Fault Lines (Apathy)

“She cheated on me because she didn’t think I loved her any more. And I didn’t, but she shouldn’t have done it. I still regret…” The man sighs quietly, looking down and away.

I nod, scribbling notes in the little notepads that I’ve used now for ten years. I mull over the man’s actions in my head, weigh his deeds carefully, and come to a decision. It’s a good decision, one that means everyone will get what they need, even if it's not what they want, and I start talking to him about how circumstances could make many good people act rashly and incorrectly, but that second chances are given. There would still be repercussions, but they are not as bad as he thinks, and I see in his eyes understanding, and thankfulness.

And then, for a second, my mind drifts to Eden and the certainty in my thoughts crashes down around me. I almost open my mouth to say that what he did afterward was justified. But I stop myself, clear my mind forcefully, and dismiss him from the chamber before I do something disastrous.

It’s the third time in two weeks that I’ve hesitated on a decision. I sense that I’m on the knife’s edge, veering away from balanced, impartial judgments and towards rash, emotional outbursts. Today only proves how unbalanced I’m becoming.

I’m affected by her behavior, which is exactly what she wants. But she doesn’t know how much I can’t let myself be affected by anything in my life. Her nights out, her dress, her actions — it hurts me, but I can’t give her what she wants. I can’t give her the secret passion of stolen kisses, the daring of our youthful escapades.

Nevertheless, I need to talk to her, I need to tell her that I’m worried that we’re not quite as close as we’ve been, that maybe we should go out together on those nights where she now comes back at three in the morning. It’ll be okay, we’ll work through it, and then I can go back to sorting out the good lives from the bad.

And then I get the call. She's out…with a guy. Alone.

Together.

---

I was eighteen when I first got the offer; they were looking for level heads that could quickly understand and analyze complicated situations. It was just a relatively small job at first, figuring out whether or not crimes were blameless, whether compensation should be paid, and if so, how much.

Somewhere along the line, my assignments changed: I started seeing people and talking to them about their lives and their actions. I spoke to those who had done horrifying things but maybe had good intentions, and at the end I was asked to judge whether or not they were still salvageable. What happens after, I’ve never asked.

I always thought it would be a solitary journey that I would make, that at the end of my time, there would be just a few friends and the undertaker standing around my grave. Then I met Eden and everything changed.

She was everything I wasn’t, merrily dancing through life, a joie de vivre that set her apart from everyone else. She needed someone in her life that wasn’t going to disappear on her, someone who would be her anchor and her castle.

I loved her quietly, slowly sharing all of my life with this woman who was more spirit than flesh, who wanted everything the world had to offer. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and when she accepted, I was happier than I had ever been. I knew that she loved me as deeply as I loved her, and I believed that it would last.

Still, I was careful not to let my emotions get the best of me, careful not to let my experiences with her damage my intuition and my impartiality. In the end, I loved her more than anything else in this world, but there were still higher powers I had to bow to, responsibilities that could never be abrogated.

We were happy for a time.

But as three years turned into four, and five to six, she began to want the part of me that I couldn’t give her. She wanted me to live as she did, to stay in the moment and damn the consequences. She wanted me to let go, but she didn’t know my secret.

I could never let go.

---

The first time that Emma calls, I shrug it off, casually. It’s just an old friend Eden’s seeing, and it’s not problematic at all, I reply, and then hang up.

And then I pour myself a double of scotch and sit outside in the forty-degree weather, waiting for Eden to come back to me.

An hour later, I get another call from Emma, one that tells me that they’re leaving together, his hand on the small of her back, escorting her, holding her. This time around, I am bereft of any words to defend her with, except a weak, she’ll be back soon then, even as my heart starts to crumble.

I wonder, like they all do, how I didn’t see it coming, why I couldn’t have found a way to make things better before it came to this. At the beginning, I was everything she wanted. I held her when she was disappointed by the world and I shared her joys when she stood on top of it. Our dates were lovely, our dinner conversations interesting, our lovemaking tender and fulfilling.

But then she stopped wanting a rock and started wanting someone who could be with her in the clouds instead of waiting patiently on the ground. But there was always work, there was always the crushing responsibility that meant I could never indulge her. So I pretended to be apathetic as her behavior grew wilder; I became ever more of a prince as she wanted ever more of a pirate.

And now it’s been another hour and she’s still not back.

I clumsily down another glass, spilling some in the process, and can’t figure out whether the wet spots are from the alcohol or my tears.

Eventually, I pick myself up and slip into bed, to start the long, lonely, damned wait. A part of me wants to fall asleep, wants to wake up tomorrow and kiss her good morning as if nothing ever happened. A part of me wants to chase after her with a shotgun.

