“She’s home, she’s home,” they chant.
The back door closes and I hear the rustle of grocery bags being placed on the counter. The kids race to the kitchen and swarm her.
“We can’t wait for you to see.”
“You’re going to be so ‘prised,” says Phoebe.
“C’mon, c’mon,” says Cole.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
“Ta-da,” the kids say in unison.
Livvie comes to a stop and I don’t know if her face pales at the scene of destruction in front of her or if she was already pale. Either way, a kernel of dread begins to grow in my stomach.
“Thank you,” she tells the kids, but her words are hollow sounding. “It’s such…it’s such a surprise.”
“I told you she would be ‘prised,” says Phoebe.
“Why don’t you two go get cleaned up for dinner? You can help me with the chicken,” I say to the kids, who begin to bicker as they head back to the kitchen.
“You’re painting it?” The horror in her voice catches me off guard. I thought she would have been pleased I took the initiative since I’ve been so busy lately. Sometimes, I swear I’ve got this woman figured out, then she throws me a curveball like this. She’s got a language that keeps changing the rules.
I wipe a line of sweat from my forehead and accidentally smear paint everywhere. Cursing underneath my breath, I put the paintbrush back down in the pan and cross the living room. I want to pull her into my arms, but I’m afraid she’ll push me away the way she’s looking at me.
I get a cloth from the side and wet it at the sink. As I try to clean off the paint before it dries, I turn to her and say, “I thought you’d be happy about it. You’ve been staring at those paint stripes for ages, asking my opinion about which color. You said you liked Sea Salt. ”
When I step closer, she takes a step back. I’d been right about her not wanting me to touch her. “I thought you liked the way things looked, lived in and all, and that’s why you didn’t care about the paint.” She glances toward the fireplace and the color drains from her face.
“Liv, baby, tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
A tear slips down her cheek. “The drawings. You covered them?”
I glance over my shoulder. “No, sweetheart, I didn’t. I cut them out and was going to frame them for you. Shit, it was supposed to be a surprise. I was going to hang them after I finished painting in here. I didn’t mean to make you cry. If you want me to, I’ll change it back.” I sound pussy-whipped in the worst way, but nothing has ever or will ever bring me to my knees like seeing my wife cry.
She scrubs at her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m so upset.”
Taking a chance, I tug at her hand and bring her to the drop cloth-covered couch. “Talk to me. You’ve been acting off since before the wedding. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
She knuckles away another tear. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. I’m glad you painted it. I couldn’t make up my mind.”
“No, it’s not nothing. It’s not stupid. I can tell you’re upset, but I can’t fix it if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“I love you, Ben, you know that, right?”
My heart twinges and fear washes over me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course. Everything is fine, I promise.”
I take her into my arms and hold her close, realizing once again how fragile she is, even though she tries to be strong all the time. “You don’t seem fine. I painted the living room and it made you cry.”
“Well, you know me, I cry at everything.”
“I’ll change the color if you don’t like it.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Thank you for doing this. I know I’ve been nagging about it for a while.”
“I don’t mind a little nagging every now and then,” I say into her hair. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” I hear her sniffle and pull away to stare into her eyes. “Hey, come on now. I didn’t mean to make you cry, really. I thought you wanted me to.”
