Missing Like You

THIRTY-FOUR

ISABELLE DONOVAN
FRIDAY JUNE 24, 2022

It's been a long day.

The hours that JD was gone were long and painful. Anything I thought I felt prior to this about solitary confinement means nothing now. Because this was the worst of it. But alas, I have survived.

He made dinner for the both of us. And now, we sit together at the table in the kitchen, empty plates in front of us. He was even gracious enough to offer me wine. I happily accepted. I don't think I've ever been this happy to have someone's company in my entire life.

"Is there some sort of special occasion?" I ask.
"No," he takes a sip from his glass. "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering."
"How did you spend your day?"
"Extremely restless. I didn't think you were coming back."
"You think I'd leave you here?"
"I don't know what to think. I don't know what you'd do, what you're capable of."
He sits in silence for a moment, taking another sip of wine. I notice that he doesn't attempt to reassure me.
"So are you going to tell me what you did all day?" I counter.
"I already told you not to worry about it."
"Worried, I am not. Curious, on the other hand..."
"It doesn't matter what I do. I leave the cottage every day – you know that, right?"
For some reason, I never realized this. I guess it never crossed my mind. He, too, is a living, breathing member of society. He probably has people back home who are wondering where he is.
"Do you have a job?" I ask.
"I do."
"So were you at your job?"
"For some time, yes. I had things to catch up on."
"Do you go there every day?"
He doesn't respond.
"Does your wife miss you?"
He looks at me.
"You said you were married. Is that even true?"
"I was married at one point, yes. I no longer am."
"Why?"
"I'm not going to discuss this right now."
I make a sound and turn away so I'm facing the stove. I felt like I was actually making progress with him. All I want to do is peel off his scalp and take a look inside, just a small peek. I need to know what's going on in there. I need to know everything.
"You're still married," he says to me. A statement, not a question.
I turn my head so I'm facing him again. "I am, technically. We're not together though."
"Then why are you still legally married?"
I think about this. It's a good question. We could have filed for a divorce and had the paperwork all filled out, neat and tidy. We could have ended things somewhat amicably and walked away from each other forever. But maybe there's a part of me that didn't want to do that. Perhaps we haven't legally divorced yet because we're both still holding out hope that this is temporary. That at any minute, we can walk back into each other's lives and pick up where we left off, as though nothing has changed.
"I'm not sure," I say to him instead. "It's complicated."
"I'm an expert at complicated."
"I highly doubt that."
"Try me."
I stare at him, his eyes on mine. I debate saying no and changing the subject. But part of me wants to talk about it. I need to vent and get this out. Therapy with my captor!
Besides, none of this will matter. If he kills me, my secrets go with him to the grave. And if I make it out alive, well... I highly doubt he'll be around to talk about it anyways.
"We met when we were sixteen," I start. "We were in the same homeroom class. That was how we initially met. Then we started dating. And then right before we graduated, he asked me to marry him. We waited until after college to have the wedding. We found a house together, got a dog," I pause, thinking about it all. "Everything was great in our marriage. Ten years we've been together. But things got complicated near the end. I guess I wasn't the wife he always envisioned. I guess I can't blame him there. Maybe I had my faults and imperfections that he couldn't see past."
"I'm sure that's not true," he says, breaking me from my thoughts. "You seem like you'd be the perfect wife."
"I wasn't though. Because if I was, maybe he wouldn't have felt the need to go out and do what he did."
"What did he do?"
"I don't want to get into it."
He watches me, but doesn't press.
"I wish I had something bad to say about him," I confess. "But before everything went downhill at the end, Scott was the perfect husband. I know that sounds like a cliché, but he literally could do no wrong. He's intelligent and thoughtful and kind. He always put my needs before his own. He did everything I asked of him, and without question. It was as though he held me on his pedestal, so high above everything else," I pause. "Maybe that was the problem. That he had this unrealistic idealization of me. He prioritized me above everything and held me at such a superior status. Maybe he, too, believed I was perfect. And when he finally noticed I wasn't, he realized what a mistake he made."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No! God no. Scott is not a violent person."
"There's more than just physical pain, Isabelle. Did he hurt you emotionally?"
I almost start crying then. I've tried my best not to cry during my split from Scott, and I've cried the remainder of my tears during my first two days locked up here. But right now, all I want to do is cry and let it all out. And so finally, I do.
He doesn't attempt to move and console me in anyway. Maybe he thinks it will frighten me if he comes close to me. Instead, he watches me with empathetic eyes as I sob on kitchen table.
Once I've finished and have attempted to compose myself, he stands up and walks into the other room. I fear what he's going to do. But when he returns, he's holding a box of tissues. He walks over and gives them to me.
"Thank you."
He nods and takes a seat at the table again.
"He sounds like an idiot to me," he finally speaks, breaking the extended silence. "You say he's smart, but anyone who can give up a girl like you truly can't be that intelligent."