“Ugh!” I lob the soapy sponge, but it misses him by a good five feet. “You’re disgusting.”
That thought? Just—No.
I shudder. And thank God Zach is not around to hear this little joke. I’ddie.
Josh gets to his feet, laughing, and plucks the sponge off the cement floor.
“Just for that,youcan finish the dishes.” I step back from the sink to make room for him.
Josh eyes the basin full of the day’s dishes and wrinkles his nose.
“May I remind you that I cooked.” I try to keep my voice light, but when his gaze snaps to mine, he’s glowering.
“MayIremindyouthat while you worked in here, sanding window sills in climate-controlled comfort, I was busting my ass digging holes in a thousand-degree heat?”
I shrink back at his sharp tone.
“Babe—I-I didn’t—”
Josh squeezes his eyes shut and drops his chin. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Greta. I’m just—” He stops himself, the muscles and tendons in his jaw standing out.
“You’re tired,” I offer.
He doesn’t say anything.
I take two tiny steps closer and risk laying a hand on his arm. Josh doesn’t open his eyes. That look of pain might as well be made of marble.
I’ve seen it so many times. But seeing it now—here—makes it so much worse. Because this place was supposed to fix things.
Maybe noteverything.But this is our dream. We’re making it happen. Being here was supposed to make all the difference.
I swallow. “We always knew it was going to be hard work,” I remind him gently, but my chest feels tight like I’ve been holding my breath for too long. “But I don’t want you to think I’m not doing my part. I mean, it’s not like I expect you and Zach to do all the heavy lifting.”
Triggers really suck,I remind myself, inhaling a slow, deep breath. You can spend two years in therapy and get to the bottom of your issues, and learn new coping strategies, and be doing just fine and dandy. And then your boyfriend makes one comment, and suddenly the old stuff surges forward.
If I’m not good enough or I don’t do enough, they won’t love me.
If I try harder, I’ll earn their love.
If they aren’t happy, I’m not enough.
I slow my breathing even more, scanning my body for the tight places. Breathing into all the spots where those old, misguided lessons are buried bone deep.
I’m enough.
They did the best they could with what they had.
And even though they did their best, I needed more. And it’s okay to feel that.
Josh finally opens his eyes, and they're full of remorse. “You’ve done plenty of heavy lifting, Gret.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I’m just dehydrated or coming down with something. I’m sorry. Really.”
Calmer now, I close the distance, moving us chest to chest and stroke his cheek. “It’s okay. And you’re probably right. The heat’s been crazy, and even with the coolers, I don’t see how you two can drink enough to stay hydrated.” I glance down at the beer he’s still holding. It’s his fourth since he got back. One before his shower right when they got back. One before and one with dinner. And he popped open the fourth when I started the dishes.
It’s almost empty.
And I’m not even counting the six-pack I dropped off this afternoon. The cooler was empty when the guys came back. I wonder how many Zach drank.
I bite my lip and weigh my words. “And alcohol is a diuretic. It might be better—”