The Theory of Opposites by Allison Winn Scotch Page A

registering, like he just needs to say what he has rehearsed, to get it out while he has the will to.
    I continue: “Anyway, I guess that sort of sucks, but you can fly back for weekends. Or I could come visit. I don’t have a job or anything. I guess I could go with you.” I squint and try to imagine myself in Palo Alto.
    “No, that’s not what I mean. I suspected you wouldn’t be excited.”
    He sighs again. Then looks at me, really, really looks at me, like it’s the last time he might see me, might take me in. I take a step closer but then stop when he offers: “Willa, don’t you ever feel like…like…like you’re stuck?”
    “Stuck? Not really. I mean, no.”
    “Well, I guess I do.”
    “You feel stuck?” I ask. “With…me?”
    “Yes,” he answers, then covers himself with: “No. No. No, that’s not what I meant.”
    The room spins, and I press a palm against the wall to steady myself.
    “Is this about Grape! ?” I whisper when I feel like I might not pass out.
    “Grape?”
    “ Grape!, yes, GRAPE! . The club you went to when you were supposed to be at basketball with your brainiac squad who worship you because you happen to have been blessed with better cheekbones but are still a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” I pray that he doesn’t mock my stupid metaphors. Why did I choose such a stupid metaphor?
    “How do you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I realize that he thinks it doesn’t even matter.
    “Are you cheating on me? Seriously? Are you fucking having an affair with some girl from Grape! who has, like, a fertile uterus and better boobs? ”
    “What? No!” He stands now, but doesn’t move nearer. “I’m just…what?”
    I ask him again, more quietly now, because I have finally said it, and I need to hear the honest answer, not the first denial.
    “Shawn. Just tell me. Are you cheating on me? Am I not enough?”
    “No!” he snaps, too loudly, setting me off again. “I’m just…ugh. Listen, Willa, this is hard.”
    “What’s so hard? Your affair? Your stupid leather jacket? Your discovery of golf…or…or running on Sundays without me? What?”
    He sits back down.
    “Shit. I don’t know.”
    We stay on pause for a few minutes, him staring at his hands, me pressed against the foyer wall, unable to find a way to say whatever it is to mend this. His phone buzzes — I can hear it in his pants pocket — but he doesn’t pick it up. When I can no longer bear it, I say:
    “So…what? I don’t get what you’re saying.”
    “I guess what I’m saying…” He cracks his knuckles. “Is that I’m trying to make life more interesting. I’m not cheating.” His voice breaks here, and I can’t help but feel something splinter inside of me too. “I went to Grape! because it was different, because, well…it was fun. The guys wanted to, and Jesus , I wanted to. Go out, do something new, try something new. I mean, I love you. I do. But I kind of feel like my life is one fucking Together To-Do! app.” He sighs. “I’m in a rut.”
    “So get out of it.”
    “I’m trying! Don’t you think that’s what I’m doing?”
    A rut. It’s only that he’s in a rut.
    “So what does Palo Alto have to do with this?”
    He doesn’t answer right away. His phone beeps twice again in the silence. Then he says:
    “I was just thinking, you know, maybe I could go by myself. Or take Nicky for a while.”
    “Maybe you could go by yourself?” Bile rises up from my stomach, my easy gag reflex announcing itself at the first sign of trouble. I swallow deeply, but the wave of nausea doesn’t pass.
    “You know…like…a break or something?”
    “Like…a break or something? From…me?”
    “From us. Not, like, anything legal. I mean, I love you.”
    “I don’t…where is this coming from?” I slide to the floor and cross my legs, tucking my head down so the room stops spinning. Xanax. That’s what I need. I remind myself to call Raina, to start seeing her more regularly. “I