“Oh. Hmm. Now you have to name her.”
“We have to name her,” he corrects.
This makes me smile. We have a “child” together now. We are a happy little family. This bonds us further, and soon my kids will join us in this big house and have the dog they always wanted, and I’ll have the man of my dreams.
Brad stands and places his hand on the small of my back and rubs it. This small gesture means so much and gives me hope that this dog will change his indifference. Little by little, our lives will entwine and mesh and he’ll see how well we fit together.
“We weren’t allowed to have pets growing up,” he shares.
“Why not?” I grew up with dogs and cats, most of them strays. We always had animals underfoot, lounging on the furniture, barking at passersby, playing in the yard. I’ve always wanted to give my kids that experience.
“You know, pet hair, the bother of it.”
“But you always wanted a dog,” I guess.
“I envied my friends who had pets.”
Another insight into Brad.
“She has a white chest and white on her paws,” he notes.
“And the tips of her ears,” I add.
We watch her lap up water from her bowl.
“I should buy her a ball. I bet she’d enjoy chasing a ball.”
I hope nobody comes to claim her. Brad finally has the dog he’s wanted since he was a kid and probably didn’t know he needed.
“How about Coco?” he says suddenly.
“Coco?”
He shrugs. “It’s good, right? She’s dark like chocolate.”
“So, you like dark-haired girls,” I tease tucking my dark hair behind my ears.
He grins. “Apparently.”
“Come here, Coco,” I call to her.
She runs over tail wagging.
“I love it,” I say to Brad. But what I really want to say is I love him.
Chapter 5
We have our first argument on Valentine’s Day. Brad calls them “disagreements.” He insists that Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday not worthy of celebration and refuses to participate. I’ve gotten him a card carefully choosing one that wasn’t too effusive, but he derides me for falling prey to marketing.
My heart anticipated this most obvious day of romance expecting to satiate its yearning, at least a little. My wish was that our date on this day would finally give me some emotional gratification, some hint that I hold a special place for him, but he stubbornly withholds the tiniest trace of romantic response leaving me starved for crumbs. How silly of me to assume Valentine’s Day would inspire the affection that’s lacking from him, but my heart still insists on some bit of sustenance.
I’m dressed in a frilly pink top and black slacks and have pulled my straight dark hair over one shoulder as I sulk in the passenger seat of his car. I put on my sunglasses so he can’t see the hurt in my eyes. He has the air conditioner on as usual and I’m chilled. I lean into the heat of the sunlight shining through the passenger window and forlornly gaze out at the posh homes and immaculate lawns zipping by as he takes a shortcut through a neighborhood. Are there blissful couples living in these homes? Are there vases of roses and boxes of chocolates and cards with poetic odes to love?
“I treat you special every time we go out,” he points out as he drives. “I don’t need some date on a calendar to make me do that.”
“I know, but it would’ve been nice to get flowers or something.” I pout.
I don’t know how to make him comprehend what’s so obvious to everyone else. Why does he have to be so damned stoic? Why can’t he ever give me a compliment? Why can’t he ever say he’s glad to see me, he missed me, he wants me? How am I supposed to know his true feelings? Does he have feelings? Does he feel anything? My mind rants on and spirals into a turbulent tempest.
We turn onto a main street and pass flower stands and stationary stores, candy shops and lingerie boutiques. How can I make him see that I need this little bit of validation, that I crave a sign that I’m more to him than just a casual thing?
“You’re overreacting,” he says. “Don’t be unreasonable.”
His remarks make me see red, and it takes an enormous effort to subdue myself. Overreacting? Unreasonable? How about human? Why doesn’t he try being human? Everybody needs love and tenderness. Every normal person craves these things. Am I supposed to shut myself off like him? My anger slowly implodes shattering inside me and slowly morphing into sadness. I can’t do it. I can’t shut myself off and I don’t want to. I’d rather he opened up.
“I don’t like to do something because it’s expected,” he explains. “If I feel like buying you something, I will. Just expect the unexpected.”
“But what about birthdays or Christmas?” I counter.
“That’s different.”
I groan. I had expected chocolates or flowers all day. At the very least, a card. A gesture. But he’s not that guy. He’s one of those guys who isn’t expressive except during sex. That’s how he is. He’ll never leave me little notes or write me poetry. He’ll never surprise me with little gifts or serenade me. He’ll never love me that way I long to be loved, the way I need to be loved. He may never love me at all. It’s possible he’s incapable of experiencing any consuming emotions outside of sex. A thought jolts me. He could be incapable of love.
“You know, you’re overly emotional,” he pronounces staring ahead at the road. He seems a little peeved.
“I’m not overly emotional,” I say evenly. He’s underly emotional, if anything.
He doesn’t understand me, doesn’t know me as I yearn to be known. He’s proficient at taking care of practical matters and basic needs, but he can’t, won’t, fill my emotional needs. He’s not even aware I have them.
“Yes, you are.” He lets out a derisive laugh. “You cried when your toilet broke.”
“You don’t know what it’s like not to have money for things and to worry about how to pay for everything. You don’t know what it’s like to be a single mother and work crappy jobs and have no help from the father.”
“Well, what good does crying do? You have to do what you need to do to get it fixed. Crying doesn’t help.”
I turn back to the window. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know how spirit-breaking it is to struggle, how soul-sucking it is to agonize about how to pay your bills. How life can beat you down and keep you there.
“No, really.” He won’t let it go. “You react to things instead of getting whatever it is done. You have to learn to control yourself.”
“It’s normal to be emotional,” I retort.
“It’s normal to be practical,” he states firmly. “It’s more productive to be practical.”
He makes me want to scream but I can’t give up. I shift in my seat toward him with the impetus to defend myself, to make him comprehend on some level, to get him to view things from my eyes. This is the crux of our differences, and I need him to know me, not deride me, not berate me for who I am. I have danced around his indifference and held in what’s in my heart for the sake of his comfort level. I’ve denied my own needs, and, damn it, on this one stupid day, I want him to acknowledge he has feelings, that people have feelings, that it’s okay to have feelings, and I think I have a pretty good argument.