I wrote down ‘couple’s counseling,’ ‘living separately,’ and ‘open marriage,’” I say, sitting at our dining-room table. I have a piece of paper in front of me. Ryan has a piece of paper in front of him. I am not open to the idea of open marriage. I am just spitballing. But I know, I am positive, that an open marriage is not on the table.
“Open marriage?” Ryan asks. He is intrigued.
“Ignore that last one,” I say. “I just . . . I didn’t have any other ideas.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Ryan says, and the minute he says it, I hate him. Of course, he would say that. Of course, that would be the one he jumped on. Leave it to Ryan to ignore that I said “couple’s counseling” but jump at the chance to screw someone else.
“Just . . .” I say, annoyed. “Just say what you wrote down.”
“OK.” Ryan looks down at his paper. “I wrote ‘date again’ and ‘trial separation.’”
“I don’t know what those mean,” I say.
“Well, the first one is kind of like your thing about living apart. We would just try to see if maybe we lived in different places and we just went on a few dates and saw each other less, maybe that would work. Maybe take some pressure off. Make it more exciting to see each other.”
“OK, and the second one?”
“We break up for a little while.”
“You mean, like, we’re done?”
“Well, I mean,” he starts to explain, “I move out, or you move out, and we see how we do on our own, without each other.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some time apart would make us . . . you know, ready to try again.”
“How long would we do this? Like, a few months?”
“I was thinking longer.”
“Like, how long?”
“I don’t know, Lauren. Jesus,” Ryan says, losing his patience at all of my questions. It’s been a few weeks since we told each other we didn’t love each other anymore. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other. This is the beginning of pulling the Band-Aid off. A very large, very sticky Band-Aid.
“I’m just asking you to clarify your suggestion,” I say. “I don’t think you need to act like this is the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Like, a year. Like, we take a year apart.”
“And we sleep with other people?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, as if I’m an idiot. “I think that’s kind of the point.”
Ryan has made it clear that he no longer thinks of me the way he thinks about other women. It hurts. And yet when I try to break down why it hurts, I don’t have an answer. I don’t really think of him in that way, either.
“Let’s talk about this later,” I say, getting up from the table.
“I’m ready to talk about this now,” Ryan says. “Don’t walk away.”
“I’m asking you nicely,” I say, my tone slow and pointed, “if we can please discuss this later.”
“Fine,” Ryan says, getting up from the table and throwing his sheet of paper into the air. “I’m getting out of here.”
I don’t ask him where he is going. He leaves often enough now that I know his answer will be harmless. I resent him so much for being predictable. He’ll go to a bar and get a drink. He’ll go to the movies. He’ll call his friends to play basketball. I don’t care. He’ll come back when he feels like it, and when he does, the air in the house will be sharpened and tightened, so much that I will feel I can barely breathe.
I lie on the couch for hours, contemplating a year without my husband. It feels freeing and terrifying. I think about him sleeping with another woman, but the thought quickly transforms into the thought of me sleeping with another man. I don’t know who this man is, but I can see his hands on me. I can feel his lips on me. I can imagine the way he will look at me, the way he will make me feel like the only woman in the room, the most important woman in the world. I imagine his slim body and his dark hair. I imagine his deep voice. I imagine being nervous, a type of nervous I haven’t been in years.
When Ryan finally does come home, I tell him I think he is right. We should take a year apart.
Ryan sighs loudly, and his shoulders slump. He tries to speak, but his voice catches. I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I start crying. Once again, finally, we are on the same team. We wallow in it for a while. We let ourselves feel the relief we have given each other. That’s what it feels like, ultimately: immense relief. Like cold water on a burn.
When we disengage, Ryan offers to move out. He says I can keep the house for the year. I take him up on it. I don’t argue. He’s offering me a gift. I’m going to take it. We sit quietly next to each other on the sofa, holding hands, not looking at each other for what feels like hours. It feels so good to stop fighting.
Then we realize we both thought we were the one keeping Thumper.
We fight about the dog until five in the morning.