The Weight of Things Not Said

The cable guy had been here three hours already, and Elena was watching him through the sliding glass door. He wore a faded blue hat that said GOODMAN ELECTRIC, though he was clearly replacing the cable we'd never ordered, the service Marcus must have added in one of his late-night decision-making sprees.

I stood by the pool, nursing a drink that had gone watery hours ago. The water was still, unnaturally blue, reflecting the Georgia heat shimmer that made everything look like it was melting. Marcus and I were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary, but we were separated by more than just the expanse of this backyard.

He was by the grill, holding court with his college friends, telling the story about the baseball game where he'd hit a home run off some minor league pitcher. The story changed every time—sometimes it was a scout in the stands, sometimes a betting pool among frat brothers. The details didn't matter. What mattered was how he became something else in the telling: larger, brighter, the kind of man who still believed his own mythology.

"You're like a bull in a china shop," his mother had told him once, after he'd knocked over a display of crystal glasses at my sister's wedding. She'd meant it affectionately, the way families do with their chaos-makers. But I'd heard it differently.

The cable guy came to the back door then, wiping sweat from his forehead. "All set," he said. "Though whoever ordered the premium sports package? You're gonna want to keep an eye on those charges. They stack up fast."

Marcus laughed, not hearing him, still talking about baseball and glory days that weren't even his. I looked at the pool, perfectly still, and thought about how easy it would be to slip beneath that surface and just stay there. Not to die, but to exist somewhere that didn't require all this performance, this constant becoming of who we were supposed to be instead of who we were.

"Elena," Marcus called. "Come tell them about the time I—"

"I've heard it," I said, and my voice surprised me with how steady it was. "I've heard all of them."

The cable guy's truck crunched down the driveway. The water rippled in a sudden breeze. I took off my hat, the one Marcus had bought me on our first real vacation, and set it on the patio table. It felt like leaving something behind, though I wasn't sure yet what.

"Babe?" Marcus said, and something in his voice cracked. The mythology was slipping.

"I think," I said, "it's time to stop telling that story."

The afternoon stretched out before us, full of things we'd finally have to say.