Is the 'I Love You' Worth It?
Tiff Tiff
Tre left for tour again. This time he's for four weeks, then he's home for good. At least for now. When he gets home, I should be four months along, and I'm sure I'll be significantly sticking out by then. For the time being, I've found that being home alone is even worse when you've got no work to do. I actually miss work. Okay, not The Cookie Factory, per se, but having something to do, something to get up for in the morning. And the more pregnant I get, the less energy I have. I'm just exhausted all the time. Bored and exhausted- now there's a combination.
I haven't gotten a call from Tre yet, and, though I know I won't, there's nothing I can say to make Adrienne and Anastasia understand. It's not an insult, it's not neglect. It's just not Tre. It never has been and it won't be. Ever. I've made a decision to not let it bother me. It's not worth the energy I don't have.
**
"Lisea! Where'd you put my pants?"
Tre's been back for two days now.
"Did you check the laundry room?" I call from the kitchen.
"No!"
"Well, then, check there!" I laugh.
Tre appears around the counter and hops up on the counter.
"How come you're not wearing any pants?" I ask, hopping up next to him.
"You shouldn't do that," he says, furrowing his brow.
"Do what?"
"Hop on stuff," he pushes me off the counter. "I think it's bad for the baby."
I sigh. Ever since he returned, he's been on hyperdrive with the whole 'I think it's bad for the baby' thing.
"Why aren't you wearing pants?"
"Because I couldn't find them," he says, blinking at me childishly.
"Since when do you only have one pair of pants?" I say folding my arms across my chest. He gives me a look.
"Why does it matter? Nobody's here," he says. "I don't get why you're mad."
"Who said I was mad?" I ask, thought deep down, he's pushing me there. I've been easily pissed off lately, which, I guess could be blamed on the pregnancy. At least that's what Adrienne says.
"You just seem mad," he says defensively.
"Well, I'm not. You're projecting."
He frowns at me and I get an uncontrollable urge to cry. I can't fight it. Tre stares at me wide-eye, with that dumb look on his face. I run out of the kitchen into the living room and curl up on the couch. Tre follows me.
"What?" he holds out his arms "I didn't do anything!"
"Don't yell at me!" I cry hugging my knees. He shakes his head in confusion.
"I didn't fucking yell at you!" he yells.
"You just did!"
He groans and leaves the room
Tre comes back into the living room a half an hour later with a sad look on his face and a blueberry poptart in his hand.
"I sorry," he says quiety, munching on the poptart.
"No, it's me," I mutter. "I've been feeling generally shitty lately and haven't had anyone to take it out on."
I reach over and stroke his hair gently. Once he sees I'm not mad anymore, he gives me a shy, silly grin. He shoves the remainder of his poptart into his mouth and throws his arms around me.
"Christ, be careful," I snap, wrapping my arms around my stomach. "You're the one who won't let me do anything strenuous."
I can tell he's embarrassed.
"Sorry," he says looking down at my hands.
I shake my head and take his hands in mine. "Can we stop apologizing to each other? It seems like that's all we do anymore."
He nods. "Yeah."
A slightly uncomfortable silence follows.
"So," I say, attempting to break it, but find I have nothing to say.
"Yeah," he nods, staring into the space in front of him.
I sigh.
"So, when do you have to go to the doctor again," he says looking out the corner of his eye.
I shrug. "It's on the calendar."
"Oh."
"Why?"
He shakes his head and picks at a callus on his palm.
"That's really gross," I say pulling at his hand.
"Huh?" he says looking up.
"I said that's gross," I say lacing my fingers through his. He smiles at me.
"Sorry. When I don't use them, the calluses go away."
"That's bad?"
"Yeah."
"Oh," I say.
He sighs.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says, pulling his hand away from mine.
"You sure you're okay?"
He nods wearily. "I'm tired, that's all."
***
I haven't gotten a call from Tre yet, and, though I know I won't, there's nothing I can say to make Adrienne and Anastasia understand. It's not an insult, it's not neglect. It's just not Tre. It never has been and it won't be. Ever. I've made a decision to not let it bother me. It's not worth the energy I don't have.
**
"Lisea! Where'd you put my pants?"
Tre's been back for two days now.
"Did you check the laundry room?" I call from the kitchen.
"No!"
"Well, then, check there!" I laugh.
Tre appears around the counter and hops up on the counter.
"How come you're not wearing any pants?" I ask, hopping up next to him.
"You shouldn't do that," he says, furrowing his brow.
"Do what?"
"Hop on stuff," he pushes me off the counter. "I think it's bad for the baby."
I sigh. Ever since he returned, he's been on hyperdrive with the whole 'I think it's bad for the baby' thing.
"Why aren't you wearing pants?"
"Because I couldn't find them," he says, blinking at me childishly.
"Since when do you only have one pair of pants?" I say folding my arms across my chest. He gives me a look.
"Why does it matter? Nobody's here," he says. "I don't get why you're mad."
"Who said I was mad?" I ask, thought deep down, he's pushing me there. I've been easily pissed off lately, which, I guess could be blamed on the pregnancy. At least that's what Adrienne says.
"You just seem mad," he says defensively.
"Well, I'm not. You're projecting."
He frowns at me and I get an uncontrollable urge to cry. I can't fight it. Tre stares at me wide-eye, with that dumb look on his face. I run out of the kitchen into the living room and curl up on the couch. Tre follows me.
"What?" he holds out his arms "I didn't do anything!"
"Don't yell at me!" I cry hugging my knees. He shakes his head in confusion.
"I didn't fucking yell at you!" he yells.
"You just did!"
He groans and leaves the room
Tre comes back into the living room a half an hour later with a sad look on his face and a blueberry poptart in his hand.
"I sorry," he says quiety, munching on the poptart.
"No, it's me," I mutter. "I've been feeling generally shitty lately and haven't had anyone to take it out on."
I reach over and stroke his hair gently. Once he sees I'm not mad anymore, he gives me a shy, silly grin. He shoves the remainder of his poptart into his mouth and throws his arms around me.
"Christ, be careful," I snap, wrapping my arms around my stomach. "You're the one who won't let me do anything strenuous."
I can tell he's embarrassed.
"Sorry," he says looking down at my hands.
I shake my head and take his hands in mine. "Can we stop apologizing to each other? It seems like that's all we do anymore."
He nods. "Yeah."
A slightly uncomfortable silence follows.
"So," I say, attempting to break it, but find I have nothing to say.
"Yeah," he nods, staring into the space in front of him.
I sigh.
"So, when do you have to go to the doctor again," he says looking out the corner of his eye.
I shrug. "It's on the calendar."
"Oh."
"Why?"
He shakes his head and picks at a callus on his palm.
"That's really gross," I say pulling at his hand.
"Huh?" he says looking up.
"I said that's gross," I say lacing my fingers through his. He smiles at me.
"Sorry. When I don't use them, the calluses go away."
"That's bad?"
"Yeah."
"Oh," I say.
He sighs.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says, pulling his hand away from mine.
"You sure you're okay?"
He nods wearily. "I'm tired, that's all."
***