I completed my first week of being a coaches’ assistant by joining Patrick at a sports shop in the mall. I had dreaded going back there, fearing that somehow I would be spotted by one of the people who had witnessed my digestive humiliation that was still all too fresh in my memory. I had actually begged the coach not to make me go, but he was insistent that he needed a woman’s opinion to keep him in line as far as pricing went, and even more so that he didn’t pick out a color that would set off a pint-sized revolt. Smart man. I still was plotting a way to get out of the whole thing, down to the last second when he pulled in my driveway to escort me to the place of humiliation, but I crumbled when I saw that he had with him an overpriced latte, purchased just for me.

            I’ll forgive him for arranging the whole mess so early that even the kids weren’t awake yet.

            I have yet to forgive him for the fact that my little assistant job has taken away my treasured mornings. Instead of taking my child-free showers and having a few moments to myself each day, I spend my time sitting on the sidelines of Abby’s soccer camp making notes, organizing paper work, and manning a first-aid station should one of the little ladies get a boo-boo. I also spend this time being glared at by the other mothers. I had no idea that the coach’s attention was that hot a commodity. I’ll admit though, that once I found out what a coveted spot I was filling, it made me scrap any ideas of backing out. Quite frankly, it feels good to be the envy of someone for a change, no matter the reason.

            And spending time with the hot man doesn’t hurt either...

            My theories of the hot man have varied over the week. Is he just the most confident, flirty man there ever was, with an equal opportunity to whom is flirted with? This was my original thought. But as the week wore on, I started to think that he was being more flirtatious towards me. I assumed, of course, that I was just getting a little too big for my britches and was letting the attention go to my head, thinking that I was somehow more deserving since I was his right hand, uh, man after all.

            That is, until we went on the uniform shopping trip.

            Things were going well, although it was taking an obscene amount of time to pick uniforms for camp. I mean, I figured an hour trip maximum, but three hours into it, we were still narrowing it down. Turns out that picking a color was almost as hard as fitting it into an appropriate budget.

            While standing in our third store (and believe me, I was shocked that there were three separate sports shops, although I guess that is the exact reason why there are so many), we were standing at the counter, and the put-upon sales guy, a pimply lad all of about eighteen, laid out sample after sample of different materials and styles for our perusing pleasure. When the zitty boy, in a completely bored and monotone voice mind you, explained the unparalleled attention to detail on one particular jersey, Patrick and I both leaned in to the counter to take a closer look, and I was caught completely off-guard when he put his hand on my lower back. I was unable to focus on the stitching before me and instead ran my mind through a search of possible reasons that he had put it there in the first place. Was he really flirting? Was he trying to direct me into paying more attention, because I wasn’t exactly as enthralled as he was? Or was he maybe about to faint and was leaning on me for support?

            After we pulled away and he went on to look at another item a few feet away, with not so much as a wink, I silently laughed at myself for acting like a teenage girl with a crush. Just because he is a friendly guy didn’t mean that he was hitting on every woman in a ten block radius.

            Now as to whether the women in those ten blocks were putting the moves on him, well, that is another story, for sure.   

            When I returned home, Abby was speaking a mile a minute, asking questions about the kind of gear she would be donning all summer. I tried explaining the fabric quality and breathability as it had been explained to me, but not at all surprisingly she cared just as little as I did. Her main concern was our choice of hue. She was pleased with our selection of a baby blue shade. Once this information was revealed, she was off to the backyard where she was trying to run soccer drills with her little brother who kept tripping over the ball. Fairly safe to say that Abbs got the athletic gene in the family.

            I was not prepared, however, for when Derek snuck up behind me on my way to transfer a load of clothes, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

            “Hey babe,” he put his face into my neck and took a deep breath. “God, you smell really good. Are you wearing perfume?”

            “No, I am wearing the stink of a mall,” I said. “And I am so not in the mood for an afternoon quickie.”

            I sort of brushed him off of me and went on about my clothes-swapping duties as he continued.

            “That’s not what I was going to say,” he was oddly un-defensive after my dig at his quest for a little afternoon delight. “I was thinking that maybe we get together tonight and watch a movie or something after the kids go to bed.” Um, what? “We could open a bottle of wine, and just relax with each other. How does that sound?”

            His suggestion was met with confused silence, and a matching stare as I stood in front of him with an armful of wet laundry. My husband this was not... “Why?” I said the wrong thing, clearly. “What’s going on?”

            “What?” Ah, there is the defensiveness. “Why does something have to be going on? Can’t I just want us to have a night together? I would have figured you would have liked that I even was trying to have some together time.” Has he been watching Dr. Phil? “I mean, damn, Ellie, you don’t have to be so suspicious all the time.”

