The Man Who Took the Door With Him

Adrian sat on the edge of the bed.

His wet hair was pushed back. He wore pajama pants, no shirt, and a narrow ribbon of black satin around his throat.

I'd bought the ribbon weeks earlier as a joke while we were shopping.

At the time, he'd said he didn't need accessories to keep my attention.

I'd agreed. It had been a technically accurate assessment.

"Changed your mind?" I asked from the doorway.

Adrian looked up.

His smile arrived a little late.

"You liked it."

"I'm liking it now."

I approached and slipped a finger beneath the satin without pulling.

He caught my hand. For a second, his expression went so empty that I wondered whether I'd done something wrong.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Adrian."

He kissed my palm.

"Did you finish your work?"

I nodded. He drew me closer, and I kissed him, breathing in his soap, feeling the familiar warmth of his hands at my waist.

Over the past few months, I'd learned a number of things about him. The exact place where a kiss interrupted his breathing. The way his foot searched for mine beneath the covers. The fact that he never went to sleep without asking whether I needed more water, though he always made it sound like a complaint.

I'd thought I knew his silences by now.

Then something warm landed on my cheek.

I opened my eyes.

Adrian was crying.

I pulled back far enough to see him. He tried to kiss me again.

"Wait. Are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Did something happen at work? Is it your mom?"

"No."

Another tear fell.

I sat up and pulled the sheet over us.

"If you don't want to do this, we stop. You don't have to because we're married."

He recoiled as though I'd said something cruel.

"That's not why."

"Then talk to me."

Adrian wiped his face, angry with himself.

"There's nothing to talk about."

The words hit harder than they should have.

I'd let the sharp answers in the car go. The inedible food. The days when he seemed to want something, then resented me for not guessing what it was. Now he sat in front of me, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothes, and still kept me outside.

I handed him a tissue.

"Maybe you should take the guest room tonight. Give us both a chance to cool off."

He stared at me.

I hated that look. As though I were closing a door without knowing he was on the other side.

Adrian got up, took his pillow, and walked slowly toward the hall.

Before he left, I said his name.

He turned immediately.

"Are you that unhappy with me?"

He shook his head quickly.

"Because we both chose this. If it isn't working, we don't have to wait two years to end it."

The pillow slipped from his fingers.

"Don't say that."

"I'm trying to have a conversation."

"Then talk about something else."

His voice rose. I stood too.

"You can't cry in front of me, tell me nothing's wrong, and expect me to work it out myself. I don't know what you want from me."

He breathed through his mouth, searching my face for an answer.

For a second, I thought he might finally say it.

Adrian grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The door hit the stop with a crack.

The stop tore out of the wall.

He stood there holding the metal fitting.

Under different circumstances, I would have laughed for a week.

"Adrian."

He put it on the dresser.

"I'm not unhappy."

Then he left before I could ask why he looked so much like he was.

The next morning, his message said only that he would be staying elsewhere and would come back for a few things.

I wrote three responses.

Deleted all three.

I'd managed to turn an argument into a contest of pride before breakfast.

That night I ate the shrimp alone. It wasn't as good without Adrian complaining that I was getting sauce on the controller.

The quiet house brought back a memory I preferred to leave alone.

In college, I'd dated a guy named Cole for a few weeks. Adrian had invited him to his office and offered to recommend him for an internship if he stopped seeing me.

Cole had accepted.

When I found out, I took a friend's dog to Adrian's office and started yelling. I said terrible things about Adrian, Cole, and, most of all, my own taste.

Adrian stood behind his desk, offended, explaining that he'd merely demonstrated the guy's character.

"I didn't ask you to audit my boyfriend!" I'd shouted.

"You deserved someone better."

"And you think you get to decide that? Because I used to call you my big brother when we were kids?"

He'd gone pale.

"I never wanted to be your brother."

At the time, I'd thought he was disowning even our childhood.

I'd blocked his number. Barely spoken to him for almost a year.

Now, sitting at our kitchen table, I began to suspect I'd asked the wrong question.

My phone lay beside my plate.

I picked it up, opened our conversation, and typed, "Are you okay?"

His answer came twenty minutes later.

"Yes."

I waited for another message.

It didn't come.

I lay on my side of the bed, looking at the glass of water still waiting there.

For the first time since the wedding, the house seemed too big.