Page 111 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I—”

“How?” he demanded.

“I’m trying to tell you,” I said. “If you’ll just—”

“I just—”

“Peter!” I yelled, not in anger, but to get his attention. I struggled to not chuckle. “I can’t answer you if you keep interrupting me.”

“Then tell me!”

“I don’t know,” I said, almost pleading with him. “That is the answer. I’m sorry. But I don’t know. I have been so in my own head, trying to figure out why I am still dealing with…things from my past. It didn’t occur to me how much it would matter to you. It was selfish. I hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s fucking rude,” Peter growled. “You’re fucking rude, Enzo.”

Then, he tossed his coat and jacket back on the arm of the couch, stomped over to the kitchen table, and sat down. Sighing, I once again ignored the breakfast and shuffled over to stand beside Peter. He didn’t even acknowledge me next to him for several moments, so I simply stood there. However, when he finally stopped pretending that I wasn’t standing beside him, he did so by spinning violently in his chair and wrapping his arms around my middle.

Peter buried his face in my stomach, and though he did his best to cover the sounds, I could tell he was crying. Startled, it took a moment for me to respond. Finally, I brought my hands up and ran my fingers through his hair, trying to comfort him as he held me tightly and cried against my stomach. I had to force myself to not immediately switch to hating myself for yet another thing I had done wrong. I didn’t want to hate myself. But I wanted to take back what I’d done to hurt Peter. If I could have gone back and told him, I would’ve.

I’d been honest when I said I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him. Because it hadn’t even been a thought. I’d simply been selfish and had only been thinking of myself and how I felt and what I needed and wanted at the time. I’d let myself forget that I had my own family now. A man—my husband—I loved deeply who cared if I lived or died.

I wouldn’t hate myself. Atonement was required, however.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Peter,” I said.

Peter somehow mumbled “okay” over his tears.

“I left the church before I met the doctors and had my surgery,” I said.

I knew Peter would understand what that meant. When his grip on me tightened, he confirmed that he did. It was quite a while before he stopped crying and released me from his arms, as though afraid to let me go.

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Peter and I fell back into an easy routine with each other. As was typical of us before I had started dealing with the whispers of traumatic memories in my head. Of course, I had my apartment and he had our old house, but we saw each other every day. Still unsure of how to go home—and not knowing why—Peter would come to my apartment at the end of each work day.

Sometimes, I had finished work earlier than him, and I would be cooking dinner when he arrived. Other times, I would still be working when he showed up, and he would cook. Each evening we had dinner in my little kitchen. Sometimes we’d talk nonstop—serious topics, political news, gossip, or simply silly stories that made us laugh.

After dinner, we’d wash dishes together and then fall into the sofa to watch television, or use it as background noise while we, inevitably, kissed like teenagers. Many nights, we fell into my bed together, ripping and tearing at each other’s clothes as though it was the first time every time. Our hands, fingers, and mouths explored each other every time as though discovering a new land—one we hadn’t visited thousands of times before. And each time was as exciting as the last.

Some nights we would visit our favorite restaurants, though we took turns paying for once. Making sure Peter knew it was important to me that I paid as much for our dates as he did, I refused to let him pay every time. Peter’s career had been longer than mine and had more time to develop and grow, so it was likely I would never match him in salary. But I made plenty of money to support myself, have spending money, and take him out on dates every once in a while. He needed to know that. I needed confirmation that we were equals.

Peter didn’t argue; so, he had obviously figured out one of the problems we had in our marriage. It endeared me to him further to know that he was willing to pay attention and see the things I needed to feel as though we were in an equal partnership. The nights out at restaurants also ended back at my apartment in bed.

Night after night, however, in an unspoken agreement, Peter would leave and go back home to sleep. Kissing at the door, telling each other “I love you,” Peter showed he was willing to compromise. And it broke my heart each time.

I wanted whatever was going on in my head—the thing I was trying to figure out—to release me from its grip. Though I knew Peter would go along with our living arrangement as long as I needed, I was tired of seeing the sad look on his face each evening when he left. Something inside of me wouldn’t let me be ready to return home.

Hating myself was no longer a choice. Every day I hated myself for not being able to figure out what was going on inside of my head and causing Peter more heartache. Of course, I knew that Peter hadn’t been perfect, though he hadn’t been horrible to me in any way. However, dismissing my concerns and making them seem less important than I felt they were was an issue—but it could be resolved. It was something we could figure out because it wasn’t an egregious sin.

Even if it wasn’t his intention, Peter had made me feel as though my sole worth was as his husband. I could cook and clean and do the errands and chores that needed doing each day while he was at work. When he came home to a clean house and dinner being made and a husband who loved sex as much as he did, he was happy. When my medication had to be changed and it nearly physically destroyed me—and I could no longer be a perfect husband—he made me feel…I didn’t know how I had felt.

Like a failure?

Worthless?

As though he didn’t love me the same amount?

That, if I couldn’t be all of the things I’d been, I was of no use to him?