It’s sometime in the morning when I hear the garage door close, the footsteps on the stairs. I listen as she comes into the room, as she sets those lovely heels down and heads into the bathroom. I count the seconds as the water runs, as she changes out of that gorgeous dress that she wore for him, as she comes to the bed and hesitates before getting in.

I reach over and take her hand, but not with the gentle squeeze that's my usual greeting. I take her hand and hold it, letting her know that I’m awake. That I’ve been waiting.

But I don’t say a word, I don’t incriminate, I don’t rage, I don’t despair. I just let her know that I know, and we stay like this for God knows how long.

---

When I wake up, our hands are still touching.

She’s asleep, the peace on her beautiful face almost enough to make me forget last night. I want hold her, to kiss her lips and whisper I’m sorry... and at the same time, I want to scream at her for betraying me, for this emptiness that I feel when I look at her. Instead I slip out from under the covers, my hand pulling away from hers, and I hear her stir.

Afraid of what I might see if I look at her face, I head for the bathroom, waiting for the sounds to confirm my suspicions. A deep breath as she first comes awake, a soft, hushed gasp as she remembers. That’s it, then.

She’s silent for a bit, a silence only broken by the buzz of my shaver, by the sound of the running water as it splashes in the sink.

I hear the covers shift as she slips out of bed and comes into the bathroom, and I stare at the bottom of my cup, trying to recall what I was doing. After a few seconds, the shower starts and I remember — I was going to brush my teeth. But every second is another opportunity for conflict, so when the fog starts to cloud the mirror, I leave.

We can’t keep this up.

I dress quickly and finish off a bowl of milk and cereal in record time. And yet, even after I finish, I sit at the table, staring at the cereal box, wondering if it comes with both a toy car and the answer to saving our marriage.

She comes down stairs after a longer shower than usual and pauses briefly behind me, perhaps wondering why I’m still here. I’m wondering myself, but I can’t leave, yet. Not without saying something.

Then she stretches up on her toes to grab a plate, and I watch as the silk nightgown shifts on her hips, caresses her sides. She’s still lovely, even through the tension, even though I know that she feels my eyes burning through her. And again, I’m struck with mutually exclusive desires, and again, I resist both. There is still work, and I must still fake my apathy.

I rise then, heading for the garage. The doorbell rings, and on a normal day, I would hang around, just in case. But why wait? The worst that will happen is that she’ll cheat on me again.

The words come unbidden to my mouth, in a whisper that I don’t know if she hears.

“I love you, Eden.”

---

I try and clear my mind as I walk up the marble steps, nod to the guards, and enter the circular chamber, taking my place behind the dais. The lights dim except for the bright square in the middle, illuminating where the judged sat, and I open up my notebook, waiting for today's assignment.

The door slides open and I write down today's date and time, waiting for him or her to step forward so we can begin. In the back of my head, I build a wall around the thoughts of how Eden and I are going to make it through another night. I attempt to wrestle my emotions back under control.

And then I see who it is, and the walls crumble.

"Eden?" I whisper, the truth spreading through my body like poison, rendering me unable to move, unable to breathe.

She whispers my name in return and I wonder if He has a sick, twisted sense of humor, to force us to go through this. In response, the door behind her slides shut, and I tell myself that there's still a job to be done, still an evaluation to be performed.

I cough a few times, trying to find my voice, and then, haltingly, I begin the questions. I would usually begin by asking if she knew what she had done to deserve this, but we both knew.

Cut to the chase.

"Where were you last night?"

She tells me that she went to dinner... with a friend, and I look down at the notepad, watch as my fingers can not, for some reason, hold onto the pen properly. I scribble a few words down before giving it up as unnecessary; her words burn themselves into my memory anyway.

Nothing short of a lobotomy would make me forget.

"How long were you out? How long was dinner? What did you talk about?" My questions come harder, faster, without pause between. I should be more even, more measured, but I’ve lost my balance on the razor’s edge; she’s lucky I’m even letting her answer.

What I should've been is a solemn judge, asking level questions and making rational decisions. Instead, I find that I've never been more lost, more angry, more.. emotional, all at the same time. I set the notepad down and stand up, a shadow in the darkness, towering over the love of my life.

She draws back, slightly, and answers the questions… narrowly, avoiding telling me any more than exactly what I ask. If that’s how she wants to play it, then I’ll ask the question straight out.

"What happened after dinner?" My voice breaks a bit as I realize I don’t want to know. When she answers, I'll know that I've lost her, and it will be time to pass judgment. But I've lost my impartiality, at this point, and I just want some answer, any answer, so I can... I don't know. Hurt her. Run back to her.

I start to wonder, dimly, whether this is a test of myself, as well.

She pauses for a bit, wetting her lips, and I think of those lips on mine right before we sleep. I think of when she used to model dresses for me and I would buy them simply because she looked beautiful in them. I think of how I can't be impartial on this, how no one can, and I think of how I have to decide whether the love of my life gets a second chance.

