Chapter 12: Alive

Jack and I talked about what it meant that he didn’t want me to come to Florida, and that he didn’t turn to me for emotional support after his mom passed away. He insisted it was different for him. His mom was 91 and he hadn’t lived near her in decades. He said it wasn’t the same as if I lost my mom, who I saw regularly and was only 70. But the incident made me realize how I had taken—maybe mistaken—Jack’s general warmth and affection for emotional intimacy; these were not the same thing. In one discussion on the topic, I asked if I was his beard. He surprised me with the intensity of his response.

“What? No! What are you talking about?”

“I don’t mean that you’re gay. It just makes me feel like our marriage is some kind of sham. If we aren’t relating as more than friends—if you aren’t sharing your inner world with me—what are we even doing together?”

He was still mad.

“Honey, again, I didn’t mean you’re gay. I meant that the fact that you didn’t need me there when your mom died makes me feel like I’m just a pretty young placeholder standing next to you through life, but you don’t want anything more than that. And I want to be close with you in all the ways.”

I was starting to connect a lot of dots. I always thought the fact that we didn’t fight meant we were a perfect couple, an idyllic match. It didn’t occur to me it might be that we never fought because we were avoiding issues between us, or that it might have indicated a lack of passion. We didn’t fight, no, but we also didn’t fuck. Fighting and fucking, I was beginning to realize, were two sides of the same coin.

It was around this time that I began to question how I could feel such a piercing sense of discontent alongside my supposedly happy, easy life. I repeated it again and again, “I’m so happy.” I had said it to my sister, my mom, my therapist…but there was no one I tried to convince more than myself.

A few weeks after the realization in my therapist’s office that I wasn’t as happy as I’d been professing to be, I noticed the summer concert lineup at one of the local venues. My stomach stirred with excitement when I saw that The Musician and his band were coming. I hadn’t seen him in more than five years, since Jack and I found out we were pregnant with Vox. Once I’d sealed up that future, it felt disloyal to nurture any relationship from my past. But all of a sudden, when I heard they were coming, I felt the old familiar pull to go.

I didn’t want to buy tickets—that would mean nothing. Instead, I needed to get on the guest list, which meant backstage passes, sometimes all access. All access meant royalty. But securing the keys to the kingdom meant I would have to do the delicate dance of dysfunction. I had learned long ago not to approach The Musician directly for anything—he always referred me to his tour manager. Which meant I would have to ask his tour manager—The Tour Manager—for access. I was unsure how my request would be received; it had been a long time.

It might seem like I would have realized The Musician was not really my friend if I couldn’t count on him for something as simple as tickets to his show. But I figured tolerating his idiosyncrasies was the price of entry. In exchange, I would get the excitement of backstage and a potential hit of validation. I might get to feel again like I mattered to him.

Another thing on my mind was whether The Musician had a girlfriend. I wanted him to know I would be at the concert in case he was available for some form of connection, but if he was not available, I also needed him to know that I would respect his space. But none of these things could be named directly—better to let things ride and hope for the best than try to nail him down and risk rejection. Plus, by leaving things unnamed, whatever happened could be called happenstance.

I emailed The Tour Manager who responded sweetly and said he’d put me on the guest list. Once I knew I was on the list, I emailed The Musician and told him I’d be at the show, which was still a couple months away. Just like the first time we met, he suggested we could do a yoga practice together.

I was excited to revisit their world, a galaxy away from my staid domestic life, but unsettled by the prospect of seeing him, because there was no ground between us. The one defining quality of our relationship, apart from our mutual preoccupation with sex, had always been uncertainty. It helped that he suggested an activity, but I knew it was just as likely that yoga wouldn’t happen as it was that it would.

Next, I mentioned it to Jack.

“Just come home after the show,” he joked. “I don’t want to wake up to a text from you announcing you’re on a tour bus heading south on I-5.”

I was glad he didn’t ask why I wanted to go, and I avoided digging any deeper into what his comment suggested—that perhaps Jack harbored doubt about my allegiance or fidelity. If he had asked why I wanted to go, I’m not even sure I would have, or could have, revealed the truth. I didn’t want to self-reflect, and I didn’t want to explain. I was not seeking insight. All I wanted was a distraction, and an escape, even if only for one night.

When the day of the concert finally rolled around, I said goodbye to Jack with a pit in my stomach and drove away. Perhaps it was the strangeness of revisiting a life I’d left behind, or the attachment I still felt to The Musician, or maybe I sensed I was inviting trouble. Whatever the reason, I was jumpy and preoccupied the whole drive there. When I saw him across a field as I was parking, I nearly retreated home. It had been so long since I’d seen him. We were different people than we had been. What was I doing there?