I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chatper 06
At the one-and-a-half-month mark, I received a message on my phone.
It wasn’t from Jared. It was from a colleague of his, Barry Oliver.
[Hi, Tisha. Jared’s been acting strange at work lately. He’s zoned out in several meetings. Is something wrong at home?]
I read the message and thought for two seconds.
I replied with two words. [No problem.]
I didn’t mention this to Jared. What did his bad mood have to do with me?
Before, when I was off my game, I’d cry, get anxious, lose sleep, and blow up his phone with a dozen messages in a row.
His reaction was always, “Can you stop being dramatic?”
Now it was his turn.
I didn’t say “Can you stop being dramatic?” I just said nothing at all.
It was crueler than “Stop being dramatic.” I knew it.
That Friday night, Jared came home from work early.
At 6:20 p.m., I’d just set the table when he walked through the door.
Before, he’d never be home before 7:30 at the earliest.
He changed his shoes, walked over to the dinner table, and glanced at the food.
Baked Chicken Thighs, Steamed Broccoli, Canned Vegetable Soup.
“You made ribs today?”
“Yeah. Cora wanted them.”
“Didn’t she just have some last week?”
I looked at him. He remembered Cora had ribs last week.
Before, he couldn’t even remember if Cora had art class or what time it ended.
“I’ll make them as long as she likes.” I ladled the soup and said nothing more.
During dinner, Jared kept checking his phone, but not scrolling the news.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him open his phone, type something, then delete it.
He typed and deleted, typed and deleted.
Finally, he locked his screen and ate his meal in silence.
After dinner, he didn’t go straight back to the bedroom like he usually did.
He sat on the sofa, the TV on but not he wasn’t watching it.
I put away the plates, washed them, and wiped the stovetop.
As I passed the living room, he called out to me.
“Tisha Leto.” He used my full name.
Before, he’d just call me “Hey” or nothing at all.
I stopped and looked at him.
“I’m off on Sunday. How about taking Cora to the aquarium?”
Before, that was always my line.
Every week, I’d suggest something like a park, a zoo, a mall, an amusement park.
His answers were always “Too tired” “Next time” or “Take her yourself.”
What was “next time”? Next time never came.
“Up to you.” I said. Then I walked into the study.
As I closed the door, I saw through the crack that he was sitting alone on the sofa, the TV light casting a glow on his face.
His hand was still on the remote, but the screen was black.