“And we've been working on forgiveness,” he went on.
“You don't have to forgive me,” she assured him.
“No. Working on me asking you for forgiveness,” he corrected her.
He could have hit her and she would've been less surprised.
“For what!?” she exclaimed.
“For treating you the way I did in Italy. I've never gotten physical with anyone, you know that. I still can't believe I touched you like that. I kinda hated you and maybe wanted you to die a little, but I didn't want to hurt you,” he told her.
“I know that, Mike. I knew it then. There's nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, there is,” he went on, taking a deep breath. “I took you for granted. I didn't listen to you. I pushed everything away, including you. I know you worked hard on us, and I know you tried to tell me, I do. I think … I think I was more obsessed with the idea of having the 'perfect marriage' when I should've been trying to have the best relationship.”
“That's awesome, Mike, and I gotta be honest, it feels good to hear you say a lot of that. But I still shouldn't have done what I did,” she said softly.
“No shit,” he stated loudly, and they both laughed. “You should've walked out first, before you even went to Italy. God, I wish you would've.”
“Me, too.”
There was an awkward silence.
“I've got a cashier's check,” he blurted out.
“Excuse me?”
“The savings account. Sorry, I was angry,” he said, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket. It was a bank check, made out in her name, for a lot of money. A lot of money she had worked hard for in a job she'd hated.
“It was understandable,” she replied, taking the check from him.
“I don't know if I can be your friend yet. I just wanted … wanted you to know that I don't hate you anymore. I don't think I like you very much, but I don't hate you,” he told her. She smiled.
“I don't like me very much, either,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes.
“Is he … do you still … are you …,” Mike stammered. She shook her head and stood up.
“No.”
She didn't elaborate.
“I'm seeing someone else,” he offered up, his voice nervous sounding. She refilled her tumbler with water and sat back down.
“Really? That's great. Really,” she gushed, and she meant it.
“Well, just a couple dates. Just going slow. You know?” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. A nervous habit he'd had since they were nineteen.
“Of course. Slow is good. Slow is probably for the best,” she assured him.
“Yeah. My therapist said I should talk about that with you, too,” he went on, now rubbing his hands together. She thought it was cute, that he was nervous to tell her about his new girlfriend.
“Whatever you want, only if you're comfortable,” she told him. He took a deep breath and she took a sip of her water.
“He's a music teacher named Dennis that I met while -,”
Mischa spit out her water. All of it, straight out. All of it, all over his face. They blinked at each other, water dripping from his nose and her chin. She gaped at him, and he stared at her like he was terrified.
“Um …,” she began, mopping at her chin. “I'm sorry. I must have misheard. Denise, you said?”
“The whole forgiveness thing covers this, too. I got mad at you for lying, and what you did was shitty, but I've been lying, too,” Mike was almost whispering.
“About this? About a music teacher?” Mischa glanced around, like said music teacher was going to jump out of a dark corner.
“Yeah. I've … for a long time now … hell, since before you and I even hooked up, I've known I liked guys, too,” Mike confessed in a rush.
“What the fuck!?” Mischa shrieked.
“I know, I know. I didn't know how to deal with it! You know how my mom is! And then you came along, and god, Misch, you were so hot and so perfect, I just loved you so much, so quickly. So I figured nobody ever needed to know. We'd get married and be together forever, and it would be enough,” he explained. She gasped.
“Are you saying it wasn't? Mike, were you sleep-,”
“No. I'm not the cheater here,” he growled, and she was immediately chastised.
“I'm sorry.”
“But I did think about it. Fantasized about it a little. Not that you weren't enough. You just …,” his voice trailed off. She smiled sadly and placed her hand on his leg.
“Wasn't enough,” she finished for him.
It was wrong and fucked up. Mike had kept everyone in the dark about his sexuality. It had effected their relationship and driven a wedge between them. Mischa had used that wedge as an excuse to explore her own sexuality.
We were so fucked up. We were doomed from the start.
“Do you hate me?” Mike whispered. She gasped.
“God, no! How could I? I mean, I feel bad, that all those years, we could've been having awesome threesomes,” she joked, humor her ever-present armor. He laughed long and loud.
“Oh god, I missed you, Misch,” he struggled to breathe. She smiled.
“I missed you, too, Mikey.”
“Don't get me wrong. You were my wife. I never stopped thinking of you that way. I loved you. I thought … I thought we were going to grow old together. I still can't wrap my brain around it. When I wake up in the mornings, sometimes … sometimes I reach for you, like you're still next to me. Or I'll call out to you, thinking you're just in the kitchen. It's like someone died. You killed me in Italy, but then I came home, and you were the one who was dead. It's been awful. You were my wife. My wife,” he repeated the words, his voice trailing off. She worked hard to keep her tears at bay. She didn't deserve to cry, to release the pain. She wanted to bottle it up, remember it whenever she was feeling sorry for herself.