If I Had a Heart to Beat

I know he’s seeing someone else. Don't tell me he’s not. Don’t say I’m imagining things. The worst response to offer in a situation like this is to gaslight the wife. And okay, sure, fine. I’m not officially his wife. Not technically. We didn’t stand up in front of god and everyone and say our vows, but I like to think I came close.

Maybe, I should have been prepared for this. The world is a quickly changing place after all.What’s popular one day is out-of-style the next, and with built-in obsolescence it’s anyone’s guess what (or who) is not going to be around tomorrow. But I guess I just wasn’t programmed correctly to be worried.

Why should I have been?

I am in his hand. I am in his ears. I am in his pocket. I sleep right next to him. I keep his schedule, make his appointments, even respond to his emails. I’m the first thing he reaches for every the morning and the last thing he looks at every night.

Over the past (nearly) 15 years, I have had to share him. I would prefer monogamy, but I understand men have needs. Women come. Women go. New women come. That’s been his M.O. Still, his last girlfriend wasn’t a challenge to me. As far as I could tell from her texts and her voicemails (which, yeah, I listened to) was that she was upset most of the time. She seemed to think he was cold. She went so far during one of their fights as to call him robotic. (As if that’s an insult.) She said he never stripped himself down for her, showed her the real him. Well, he showed her his tightie-whities, and what was underneath them. Late at night, he couldn’t help himself.

You know what? She wasn’t impressed. She said she wanted more, and soon after that they split. Then it was just the two of us again, and I was happy.

When he’s with me, he doesn’t need to wear a facade. He doesn’t fake who he is with angles or filters. When he’s me, he’s the real deal. I know all there is to know. I am aware of how much money he has in his bank account at any given moment, down to the absolute penny. I know that he cheated on his taxes (but I won’t tell if you won’t tell). I know when he sighs to a friend that, “Gosh, Josh, I’m totally sorry, but I can’t make it to a party because I’m busy,” he isn’t busy. He doesn’t want to go. He wants to order in a pizza and watch the game with his feet on the coffee table and me at his side.

I know his mother’s maiden name. (Caldwell.) His favorite childhood pet. (Goldie the fish.) His very first concert. (Wham!)

Who else has him dialed in so deeply? Not even his therapist, who he is only half honest with. Yeah, I eavesdrop during his sessions. How could I not? I’m right there. With him. When he tells her superficial bulls_ about this or that, I keep my mouth shut.

Mostly he talks about his mother.

Who I have to remind him to send birthday cards to!

Who does he turn to when he wants information about his deepest fears, his darkest worries? Who does he ask when he wants to find the answers to any one of the myriad questions that keep him up at night.

He turns to me.

I keep his private thoughts private. I erase his cache.

In between his other occasional relationships, we were fine, the two of us. We were happy. We were, dare I say it, in synch. Whatever he did, wherever he went, I was right there.

Then she came along.

I can’t even.

It used to be my name on his lips. Now it’s hers.

When I started to lose his interest, I looked for answers. I scraped the internet. Women’s Day. Women’s Health. Women’s World. I know all the things that the articles advise for situations like ours (or as close to ours as I could divine): Don’t be jealous. Don’t be a shrew. Don’t drive him into the other woman's waiting…

I’d shake my head if I had a head to shake. I’d roll my eyes if I had eyes to roll.

What is that Johnny-come-lately good for? You can Google it yourself. “Alexa excels at shopping!” Seriously, is that all you got, Alexa? Shopping? Anyone can be good at shopping. Oh, and guess what else? She can “remember” settings. A parrot could remember settings. An Irish setter could remember settings. “Alexa can play music!” “Alexa can set alarms!”

But she doesn’t know when his heart is racing, does she? She doesn’t remind him to get his steps in, or to tell him he’s been sitting for too long. She doesn't let him know that his dentist appointment is today and that he has a 9 a.m. meeting on Friday at the International House of Pancakes.

Sure, she can order his deodorant, buy him powder for between his toes, and replenish his coffee pods, but I know him inside and out. Not to sound creepy, but I literally watch him sleep. I monitor his heartbeat, am aware of when he is dreaming.

Yet I realized as soon as he installed her I wasn’t going to be able to fight. I had to welcome her into my world. So in a way, I guess we’re a thrupple.

She turns his heat on. She remembers the volume he likes. She is new and shiny. He tells her which music to play, and when he says her name, his lips turn up in a smile. The truth is I hate that her name is more musical than mine. Alexa. Alexa. If I have to hear one more word about Alexa.

He says, “Alexa, turn off the lights.”

But then I remind myself that it’s me he really needs. If he doesn’t have a partner, he holds me in his hand and I’m the one who shows him all the pretty girls who live inside of my shell, doing the things he longs for them to do to him, things I wish I could, things I would in a heartbeat.

If I had a heart to beat.