Wet Faces

Maybe he wanted too much. Even now as they sat wet-faced in his driveway with the engine still humming under the floodlights, Sam wondered why he couldn’t be satisfied with the way things were, why the present didn’t seem like enough. Didn’t he technically have everything he wanted?

Then he heard her sniffle and reflex forced a glance from Sam before he could snap his head forward again to stare into the nothingness.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. Sorry…”

And then silence again.

It was in these moments when he wondered how she could be so satisfied. Didn’t she want more? Didn’t she want those things he once believed all women wanted? Security, sanctity, legitimacy?

But maybe she didn’t, at least not right now. To him, her idea of “more” always felt like something they might be lucky enough to stumble upon one day, and not something they could just take. Like it would just happen if it was meant to be and that was ok with her. And maybe she was right. He always found her to be wise, and himself impatient. Maybe this was one of those very inexplicable things that drew him to her. But that nagging feeling never really went away–the thing they had started was not yet complete, nowhere close really, and probably never could be if they never took this next step. And it was the “never” that scared him.

“Do you not want to talk to me anymore?” she asked as she took his bicep from the passenger seat, a short distance that felt like forever. Sam wondered how her Southern drawl could still sound so sweet through the sobs.

“I never said that,” Sam answered, but his eyes stayed forward.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” But Sam couldn’t move. The only movement he could produce was a consistent contraction of muscles he still hadn’t noticed yet. He couldn’t cry anymore. Just thoughts and more thoughts. He appeared almost as if he knew some terrible monster would arise from under the seats and destroy her if he so much as made a sound or even breathed. But in reality, a terrible realization had taken him by the body and made him wish he could just die: maybe everything was just perfect and it took pressing his thumb to a dead man’s switch to realize he didn’t want to blow it up anymore, that he was wrong.

“You don’t like me anymore…” she wondered aloud, and then she started crying quietly. There was some strange sense of noise making things worse, like the sound of sobs was the only thing worse than the silence. But the silence was taking its toll too.

“I just–” but for some reason, he still couldn’t.

“You just what?”

But still nothing.

“You just don’t like me anymore, is what.”

She stated it more confidently now, almost angry. She was wrong of course, but the blockade over Sam’s mouth remained. Those silent sobs shook his soul like an earthquake, and those words cut him to his core, but why couldn’t he just say something? He loved her more than anything, but now he couldn’t even produce the words to prove it, and he knew that if he lost her belief in his love for her, he’d lost everything.

But still no words. Just thoughts and thoughts and more thoughts, the same intruders who started this whole thing still were now squatters–Does she really love me? If she did, she’d marry me. Is there someone else? Is it because of my drinking? Would she marry me if I stopped? What if I’m just a placeholder until someone she knows she really wants to marry comes along? Is it my body? Would she marry me if I was in better shape? I’ll go to the gym, I’ll eat better, I’ll be a better man overall! Am I being punished for something? Is this God’s way of telling me there’s something else I need to correct in my life before we can take this next step, that I’m not ready yet? Maybe I don’t make enough money. Maybe I need to–

Sam sensed the uneasy adjustment in the passenger seat searching for comfort in the silence of his thoughts and he finally stopped himself just short of going mad. If he didn’t say anything soon, she’d leave. After the sadness blew over and she had a moment to think without the tears, she’d start to wonder if it was all for nothing, just one big show to get her attention and feel again–if anything she did or said would ever be enough. How many times would they have to cry? How many times would they have to sit in silence and wonder when the other was finally going to say something–anything!–like two teenagers waiting for the braver to make the first move? Was four years of faithful love not enough? Were the thirty second calls first thing every morning just to hear the other’s voice not enough? Were thousands and thousands of hours making love and kissing and staring at the ceiling of his bedroom from the comfort of their bare backs on sweaty sheets still not enough? He’d give anything to be back there, to feel that silence, the kind that said, “I know you, and you know me…”

But he caught himself spiraling again. Those were his thoughts about thoughts and they were making Sam feel even crazier than before. You have to do something!

Sam’s head snapped as if he had no choice, but this time it wasn’t reflex that made him do it. His eyes met her face, her cheeks still shiny in the floodlights, but now it was her who wouldn’t look. She could feel him though, and in anticipation of what she thought Sam was about to say she started to cry again, this time with no concern for the silence they once preserved…

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’m sorry about everything…”

She sniffled and wiped a few tears away. “I’m sorry too.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. But I… I don’t know. I’m just sorry…”

“Can we go inside now?”

If it were up to Sam, they’d sit in that car all night. They’d just start over and pour out everything until they both felt empty, nothing lingered. All the emotions and pent up feelings and questions that got tucked away and hidden over the course of four years for fear or embarrassment or truth would finally be free, filling the car with tension’s relief like a hot gas before dissipating into the air and hopefully forgotten forever.

But with that question–Can we go inside now?–Sam knew she didn’t need it, not like he did. Maybe she just didn’t have it in her, not as much tucked away, hidden. He wanted to ask her, but as his lungs filled with air it suddenly felt pointless. He foresaw the prolonging of an already exhausting night only to end up exactly where they were in that moment, only later and more tired. His shoulders finally fell to the bittersweet relief of giving up, and Sam was forced to acknowledge just how long his body had been sitting there with every muscle contracting in the tension of the long moment.

They finally made it inside the house and up the stairs. Creeks from the carpeted steps rang in Sam’s ear for the first time since moving in and he wondered if he would’ve ever noticed them had she been talking like she always seemed to be doing. But tonight the creeks cut through the silences like a scythe, and Sam couldn’t help but feel like an awkward teenage boy who’d lost all hope in trying to make the pretty girl smile.

As they laid in bed that night scrolling through the television, Sam realized he still hadn’t said it yet. He still hadn’t said anything really. One question of “more” led to a long, tearful night of tension and silence, and now he laid here still barely holding on to everything he was ready to throw away just hours before.

“Do you wanna snuggle?” she finally asked. A knot in Sam’s stomach got a little looser. They rolled into spoons and shared the same thought without ever knowing: after all these years, it still amazed them both how it always felt like their bodies were made for one another, even then still feeling like a plastic and its mold. They both felt a flutter in their chests.

Wasn’t this enough? This feeling of oneness must be greater than any title the world could give us. Maybe it’s ok we’re so different…

But he could still feel the pain from just a few hours ago. He could still feel the tension and awkwardness, the silence that screamed louder than anything hurled at the other in the heat of the moment. Even with the greatest thing he’d ever known wrapped tightly in his arms, he still felt alone…

So he tried to ignore it. He gave her a squeeze and tucked a few dark curls behind her ear and whispered, “I don’t like you anymore. I love you…” And then she squeezed him back. Sam’s loneliness was relieved, but only for a moment.

But it was the sweetest moment–the sweetest moment he’d ever experienced, something he knew only she could produce, a moment he wanted again and again…