Nonreactionaries

I woke up at 6:30 in the morning cramped. I willed myself to fall asleep without moving and, as far as I could tell, I hadn't. I stretched out of the fetal position and looked lazily to the other side of my bed.

It was empty.

I saw the kitchen light was still on, so I got dressed and headed into the kitchen to flip it off before returning to bed. Instead I found my back door wide open and Scott sleeping on my couch. I sighed and was relieved he didn't leave, but I wish he would have come to bed. Would it have been so awful to sleep with me?

I sat down on the edge of my couch and rubbed his chest until he awoke. He looked at me and fell back asleep. Fight still on, I guess. I headed back to bed and set an alarm so he could get up for work. Each time I woke him up, he soundlessly fell back asleep. I considered my obligation fulfilled and turned off my alarm. Finally he dashed into my room, said he was late, and kissed me goodbye.

I felt horrible in the morning. I couldn't shake off the pit in my stomach. And it dropped even more when I saw he left his cellphone behind. I was spending the day at my father's house and he needed it for work, so I tucked it in my purse and drove to his shop on my way out of the city.

"Did you just wake up?" he asked.

"No, I've been up."

"You're awfully quiet."

I was quiet because I didn't know what to say. I don't know how to react to the whole "It's not you; it's me" line. I wasn't going to let him hurt me or show him that I cared. The wall was up.

He stroked my face, "I'm sorry that I got mad last night."

I thought it was queer that he would describe it like that; I never really thought he was angry throughout the whole ordeal. I ducked my head out of his eye line and nodded at the ground.

"What did we fight about?"

"We didn't fight. You flipped out."

"I don't remember anything." It explained why he apologized for getting angry--he didn't know what happened. All he knew was that he slept on the couch and I was obviously not okay. I wasn't entirely surprised he couldn't remember the night. He was still on his painkillers and drank a lot the night before, including shots of jaeger. His tolerance is high, but it's still a lot for his 6' 1", 150-pound frame. "What did I say?"

I left out a lot of details. I didn't tell him what he said about marriage. "We had just finished having sex and you kept saying that you really, really liked me and that you had to leave before you screwed things up."

"Mmm. From what it sounds like, this is what happened: I don't want sex to ruin the relationship. The relationship is way more important to me. It sounds like I wanted to protect it." He brushed back a strand of hair and embraced me, "I know it sounds really fucked up, but this was a good thing. Believe me."

"So why did you stay?" I told him about the state my apartment was in when I awoke.

"I don't know. I must have passed out."

He scratched my dog's head as she tried to climb out of my truck to be with him; that dog loves him more than any guy I've ever dated. When he's around, her whole face lights up and follows his every move. "You stay with Momma," he whispered to her in the cartoon voice we both reserve for her. Then he brushed dog hair off my black spaghetti-strapped shirt, "You taking her swimming?"

"Yeah."

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"Yup." I finally tilted my head up towards Scott so he could kiss me goodbye. The kiss was almost precarious: I still refused his stare and chose instead to look off to the side and our lips met with gentle trepidation.

I had hoped that he would admit some of the things he yelled at me last night, but he was pretty nonreactionary. He never explained what he said about being spooked or the exact depth of his affection towards me. He only interpreted his actions, not his words.