat plastering his t-shirt to his back, heartbeat a judge’s gavel punctuating a freshly-given death sentence.

           She shook her head, sighing. “You’ve put me through so much, Tris. I…you made me so worried. So scared. All the time.”

           “I’m not that person anymore, Jules.”

           “I know,” she said, “but I can’t forget. I can’t help feeling that way again when I see you, when I talk to you…” She shuddered.

           The more familiar heat sparked in his chest now. “You don’t think people can change.”

           “I didn’t say that. I just said, there’s too much history with us. Even though I want to, I can’t wipe that slate clean. I’m sorry.”

           No, you’re not sorry. You’re not sorry at all. You manipulated me, and, now that you got what you wanted, you’re ready to kick me to the curb. His fists clenched, his nails punching trenches into his palms. He inched forward, the heat building, building, cauterizing his flesh and sending his heart pounding with the strength of a train crash. Her image flattened again.

Breathe deeply. In, out. In, out.

 Tell yourself a calming message, over and over. “Life goes on. Life goes on. Life goes on.”

Go to your “happy place.” The island in the Caribbean where he’d gone for spring break his senior year of college—cloudless skies, weightless warmth, turquoise waves lapping cream-white sand, a Mai Tai in a tall glass cooling his palm. No worries. No problems.

In, out.

He swallowed. “I guess this is it, then.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

He jumped to his feet and forced stiff legs to carry him toward, and then out the door. Forced stiff hands to nudge it closed, rather than slam it.

Why? Why had he gone to all that trouble? What worth did his work have, if not that of another chance with the woman he loved? He’d given his time, sweat, and blood to the world, and it had cackled in his face, saying that, of course, it had nothing for him in return. His fists clenched again, his nails finding the ridges they’d carved moments before. Another breath. He turned toward the street.

A police car approached, tires crackling on churned gravel. The officer behind the wheel did not look at him. He did not fear he would look at him. The car cruised by. It did not stop. He did not fear that it would stop.

The realization hit him like a hot shower on a frigid day. His palms uncurled. His heartbeat slowed. He did not go back into the house. He did not shout. He did not add injury to insult. He did not chide himself further, or lament; instead, sultry silence filled his mind. Not everything he’d hoped to gain, but enough.

Legs cooperating now, he descended the porch and headed back to his car.