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There it is.
“Mother,” Juliet says in warning.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“She said she’ll be praying for Adam Goode’s soul and that he ought not to be associating himself with that woman and her…club.Like she has room to talk.”
I climb into the back seat of my mother’s car and slam the door. I’m not exactly looking forward to a car ride back to my house when I’m sure the two of them will do nothing but chastise Adam’s girlfriend, Sage, for owning a sex club.
Again, I stay quiet.
Instead, I stare out the window for the rest of the drive.
When we reach my house, my mother stops at the curb.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I open the door and move to climb out.
“Briar,” she says, stopping me as I glance up at the front seat. “Just stay away from Adam and that girlfriend of his. They are nothing but trouble; we don’t need that in our family. Just as bad as his father, if you ask me.”
“I know,” I lie.
As I step out onto the sidewalk and slam the door behind me, I want to tell my mother that Adam and Sage are my family, too. I see them every Sunday at Caleb’s mother’s house. IlikeSage.
But I can’t tell my mother that.
When I let myself in the front door of the house, it’s quiet. Looking down at my watch, I see that it’s eight thirty, and silently, I pray that Abby is asleep. After dropping my keys and purse on the entryway table, I go into the kitchen and immediately pour myself a glass of wine. Until there’s a possibility that I’m pregnant, I can still have a glass for now.
Standing in the dim room, leaning against the island, I soak up the silence and enjoy the warmth from the wine as it travels down my throat.
I hate that I’m dreading tonight. I don’tdreadhaving sex with my husband. I love Caleb. I love his body and the way he touches me. I love sex with him.
But somewhere in the past three years of shots and schedules and doctors, the light has gone out. Any day now, I expect him to say he’s done. And part of me fears that he has been done for a while but won’t say it.
Done with me or with the trying or all of it.
At this point, those two things feel like one and the same. I have becomethis. I am thetrying.
Taking my unfinished drink up the stairs, I hear the soft lullaby playing in Abby’s room. Peeking my head in, I feel a smile grow across my lips as I stare at my husband sprawled out on our daughter’s tiny twin bed, a unicorn book splayed open on his chest, and six-year-old Abigail cuddled up on his arm.
Leaning against the doorframe, I sip my wine as I stare at them. Seeing him like this definitely helps to turn my mood around.
Caleb has always had a way of getting Abby to sleep. Even as a baby, he would lay her on his chest or let her use his bicep as a pillow, and moments later, she was asleep. Memories like that make me miss having Abby as a baby. The sweet memories.
Not the colic or the sleepless nights, or the blowout diapers, or the exhaustion that burrowed itself into my bones like a tumor.
“Hey,” he mumbles in a raspy whisper.
“Hey,” I reply with a smile.
“She’s out,” he says.
“Like a light.”
Slowly, he works himself out from under her. She rolls over sleepily, and he tucks the plush purple blanket around her tiny body. Carefully, he creeps out of her room, avoiding the small toys and creaky spots on the floor like land mines as he makes his way to me.
Meeting me in the doorway, he gives me a soft grin and presses his lips to my cheek.
“How was Bible study?” he asks in that fake-interest way he always does.
