Together Apart: Change is Never Easy (19 page)

But still, the idea of Sam dismissing her talents for good — the talents he’d seen in her all those years before, stuffed deep inside the beautiful, young girl with the skeptical exterior, dying to come out — made him sad.
 

“I just wish you’d give it a try,” he said in a small voice. “Give it a fair chance.”
 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ZACH.” He looked up to see Sam throwing her hands into the air. “‘Give it a try? ‘Give it a fair chance’?
It’s not there anymore!
It’s not a matter of letting my inner pixie come out to play. She’s changed, got it? She’s not a little pixie anymore.” Sam shook her head. “Do you know how unfair this is? You’ve built yourself a little dream world where art is the pinnacle of life, and anything less than being a pure artist is selling out. You’ve stacked the deck. It’s impossible to argue, because then you get to say that if I want to do something other than write novels and stories, it’s not actually what I want but is instead based on fear. Everyone I work with — they’re all sellouts, right? Bottom-feeders? People who either weren’t talented enough to write ‘for real’ or who couldn’t face their demons? But not everyone is like you, you know. It’s unfair to beg the question like this, setting yourself up as the paragon of all that is superior and self-actualized and … ”
 

“Oh, that is such bullshit,” he said.
 

“Really? So if I won a Pulitzer — which, I hate to break it to you, is one of my goals — that wouldn’t annoy you? You’d see it as a legit, applause-worthy accomplishment,
not
as less-than,
not
as ‘the best you can do in a creatively bankrupt field’?”
 

“Of course!”
 

“And you’d be happy for me? You’d encourage me to go after bigger and better stories? You wouldn’t say, ‘Okay, now you have enough of a cushion to write those novels inside you’?”

He hesitated.
 

“I’ve always been behind you, Zach. I always support what you do. In Portland, I kept nudging you to talk to Walter, to see about that show he wanted to put on for you in his downtown gallery. I’ve gone to exhibition after exhibition back before you —
you
, not me — gave up. And how many coffee shops did we hang out in over how many nights, talking about the meaning of life and how society was all a big mind-fuck and life was little but suffering?
Ugh!
I don’t even
like
art!”
 

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You don’t like art.”
 

She rolled her eyes. “Not! Fucking!
Fair
, Zach! You don’t get to be passive-aggressive this time! You know I love
your
art, so don’t do this shit where you try to force me to say it because you feel bad about yourself.”
 

“I feel bad about myself?”
 

“Yes! You do!”
 

“Oh, that is such bullshit … ”
 

“And then you mope around and talk about suffocating, but do you do anything about it? No. You won’t go and paint or anything, because it’s more fun to be mopey and act like you’re a prisoner, like I forced you into this … ”
 

“Forced. Hmm. Like, say, moving us to a new city?”
 

“There were a thousand reasons for us to come here!”
 

“How many of those reasons were your job?”
 

“How many of the reasons to stay in Portland were just you clinging to a dead dream?”
 

“I had connections in Portland! I had friends in Portland! Portland is vibrant and alive, a creative city that appreciates the arts! What’s here for me in Memphis? How the fuck am I supposed to grow
here
?”
 

“You stopped ‘growing’ years before we left!” Sam yelled. “You got your job, then you pretty much said, ‘Oh, poor me, the ball and chain is making me be responsible … but instead of adjusting and doing something to make things better, I’ll mope and complain.’”

“I
never
complained!”
 

“Not with words, maybe,” Sam said. “But did you run in your old art circles anymore? Did you visit galleries, talk to friends and connections? Did you take any advantage of that ‘vibrant, creative city that appreciates the arts’? Or did you give up, and leave me to feel like I’d ruined your life?”
 

Zach felt lost, beaten. She didn’t think he was fair?
This
wasn’t fair. He’d sacrificed for her at every turn. How was it all supposed to be his fault?

“I never said anything like that,” he said.
 

“I wish you had! Bring it out into the open! But the way things went, how was I supposed to feel? You went along with it, acting like losing those 40 hours were tantamount to losing them all.”

“What the hell, Sam? If anyone should be mad about that, it should be me!”
 

“Which you were.”
 

“No, I wasn’t.”
 

“There’s a guy at work,” she said. “Tom. He was on assignment in Gaza and got his right hand blown off. He’s an avid golfer.
Looooves
to golf. But did he quit golfing when he lost the hand? No, he got this attachment thing and learned to adjust.”
 

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
 

“He learned to adjust, Zach! He didn’t just give up on what mattered to him!”
 

“Well, fantastic for Tom.”
 

“Dismissing it, I see.”
 

“It isn’t as easy as just shoehorning things in!” Zach blurted. “Sure, I’ve spent some time painting recently. But will I ever break through that way? No. Spending an hour after work each day makes me a hobbyist. Art isn’t shades of gray. You do or you don’t. You’re either an artist or you’re not. It’s heart and soul. I can’t ‘adjust,’ Sam. ‘Adjusting’
is
‘turning it into a hobby.’ Yes, it’s a way of staying in the game. But it’s not
really
staying in the game. Do you understand? I can’t be two things. Right now, I’m a graphic designer. Yes, it uses art. But to me, it’s only business.”
 

“That’s so bullheaded! It’s art for a lot of people!”
 

“Not for me.”
 

“Why do you have to be so black and white?”

He held up his hands. “Hey, this is who you married.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “So, you’re giving up.”
 

He looked at her, then shrugged. “I can’t be two things, Sam.”
 

Sam looked at the floor through their beat of silence, he was suddenly sure she’d start tracing idle circles on the carpet with her toe. Instead she sniffed, shook her head, and sniffed again. Then she looked up, her eyes wet for a reason Zach didn’t understand.
 