            “Okay, you’re right,” I shook my head softly. “I’m sorry.” His face relaxed and he was calm again. “That sounds great, really, it sounds fun.”

            He gave me an awkward kiss on the forehead and left me alone in the laundry room with my hands full of wet clothes, wondering whether I should feel like a heel for questioning him, or whether or not I really should be suspicious of something.

            In the end, I chalked it up to the fact that we had both been so on edge with each other lately after World War In Law, that both of us were on guard. I actually started to get a little excited, thinking that maybe he had finally realized what a complete and total ass he had been and was wanting to try and make it up to me finally!

            Hey, stranger things have happened. None that I can think of really, but I am sure they have.

            Now, here we are, sitting on opposite sides of our sofa, the two of us on our second bottle of wine, and we are watching the credits roll on some random comedy that was playing on HBO that for some reason, neither of us laughed at. There is so much tension between the two of us. I hate that this is still going on, but I feel like since I already apologized, that he really has to pitch in here. It can’t all be me, and in my opinion it shouldn’t have had to be me at all, since it was his ass-ish ways that started this whole mess. That withstanding, I don’t like to be involved in any kind of tension, let alone with him. Perhaps I should just try and break the ice.

            “So, Gwen is coming up on Monday,” I start. “She and I are probably going to have dinner together after her meetings that night, if you wouldn’t mind getting dinner for the kids.”

            “Yeah, sure I can do that,” He responds taking a sip of his wine.

            “Maybe we could get a sitter, and the three of us could have a little impromptu college reunion and go out together on Tuesday,” I add. “How does that sound?”

            “Fine, whatever,” he says quietly. “But maybe it should just be the two of you.”

            “Uh, yeah, if you don’t want to go, that’s fine,” I offer. “It was just a thought,” I continue. “Do you not want to see her or something?”

            “Jesus, Ellie, just because I don’t want to go out with your friend doesn’t mean anything.”

            He abruptly stands up and heads to the kitchen where he fills his glass up again.

            “Okay, um, what the hell?” I ask, annoyed. “I didn’t even say anything. I was asking for your opinion.”

            “Well maybe you need to not be so bitchy about it!” He snaps back.

            Have I missed something here? Am I standing smack dab in the middle of an unending case of male PMS?

            “God, what is your problem?!” I bite back. “Why are you such an asshole to me lately?”

            “Me, an asshole to you?!” He is really pissed, I am so confused. “You are the one who is always bitching at me, and accusing me of things!”

            “Accusing you of what?” I am so tired of this. “Derek, what are you even talking about?”

            “Like with my mom, acting like the two of us were against you.”

            “Okay, that is not fair. I apologized, and you know what, I think it is really crappy you seem to think you have nothing to do with any of what happened.”

            “Oh, here we go again,” he mocks. “Let’s get started again on how all of us are against you, and how we must all be wronging poor innocent Ellie.”

            “I am not doing this with you again,” I whisper coldly.

            I stand up, careful to take my wine with me for I am sure I am going to need it, and walk out the back door. I want to cry, because the fact is that I do feel like a punching bag right now. My mind is reeling, trying to come up with something I might have said to him tonight that would have taken him from arranging a semi-date together, to him biting my head off and insulting me out of nowhere. Maybe I really am completely blind to my own behavior. Maybe I do walk around with an attitude and the air of bitch around me. I feel like I am losing it. What he says makes sense, that if everyone else seems to have the problem, then maybe they aren’t the problem after all.

            I sit on the wooden swing in the backyard, setting my wine on the sidewalk running along side of it. So confused.

            Is it possible that I am speaking Chinese without my knowledge, and our true conversational meanings are getting lost in the shuffle? There has to be some explanation as to why things are so shitty all of a sudden. It went from me whining about normal things like him not helping me do the dishes, and feeling stuck in a rut, to where we are now, which is us fighting nearly every time we speak, and us not even having our usual routine night of weekly sex. It used to be he would have to remind me about our Sunday romp sessions, and even then, half the time I would agree half-heartedly, usually wishing to opt out in favor of a little extra sleep to prepare me for a Monday morning, but Derek hasn’t so much as hinted at spontaneous sex, let alone Sundays.

            More than anything, I am tired of fighting and even more tired of feeling beat up on every time I try and have a conversation with my freaking husband.

            To avoid any further confrontations before I drag my pathetic ass to bed, I decide to stay out here on the swing until I see him either go into another room, or until he goes to bed. Whichever comes first. I am just not able to take him on again tonight. What pisses me off more than anything is that for once, I was having a nice week, and he manages to fuck it up with one shot.

            I grab my wine and take a sip as I lean back and start slowly swinging. It is very relaxing, and a welcome change from the tone of the evening. I wonder if I can sneak in and grab the rest of the bottle for myself without him noticing?

