Shaking his head at me, he mumbles, "You better not be." before turning and leaving me there, reeling.
I start shaking so badly my legs collapse, and I fall to the floor beside the bed. Where did that come from, I wonder, trying to understand. It had been months since Jon had touched me, and he had never touched me like that. Did he just accuse me of cheating on him? With one of the doctors I worked with? He had taken my gesture of making something for him as an admission of guilt. I have no idea how he could even think that of me. Jon knows where I am at practically every moment of the day. It was him, not me, that would take off with no word as to where he was going or when he would be back. Sometimes, I wish he wouldn’t come back.
I disregard that thought as soon as it passes through my mind. I would always want Jon with me, the old Jon, the Jon I fell in love with. I just have to figure out what to do to get him back. I know he is hurting and angry because he is out of work. Maybe if I helped him find a job. I am just scared the help would offend him, but things were so much better when he had a job. When Jon was still working we had our own little morning routine. When our alarm went off, I would jump in the shower while Jon went to the kitchen to start a half pot of coffee and then climbed back into bed and sleep until I was done in the shower. After my shower I would walk, still in a towel, over to his side of the bed and kiss his cheek, my wet hair falling all around his face.
Jon would always pull me down into his arms and kiss or tickle me until I was gasping for air before getting up with a grin to take his shower. I would get dressed and pour each of us a cup of coffee. I took mine with milk and sugar, and Jon took his with just milk. Jon would shave after his shower, and I would bring him his cup of coffee and chat with him while he shaved. After our coffee, we would brush our teeth, I would throw on some make up, and we would walk out to our cars together, kissing once more before going in our opposite directions. I used to keep a box of breakfast bars in my car and would eat one on the way to work each morning. The office building Jon worked in had a cafeteria that he would get a muffin or bagel from each morning.
When Jon was first laid off, still actively seeking a new job and going on interviews, he kept the same morning schedule, even when he started collecting unemployment. It wasn’t until much later that he started sleeping in. Jon had not said anything to me about it and one morning, when I asked him if he had made coffee, he snapped, telling me to make my own. I made a pot the next day. After my shower, I came over to kiss him on the cheek, and he cussed at me. Told me to “fucking leave him alone.” I wasn’t opposed to cussing. I did it myself. Guy cuts me off in traffic: asshole. I drop something on my foot: shit. There was a difference between being okay with cussing and being okay with being cussed at.
When it happened, I said nothing, letting myself stew on it all day. When I came home that evening, I told Jon how much it bothered me and to not do it again. His reaction at the time surprised me. Suddenly, I was the one actually at fault in the scenario because, if I had thought about it, by waking him up when he had no job. What I was truly doing was rubbing it in his face that he had nowhere to go that day while I did. I could see his point and said as much but went on to try and explain that he still should not have cursed at me. It was disrespectful. Jon would not budge his argument that what I had done was worse and that it somehow justified him. The argument was going nowhere so I dropped the subject.