She said, “I can’t believe you’re willing to give up.”
 

“I don’t have a choice, Sam.”

“You could quit your job.”
 

But that made even less sense. Of course he couldn’t quit his job. It ran counter to everything they’d always talked and argued about. They needed to stay ahead to finish saving for their down payment. Once they bought a home, they’d need money for the mortgage, taxes, and insurance. And if they wanted a baby, that was a nest of new expenses in waiting.
 

“I can’t quit. You know that.”

“You
have
to quit.” She was quieter now. He watched a tear fall from one eye. She didn’t seem to notice.
 

“There’s no way to make it work,” he said.
 

She pressed her lips together. Another tear spilled.
 

“There really isn’t, is there?” she said.
 

“Sam?” He took a step forward.
 

“It’s killing you, Zach. You’re slowly dying.”
 

“It is what it is.”
 

“Watching it is slowly killing me,” she said. “I feel responsible. And feeling responsible is stopping me from taking opportunities I want to take. Assignments overseas. Promotions.”
 

“You can take them,” he said. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll follow.”
 

She pressed her lips tighter together. This time her eyes followed. Tears, squeezed out, rolled down her beautiful tan cheeks. “I know you will,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
 

“Hey.” Alarmed, he closed the rest of the distance between them. He took her hand in his. “It’s okay.”
 

“It’s not.”
 

“It is. It
always
will be. Forever and always, with you and me together.”
 

She shook her head. She squeezed his hand. Then her eyes finally left him, left the epicenter of their dispute. As her eyes roamed, he took her in, dressed in her finery. They were missing the banquet. They were going to miss it all. And suddenly, chokingly, he knew why. And finally his own tears began to gather.
 

“No,” he said, something catching in his throat.

For the first time since the argument started, her eyes found the table behind him. She saw the champagne, the envelope, and the small, gold box. She looked down at the chair beside the table, where at some point his slack grip had caused him to drop the bouquet.
 

A small, bittersweet smile grew on her lips.
 

“Oh,” she sighed with a young girl’s wonder, 19 years old and still unbroken. “You brought me flowers.”
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Present Day

“Once upon a time,” said Sam, “there was a young girl who was wide-eyed and eager to learn what the world had to offer. She met a boy. And he was silly, this boy. He had grand plans and no limits. He was the dreamer of dreams. They got along amazingly well, like two halves of a whole. And on the day they first made love, he gave her a rose.”
 

Zach rolled his head to look at her. “Are you the young girl in this story?”
 

Sam had been staring at the ceiling, flat on her back, the unmade bed soft and comforting beneath her. “Yes.”
 

“Bullshit. You were never wide-eyed.”
 

Sam rolled her head back to look at the ceiling. She smiled, but didn’t laugh. Zach’s arm brushed hers, the contact sending longing waves of sensation into her. Her hands moved, elbows still planted, until they met above her chest. Between her fingers, she held one of the Leonidas roses from her bouquet. It wasn’t a red rose. It was better than a boring, everyday red rose, the sort of flower her father said was bought by men who either had no imagination, or didn’t know any better (her man was clearly the latter). But in a way, that single rose was the first. The beginning of everything. The day Sam had truly seen to the core of the man she would one day marry.
 

“I appreciated it, you know,” Sam said, speaking so softly that she was barely audible. “I appreciated all of it.”
 

“Appreciated what?”
 

“The rose. The time you went down to Olive Garden, snagged a few of those little chocolate mints, and left them on our pillows. The time you cut that mango when we were in Barbados and had it waiting when I woke up, cut into cubes, fanned out in the inside-out skin.”
 

Zach sighed beside her.
 

“I didn’t always say it. But I appreciated all of it.”

“Even when you made fun of me?”
 

“
Especially
when I made fun of you.” One hand left the rose, touched her lower eyelid, and came away wet.
 

Zach turned sideways on the bed, his face by her shoulder and right arm draped across her chest. His eyes were dry but red. They’d both cried, recovered, and cried again. Neither had much of anything left.

“I can’t be without you, Sam,” he said. His cheek brushed her bare shoulder. She was still in her red party dress — overdressed, ridiculous, disheveled. Her makeup had smeared into a fright mask so during the respite, she’d gone into the bathroom and washed it all off. When she returned to lie beside him, she was natural, hair damp at her forehead and ears.
 

“You can,” she said. She sniffed.
 

“
You
can,” he said. He was complementing her strength and disparaging his own, not implying that she didn’t care. Sam took it without offense, volleying it back.

“I don’t know that I can,” she said, turning toward him, her eyes already re-moistening. “Tell me I can.”
 

He shook his head. His nose brushed her shoulder. The arm across her chest gripped her side, hugged into her.
 

The window was open, and in the street, Sam could hear the sounds of the playground across from their building. She could hear cars going by. A very distinct, very unfair thought cycled in her head as she listened: None of the people out there knew or cared that their union was ending. Their lives were going on. Kids were swinging on swings; parents were pushing them; motorists were running errands. Their indifference seemed insulting. Sam wanted to stand by the window so they could all see her, and know that something momentous was happening behind the glass.
 

“We could try again.” Zach came up on an elbow, suddenly inspired. “We could do counseling! We haven’t even tried, Sam!”
 

She looked at him kindly. After a moment, he settled back on the bed. She didn’t want to say what they both knew — the reason that no amount of counseling or attempts at reconciliation would ever make the critical difference. They had no true conflict between them. They didn’t disagree. When they argued, their fights were merely projections of them becoming two different people.
 

“I love you, Sam.”
 

She turned toward him so they were facing. His mop of untidy black hair cast shadows over his forehead in the day’s fading light. His killer grin was hidden, and Sam realized she might never see it again.