Chapter 7
The more uncomfortable possibility was that Ryan genuinely did not think of himself as manipulating me.
In his mind, I would understand.
I would calm down.
I would see the logic.
I would compromise.
I always had before.
That evening, someone knocked.
Ryan stood on the porch.
He looked terrible.
Unshaven.
Wrinkled shirt.
Red eyes.
“I told Paul not to call you.”
“I’m glad he did.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
I let him inside.
We sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where my father used to do crossword puzzles in ink because he considered pencils cowardly.
Ryan looked around.
“I forgot how much this place still looks like them.”
“That’s part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean for me too.”
He frowned.
“For two years, I’ve barely changed anything because changing it felt like losing them again.”
He waited.
“I may sell this house someday.”
His eyes lifted.
“I may sell it next year. I may live here for twenty years. I don’t know.”
“Then why—”
“Because the argument was never about whether selling it could be reasonable.”
He went quiet.
I leaned forward.
“The argument was about who gets to decide when I’m ready.”
Ryan stared at the table.
“I really believed you would understand once you saw the Kirkland place.”
“I know.”
“And I thought if I brought it up earlier, you’d shut it down before considering it.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
My answer surprised him.
“That’s exactly what you did.”
“What?”
“You decided my answer wasn’t valid until I considered the answer you preferred.”
His eyes filled.
“I never meant it like that.”
“I believe you.”
That seemed to hurt worse.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“My therapist said something similar.”
I blinked.
“You have a therapist?”
“Since Monday.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“Fast.”
“My fiancée cancelled our wedding in front of 164 people.”
“Fair point.”
He laughed once.
Then his face collapsed again.
“I keep telling him I hate conflict.”
“You do.”
“He said maybe I don’t hate conflict. Maybe I hate being the person who disappoints someone.”
I waited.
Ryan swallowed.
“And when Mom wanted something and you wanted something else, I kept trying to find a way for neither of you to be disappointed.”
“That is impossible.”
“I know that now.”
“No. What you did was choose who could be disappointed more safely.”
He looked at me.
I continued.
“Your mother got upset when you told her no.”
He nodded slowly.
“I got quiet.”
His face changed.
“Christmas,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
The Christmas after my parents died, Susan and I had planned dinner for weeks.
Then Margaret announced a large family gathering on Christmas Eve.
Ryan asked whether Susan and I could move ours.
I said no.
We argued.
Eventually Susan heard about it and moved dinner herself because she didn’t want me fighting during my first Christmas without my parents.
Ryan thanked me for being understanding.
“The apartment key,” he said.
“Yes.”
Our wedding guest list.
Our honeymoon dates.
Where we spent Thanksgiving.
The month his sister needed our spare bedroom and he told her yes before asking me.
None of the events had been catastrophic.
That had been part of the problem.
Each one was small enough for me to surrender without feeling like I had surrendered anything important.
Until there were years of them.
“You didn’t choose the fairest answer,” I said. “You chose the person most likely to eventually forgive you.”
May you like
His eyes reddened.
“And that was usually you.”
