Page 117 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“What I was going to say that night was…”

“Just say it.”

“When I saw my coworker looking at me, the thing I fantasized about was,” he began, “the thing was that it made me fantasize that one day you would look at me like that again. I wasn’t fantasizing about other men. Especially at work.”

I managed to push down the unnecessary rage and smiled instead. “Okay.”

“I needed you to know that.”

“I’m glad you told me,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “Now I don’t have to find out who he is and kill him.”

Peter laughed and pulled me in, wrapping me up tightly as his lips found mine.

The following morning, while Peter still slept on the left side of my bed, I knelt in the back of my closet, staring at the cardboard box. At first, I wasn’t certain what had drawn me from bed before the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and into the closet. So, I sat there and stared at the box, wondering what had come over me.

Peter was my future. For certain. I didn’t know what that future fully looked like yet, but I knew he was the biggest and most important part of it.

I needed to accept my past trauma, come to peace with it, and move on. I needed to put it all to rest while still figuring out how to honor it.

I was exhausted and annoyed with myself. With my own bullshit. Finding a way to move on was the best thing for me. For Peter, our marriage…my future. Our future.

One cannot erase their history—their trauma. And they shouldn’t. A person isn’t who they are without those things, for better or worse. But finding a way to make sure they no longer have a hold over the future you is paramount. Finding a way to honor that they helped shape you into the person you are, while putting them to rest, is how one steps into their future with solid footing and hope.

One cannot chase after possibility if they are still stuck in the past.

Gingerly, I lifted the flaps of the cardboard box and looked down at its contents. And I made a decision that would help me step into my future with hope.

I quietly retrieved my phone from the bedside table, making sure not to wake Peter, and texted a friend.

A Sinful Christmas

“It’s like we’re living in sin,” Peter said. “Which, I guess, makes it a little bit more exciting, right?”

My face broke out into a wicked grin as we stared out the window together. The living room had been decorated for Christmas again, prepared for the arrival of Peter’s parents, who were parking in the driveway. However, we hadn’t decorated the front room with the appropriate fake tree and matched ornaments and lights, only to decorate the den in a way that actually represented us. The fake tree never made its way down from the attic. The real tree we went and cut down at a tree farm was in the front window of the living room, decorated with the ornaments Peter’s grandmother had left him, along with tinsel and lights.

The living room was festooned with the things that told a person, as soon as they entered our home, who we were as people. As a couple. It was warm and homey and inviting. It made me think of Christmases with my family. The laughter and warmth and joy of holidays with family. When Peter’s parents walked into the house, they wouldn’t be walking into a showroom. They would be walking into a home. One that represented both Peter and me and our marriage.

Of course, the den would always be our favorite room in the house, but we would no longer use it as a way of hiding the things we loved the most from people who visited.

“Makes me feel kind of feisty,” Peter whispered in my ear, as though his parents might hear. He reached over to grab my butt. “Know what I mean?”

“You are a pervert,” I said.

“So?”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

Peter laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him as we stood there, waiting for his parents to park. The month that had passed since our talk before Thanksgiving had gone well. Perfect even. Not perfect in a way that meant every day was a breeze and never a single difficulty was encountered. It was perfect in that we were communicating, learning more skills to communicate, and we weren’t shutting each other out. Peter had even gone with me to a few therapy sessions.

In that month, we’d begun to be playful with each other again. Our silliness and banter were returning. And when difficulties arose, we worked on them as a team. I was doing my best to show Peter that I wouldn’t shut myself off when something was bothering me. I could speak up like an adult and tell him when I had an issue with something. Peter was proving to me that I was as important as him in our relationship—that we were equal.

But he was right. Knowing that I wasn’t living at home and that we were going to pretend for his parents, made it thrilling somehow. It was still a lie. One I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with, ultimately. However, if it was what Peter needed, I was going to go along with it.

“You okay?” Peter asked as the doors of his parents’ car popped open.