And then she tells me that the two of them simply walked together, and I can't help but snort.

"For three fucking hours?!"

It's the first time in this chamber that I've cursed like that, and I know with growing certainty that it will be my last. I can't bear this anymore, and I jump the dais and stalk up to her, my face drawn, waiting for her lying defense.

And then I stop waiting.

“I was called, did you know that? She called me once, in the beginning, when you were making your way through the restaurant and turning every fucking head in thirty yards. And I said I trusted you, that you were just there with a friend, that it would be fine.”

“And then she called me again, when you left with him, his hand on the small of your back, leading you away. And I waited for you, three fucking hours, waiting, wanting to hear the garage door open, praying that you had just gotten a little bit delayed on the way home.”

“What did you do?!” I scream at her, a vicious, hoarse, lost wail.

“Nothing!” She swears that it was nothing, nothing at all.

And I raise an arm, ready to do whatever it takes to get the truth. Ready to cross a line that I’ve never, ever crossed, ready to beat the truth out of her.

Until I remember, suddenly, that she’s never lied. That she has flirted, that she’s been a free spirit, but that she has never lied about anything that was serious. But then...

“Why, then? What was the point of it? Why would you do something like that? Who was it?” I fall to my knees, looking up at the fear in her face, trying to find out where the girl I married is, trying to figure out who I’ve become.

“Eden,” I say. “Eden….why?”

And then she breaks my heart, again, telling me that she just wanted me back. Of course there was never anyone else, never anything that she wanted except for me, the part that was drifting away from her. All she wanted was more of me.

"I was never...gone, Eden. I was always here, always loved you. There wasn't a day that I didn't think of you, that I didn't cherish the thought of sleeping by your side... I gave you everything. Everything except for... this." I gesture around the chamber, but my eyes stay on her. They've never really left her, ever since she came into my life, I think; if only she understood.

"I needed to be good at this job, to not make any mistakes. And that meant that I had to hide some things away, that I couldn't always be what you wanted me to be. But I can’t…I’m not willing to be anything without you." I throw away the impartiality that I've worn like a cloak for so long, and hope she understands.

And then she tells me who it was.

"Brendan," I repeat, numbly.

Her half-brother. I had seen him a few times before, but not well enough to know what his cologne smelled like. Of course it would be Brendan.

"Brendan," I say again, in some version of shocked disbelief. And then I look at her, and I see the fear recede, and she’s mine again.

In an instant, I have her up against the wall, my hands attacking the buttons on her blouse, my mouth on hers, hot and wet and wanting to make up for all the stupidity we just went through.

A brief tug on her lower lip and then I pull away, briefly, fire burning brightly before I lean in again, trailing a line of kisses up her jaw, taking her earlobe between my teeth and waiting for that soft gasp. I tug the blouse off, my fingers dancing across her sides, teasing over the silk that covers her breasts.

We fall on each other, lips touching, eyes locked, a dance of passion. Thank the gods, I think, for a few things. That the rooms are soundproofed, that the floor is warm, and most especially, that I didn’t lose her. And that she didn’t lose me.

And then we are lost in the afterglow.

Eventually, I gather our clothes between kisses. I help her slip on her blouse and brush my lips across her skin before it is hidden; she ties my tie with fingers that I steal kisses on, buckles my belt. We almost look decent.

And then a door slides open.

Light shines into the room from behind my seat. Emma comes in; something I wasn’t expecting. Here to fire me, perhaps? She looks at us for a moment, and together, we look back. Eden’s fingers tremble in mine, but we lend each other strength and stand firm.

“Peter,” Emma says, “you are released from your duties.”

I expected to be disappointed; I expected to feel the shame of failure. Instead, what washes over me is mostly a wave of contentment. There is satisfaction, the knowledge that I have done my duties well and that it is time to pass them on to someone else, and only a hint of regret at not doing more. But in the end, my life doesn't belong just to me, but also to Eden; I can't be someone who steers other people past their problems and decides who gets second chances without making sure my own life is whole first.

I turn to kiss the love of my life once more, as a reminder of the past and a promise for the future. And then, with just a hint of hesitation, we leave the chamber.

Perhaps one day the flame will die down, on my side or on hers, and I will return here, ready to take up the mantle once more. If it doesn't, however, I will be content, living my life wholly and fully, denying Eden nothing.

//

A/N: This was a wonderful collaboration with my partner crimsonplum for intersect week; her entry is here. Please read it as well — the way we structured our entries means that while they stand alone, they connect together very tightly.

It comes in at about 3200 words, which is significantly longer than anything else I've seen so far on Idol, or anything I usually write. But this is down from the initial 3800, which is, I suppose, a sign of how much fun it was to write; I do hope the story keeps you interested all the way through.