            As if he could sense that for a brief moment I wasn’t torturing myself thinking about all the ways I have messed up in life, Derek comes bounding out of the house, looking even angrier than before.

            This will be pleasant, I’m sure.

            “You don’t get to just walk away and that is it,” he yells. “We were talking!”

            “Oh my God, you are acting like an ass!” I return. “I tell you what, why don’t you just save us both some time?” I am beyond frustrated. “‘Why don’t you just tell me whatever it is that you think I have done wrong, and tell me how everyone in the world thinks I am terrible, and then I’ll slink off and write ‘I suck at life’ five hundred times on paper for you, and you can run off and tell your mommy how evil your bitch of a wife is. How does that sound?”

            That felt good, actually.

            I am serious that I am not up for this again, and so I stand up to walk back inside. I feel another night of ‘locked in the bathroom, sleeping in the tub with my cat’ sleep in my midst.

            “So you’re going to run away again?” he shouts. “What are you trying to hide that you won’t talk to me?”

            “Do you hear yourself?” I am beyond confused. “I mean, honestly. Have your parents finally gotten to you and so you think that everything I do is wrong no matter what, or have you had some sort of psychotic break that I need to be aware of?”

            “Don’t you dare try and turn this on me, Ellie.”

            “Turn what!?” I say exasperatedly. “What are we even talking about? Seriously Derek, just say the word and I can have some nice men in white coats come here with a really big net and some yummy pills that will make the bad voices stop.”

            “That’s right,” he glares. “Make a fucking joke. Try to hide everything.”

            “Hide what?!” I throw my arms in the air. “Seriously, hide what? What could I possibly be hiding from you?”

            “Well how about the fact that you have been spending all your time with the ‘Pretty Coach Dixon’, huh?”

            “What?” I am near speechless. “Where are you getting that from?”

            “Yeah, didn’t tell me all about that did you?” He is angrier than I have ever seen him. “Abby had to tell me. Yeah, it felt really great to have her telling me all morning how you were out with some guy that our daughter informs me is really good looking and it makes all the moms act giggly,” I am wide eyed. “Didn’t think to mention that, did you?”

            I feel my face go red, and for a moment I am unsure of what is happening. Did one of the other jealous moms plant something to Abby that I was doing something wrong with Coach Dixon, or has Derek really just gone off his rocker?

            “Okay, first of all, you need to chill the hell out,” I start. “Second, what does it matter what he looks like? You are perfectly welcome to take some time off and come to one of Abby’s soccer camps to meet the man for yourself. And third, as much as this seems to have escaped you, I am a grown woman, and as long as I am not out screwing every guy in our school district, I am quite able to pick whom I will be hanging out with,” I am so angry, I feel my face burning. “And I haven’t been spending all my time with him, or anyone for that matter. I am with him on the soccer field with all the other moms and today, just today, I went to pick out uniforms. I am allowed to have a life you know, if you can even call it that.”

            “Oh, now we’re back to Poor Little Ellie, huh?” he chimes. “Why don’t you grow the fuck up!”

            He steps towards me, and his face is contorted with absolute rage. For the first time since I have known Derek, I feel afraid of him. He is not acting like himself. He is a calm, non-confrontational, peaceful guy, but this person in front of me is none of those things. I am scared, partly because I can’t for the life of me figure out what is going on, and also,         since I have never seen this side of him, I have no idea what he is going to do next. I would never in a million years have thought that I would find myself fearing some sort of physical harm from my husband, and yet, here I am. Backing  away from him.

            I am not sure what I should do next, but my mind is racing trying to figure out if I should run out the back of the yard and leave until he calms down, if I should run inside and call the police, or what would happen if our poor children were to wake up and find their father preparing to kill their mother with an ax.

            He has held eye contact with me this entire time, his glare narrowing with each aggressive remark. As much as I am trying to maintain strength in my eyes hoping to come off as someone not to be tangled with, I know I am showing my fear. He sees it too, and his face melts from rage to shock.

            “Ellie,”

            I say nothing and keep my jaw clenched and my fists tight.

            “Ellie, oh my God,” he whispers. “Honey, I am so sorry.”

            He moves to me with his arms outstretched, but I am not taking any chances with this Dr. Derek/ Mr. Hyde thing standing in my backyard, and as a reflex, I step away. My eyes are wide, my heart is pounding, and my head hurts from the surge of drama that has occurred in what is only a matter of a few moments.

            “Elle, please,” he has withered into a pale mess, and his face is heavy with concern and regret, but ask me how much I give a shit how bad he feels. “Please say something.”

            “I want to go inside,” I say strongly. I am not sure what I am planning on doing once I get in there, but I know I can’t stay out here with him not knowing what personality is going to come out next.

