We filled the drive with silence for a while. I had nothing to say to her, and she had nothing to say to me, so we said nothing, initially. But something happened, and Rachel asked me a question. Normally, I’d humor her and answer whatever she asked, but this time I just didn’t feel like it. So she asked again. I ignored her. This went on for a few cycles. Finally, I got sick of listening to her, so I drove to a nearby gas station to pick up a turkey sandwich.

In retrospect, I probably deserved what happened next.

I’ll admit I could’ve respected her questions and opinions a little more. In fact, if I were to dive into deeper retrospect, I probably could’ve treated her better as a person. The effort would’ve demanded sacrifice, because I really got sick of all her constant crying. But . . . the problem was . . .

Look, there was no way I could’ve put up with her crying for the rest of my life. Every time she cried, I felt like I was responsible. I can’t speak for every man, but I hate feeling accountable to a woman’s tears. Rachel’s or anyone’s. The fact that she cried a lot pissed me off because much of it was on my behalf. She expected more from me than I wanted to give. All I expected from her was some breathing room. Neither of us delivered our mutual desires, so we crumbled at the foundation.

And our Jet Skis couldn’t save us. We were doomed as a couple.

And I was content with that.

I was seriously content with that. Because . . .

Well, it’s like . . .

I know what I want to say; it’s just . . .

Bloody hell . . . .

Never mind. I’ll think of what kept me content later. To make the long story short, when Rachel and I went to buy our late-afternoon snacks, some dude ripped off my SUV. With both Jet Skis attached. I felt responsible for that.