Chapter 3 - The Untethered Expectations
For the rest of the day, Desmond apparently convinced himself I was bluffing.
He texted around lunch asking when I would be home. Then he asked whether he needed to “dress decent,” which told me he expected a restaurant reservation. At five-thirty, when I walked through the door carrying nothing but my work bag, he kept glancing toward the driveway.
He checked his phone every few minutes.
At six, he casually asked whether we needed to leave soon.
“Leave for what?”
He studied my face.
“Nothing.”
At six-thirty, his mother called.
I could hear her even though the phone wasn't on speaker.
“What time are we supposed to come over?”
Desmond looked at me.
I kept chopping vegetables.
He covered the phone and whispered, “What do I tell her?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That there isn't a party.”
His eyes widened.
I held out my hand.
He actually gave me the phone.
“Hi, Lorna.”
“Where are we going tonight?” she asked. “Desmond won't tell me anything.”
“There’s nothing planned.”
Silence.
Then, “What do you mean, nothing planned?”
“Desmond decided adults are too old for birthday celebrations.”
Another silence.
This one was colder.
Lorna hung up.
Thirty seconds later, Desmond's phone rang.
She was yelling loudly enough that I could hear individual words from several feet away.
“What is going on?”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“What kind of birthday is this?”
Desmond went into the garage to finish the call, then came back looking furious.
“Where are my presents?”
I almost admired how directly he asked.
“No presents.”
“You seriously got me nothing?”
“I thought presents were childish.”
“This isn't funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You're being petty.”
I set the knife down.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Vindictive, actually.”
I looked at him for a moment.
“I’m treating your birthday exactly the way you've treated mine.”
“That is not true.”
“It is exactly true.”
“I've never forgotten your birthday.”
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“I said I've never forgotten your birthday. Maybe I haven't made a huge production out of it, but you're acting like I completely ignored you every year.”
I stared at my husband.
For a second I genuinely wondered whether he believed what he was saying. Desmond had always possessed a remarkable ability to remember history in whichever form made Desmond look best, but even for him, this was ambitious.
“You forgot last year.”
“No, I didn't.”
“You went golfing.”
“I probably told you happy birthday before I left.”
“You didn't.”
“Well, I don't remember.”
“I do.”
Desmond threw up his hands.
“See? This is what I'm talking about. You're keeping score.”
I walked toward the bedroom.
May you like
“Where are you going?”
“To get something.”