            He says nothing, but hangs his head into his hands. After a second, I try to quickly make my way past him.

            “Ellie, please, wait.” he says as I reach the back door.

            I stop, standing with my hand on the doorknob for a few seconds before I turn to face him again.

            “I need to tell you something,” he says softly. “I am a horrible person.”

            “Yes, you are,” I realize I don’t care what he has to say, that nothing will excuse what has just happened, and I turn again to the door.

            “Ellie, I kissed another woman.”

            My heart has gone from racing, to a complete stop. My hand is frozen in mid-air a few inches from the door, and I feel the blood rush out of my face. There is silence, and at this moment, I understand what people mean when they say that a silence can be deafening.

            “I am so sorry, Elle,” he pipes with desperation dripping from every letter. “It was only one time, and I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s been driving me crazy, and I’ve been yelling at you lately, and I didn’t mean for this, I mean, I didn’t want to hurt you, and, I don’t know what to say, but Ellie, I am sorry.”

            I feel him walk up behind me, and I jerk around to stop him before he reaches me.

            “You what?!” My voice is strangled, and low. “When?” I ask like I for some reason would actually want to know the answer to that question.

            “It was the week before my mom came.” He looks so scared. “She was a consultant, in to review my performance in running the department, and so we sort of spent the week together.” I remember him talking about some woman named Veigh that was in his office monitoring his work. He had talked about how nice she was and how he figured he would get a fantastic report card out of her. Ha.

            “That Veigh woman?” I whisper.

            “Ye-,” he starts, but nods instead. “Her last day in, she wanted to take me out to lunch to celebrate how well things went.” I can see his hands shaking in the moonlight. “We had a couple drinks with lunch, and after I drove her back to the office, we sat in her car talking for a while.” My stomach is burning, I feel like I may be sick, and I am wishing I hadn’t had three glasses of wine. “I don’t know what happened, but I was kind of buzzed and she was touching my arm, and I don’t know. The next thing I know, she was kissing me, or I was kissing her, but we kissed.” Yeah, I am going to need to vomit here I think. “It doesn’t matter who did it I guess, but as soon as I realized what was happening, I stopped it, and told her that I loved you, and that she needed to go.”

            Why do people do that? Why do they act like,          after they cheated, the fact that they mentioned you to their fellow adulterer and how much they love you, it somehow erases what they had just done?

            “Ellie, sweetheart,” he continues, tears visible in his eyes. “Please, you have to forgive me, I am so sorry. And I am sorry I was yelling at you, it was my fault, I was just so upset, and I was taking it out on you, and that was wrong.” He reaches out and puts his hands on my arms, and I can feel he wants me to hold him. “I know I scared you, and you have to know that I would never hurt you, you know that, right?”

            The tears are rolling down his cheeks, and he tries to pull me into him tightly. My body is rigid, but my limbs are limp. My head is absolutely spinning. I don’t know what to say. All I know is that his arms around me now are making me feel like I am being strangled, that I am unable to breathe.

            I slowly raise my hands to his chest, and carefully push him away.      

            “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

            With those words, I open the door behind me and head inside. When I close the door behind me, I can see his face contorted in desperation on the other side of the glass. I don’t care. Let him hurt.

            I walk evenly up the stairs, careful to not race away, or let my emotions show through my escape. As I take each step, my mind continues to race through the last few weeks. He tortured me by making me feel like I was crazy when his mom was here. He hurt me and made me think that I had no one who likes being with me, himself included. Tonight, he had me feeling afraid in my own home.

            And it was all because he was feeling guilty.

            I can’t pinpoint if it upsets me more that he kissed another woman, or that he has been projecting it all onto me for weeks. Part of me is actually relieved that I finally know that I am not just crazy, that there is a reason for the insanity that has been swimming around me.

            Once I enter our bedroom, I unintentionally run to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

            I feel like the floor has fallen out from underneath me. The room is spinning and I am suddenly engulfed in a panic attack, unable to breathe and choking on tears.

            I brace myself on the sink counter as I feel my legs buckling, and within seconds I am lunging for the toilet seat lid, and throwing up violently.

            After I have emptied the contents of my stomach, and feeling that chicken fajitas and chardonnay in reverse is never a good idea, I pick myself off the floor and head back out into the bedroom. I don’t know what is happening, or what I am going to do, but I do know that tonight, that fucker can sleep with his ass curled up in a bathtub. I check to make sure Murphy is in his chair by the window where he alternates sleeping with me or one of the children, and I then, for the first time since Derek and I have lived together, lock the bedroom door.

            Later that night, I hear him try and turn the doorknob, only to find it locked, and I hear his soft footsteps as he turns and walks to his office down the hall, closing the door behind him.

            And I don’t feel bad for him at all.