Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,16

. something he’d almost never done with Juliet. He loved to tell me how much he did, as my breasts felt like they were being sliced by knives and turning hard as rocks. When my incision needed to be restitched because I’d had a coughing fit (don’t the doctors just love to tell you how you were responsible for everything that goes wrong?), John told me how he’d brilliantly arranged for Caro to pick up Juliet for Girl Scouts. Not only that, he’d taken a casserole I’d made the month before out of the freezer, so dinner was all set. I’d been saving that casserole for when he went back to work and was traveling, when I’d be alone with our baby and adolescent, when all household and child-related responsibilities would be on me and me alone. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he said at dinner that night. “Who made this?”

He was just so . . . obtuse sometimes. Most times, to be honest.

Just as Juliet and I had our own little world, he had one with Sadie. Juliet loved her little sister, but their time together was limited; she had homework and projects, activities and friends. The sides were pretty clear—Sadie and John, Juliet and me. I couldn’t help resenting his adoration of Sadie, because Juliet had gotten none of that. Sometimes I’d see her face as she watched her father giving horsey rides to Sadie, or drawing with her for an hour after supper, and I knew she was hurt.

When Juliet left for college, things got worse in our marriage. He was critical of how I interacted with Sadie, telling me I was too strict, that Sadie was a free spirit, that I had to be more flexible. If I said, “No more cookies, Sadie,” he’d inevitably sneak her one more. If I said it was bedtime, he’d give her fifteen minutes longer. He came home every night at six thirty and it seemed like all he did was pick at me regarding Sadie. Why was she in her room? So what if she’d told her teacher math was stupid and she wouldn’t do her assignments? Everyone hated math. Were we having pork chops again? Didn’t we just have them?

And he said these things in an amiable way, so if I were to say, “No, John, that was in April. I make a meal plan so we never have the same dinner twice in any month, and I’ve done that since the day we were married. Haven’t you noticed?” he’d say, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. My mistake. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Then he’d wink at Sadie, or sigh if she wasn’t in the room, letting me know I was the bad guy here.

He always, always took her side. “She’s not Juliet. She’s her own person, Barb.”

“I know that! But she needs more boundaries and focus, John! I spend all day with her, and you breeze in for two hours of fun after all the hard things are done.”

“What’s so hard about your life, Barb?” Again, said in a condescending way.

You can see there was no winning these arguments.

By the time Sadie finally left for school, I was fifty-eight years old, tired and awfully relieved. And this time, John was the one who cried on the trip home. I’ve got to admit, it felt a little bit like justice.

I did hope that once we were alone, things would improve between us . . . hoped that my constant irritation with him would fade and we could become close again. But there was always a disconnect. If I put my hand on his leg in bed, he’d say, “Oh. I’m sorry, hon. I’m exhausted.” The next night, he’d be completely up for it if you get my meaning, and I’d be fighting to stay awake. If we did have sex, it was rare that we recaptured that old sunshiny feeling. Instead, it was just a box to be checked. Sex with husband. Done, thank heavens.

Men didn’t understand how hard it was to get in the mood. I hated movies when one kiss was enough for the woman and three seconds later they were doing it. Men thought that was normal. They took it personally if you weren’t like that, and please. I wasn’t twenty-five anymore. Men didn’t realize that we women had to talk ourselves into the mood a lot of the time, had to go through the motions until they were sincere, had to deal with the consequences