How to Fix a Relationship
I should have just said: “I feel trapped. You’re stifling me. We’ve become too different. Our relationship is falling apart.”
It was on a particularly bleak December day that Sam and I decided to fix our relationship. My phone rang at exactly 11:38 AM and I was already anxiously pacing around my living room. “I’m here,” he muttered tersely as I answered the phone, then promptly hung up. From the window I could see the familiar gleam of his Jeep’s headlights, shining weakly through the gloom of the morning.
“Was that him?” My mother inquired, stationed on the couch. I nodded, a lump already forming in my throat. “Wish me luck,” I managed to croak out, my hand positioned on the doorknob. “It’ll be okay honey,” she said in the reassuring way that only mothers can. I headed out into the cold.
“You’re late,” was the first thing I said when I got in the car. My voice flat, accusatory. “You’re always late.” He didn’t respond, instead lighting the cigarette that dangled from his lips. He attempted to start the car several times before it sputtered to life. “Stupid fucking car,” he said as we pulled out onto the street. The profound chill of the day seeped in through his cracked window, and I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. “Yeah, this car sucks,” I said, just to say something. Sam remained silent, his eyes fixed on the road. The city sped by us in a blur of dirtied snowbanks piled high by the side of the road, huddled bodies, the eerie silence that comes only to streets blanketed by snow.
Eventually we reached the interstate. A dinged up sign read DULUTH, 150 MILES, a painful reminder of how long we’d be trapped in this car together, of why we were there in the first place, of the many things still left unsaid.
The trip had been my idea. We were planning on picking up Sam’s brother, Brian, from college so he could be back in time for Christmas. The night before I’d received one solitary text from Sam, one that I was hoping I would never receive, that said simply: “When were you planning on telling me you cheated on me?” I’d read it over and over, my stomach leaping into my throat, and I called him with a breathless “I’m sorry.” This previously innocent road trip had been reformatted as an attempt to fix a broken relationship. In my panicked mind, I thought that if I were trapped in a car with Sam for three hours, we could somehow talk it out. That I would be able to explain to my boyfriend of nearly two years why I had cheated on him.
But a feeble “sorry” is what came out again, there in the car. I knew it wasn’t the right thing to say. Sorry doesn’t take anything back, and in that moment I wasn’t even sure that I meant it. It was so quiet that I said it again; “I’m sorry Sam.” He twisted the dial on the stereo roughly, the music peaking on the car’s shoddy stereo. As we headed north, the urban landscape melted away, replaced with spindly evergreen trees and an ever-present blanket of snow. The clock flashed 12:15 in an angry red. Sam, who had been chain smoking, threw his cigarette out the window and promptly lit another one. Unable to make more conversation, I stared out the smudged window. A billboard advertising a local mall’s Santa appeared. “Who are you spending the holidays with?” he inquired in garish green type.
I felt sick then, and turned the stereo off abruptly. “Can we please just talk about this?” My voice sounded loud and awkward in the sudden silence that had overtaken the vehicle. I stared at Sam, noting the shake of his hands as he flicked the ash off his cigarette, the familiar paleness of his skin, the dirty suede jacket he wore that smelled so much like him. “I already told you I was sorry,” I said desperately, the anxiety-induced nausea intensifying. “Please just say something.”
“I just don’t understand why you did it. How you could do that to me,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever trust you again.” It was starting to snow. A light pattering of flakes descended delicately from the sky and dissolved onto the windshield. In some maudlin flash I wondered why it always seemed to rain or snow at times of great emotional stake. “I know. Can I have a cigarette?” He nodded curtly, and I grabbed one and rolled down my window. Now the biting winter air felt almost soothing, stray flakes nestling in my hair and on my hands. DULUTH, 75 MILES, another sign read.
I should have just told him. I should have said: “It’s because I feel trapped. You’re stifling me. It seems like you don’t actually respect me. We’ve become too different. Our relationship is falling apart.”
“I don’t know why I did it,” I said, exhaling smoke. I was beginning to feel like a terrible person, and maybe I was one. “Please forgive me,” I added. In some dark corner of my mind I knew I didn’t want him to forgive me. I wanted him to break up with me.
“I’m starving,” Sam said, his voice choked. A sheen of unshed tears intensified the blueness of his eyes, and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his jacket. He put on his blinker and exited the highway, which deposited us in rural Midwestern desolation. “There’s only McDonald’s,” he said. With this I dissolved into tears. Huge, heaving sobs that shook my whole body. “B-b-but I h-hate McDonald’s,” I stuttered, salty tears streaming down my cheeks, blurring the looming Golden Arches.
“Two vanilla shakes,” Sam said to the sullen drive-thru attendant. He turned to me. “Are you really sorry?” I nodded through my tears, because in that moment I really was.
“Here’s your shakes,” the attendant reappeared. Sam paid, and handed me one.
“Just like the first time we ever hung out, Thea. Do you remember?” I did. The heat of Indian summer, his gawky limbs, eyes blinking out from too-large glasses. Being stoned and stupid and skipping class, sipping vanilla shakes on the curb of a suburban McDonald’s.
“I love you,” he said. “And I think I can learn to trust you again.” I took a sip of the shake, its acrid sweetness burning all the way down. It wasn’t the same.
“I love you too,” I said.
“So you guys had an all right trip up?” Brian asked as he got into the car. I glanced at Sam, who smiled at me in a sad sort of way. “Yeah,” he said to his brother. “Quick trip up.” MINNEAPOLIS, 150 MILES, the sign posted above the interstate read. I settled into my seat, watching the pink and orange streaks of sunset that began to appear in the sky.
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