“He told me you’d had an ectopic pregnancy.”
I nod, again, unsure what to say.
Max is a smart guy, but a lot of people don’t understand exactly what an ectopic pregnancy is or the kind of damage it can do to your body. And even those who do don’t understand the damage it can do to your heart. To your marriage.
To want a child so badly, and then through sheer bad luck and quirk of nature not only lose that baby, but possibly the ability to ever carry a pregnancy to term, is devastating.
Logically, I know it wasn’t my fault. There was nothing I did or didn’t do that affected where that fertilized egg implanted. It was a fluke.
Just one of those things that sometimes happens.
Max studies me, somehow understanding that the topic is off-limits. Though he does say, “And that’s why you want to adopt.”
Again, I just nod.
“That’s what I don’t get.” He rounds the counter, never taking his eyes off me. “You want to adopt. You were devastated yesterday when you found out that you weren’t going to get those kids. That’s how badly you want to be a mom.”
His words seem harshly critical, even for someone as blunt as Max.
“You don’t get it? Fine. Not everyone wants to be a parent, but—”
“No, I get that. What I don’t get is why you would turn me down. If you marry me, you can have everything you want. You want to foster kids? We can do that. We can adopt. We could do both. You want more dogs and parrots and weird rabbits? You can have them.”
I laugh at the image.
“Listen to yourself, Max. You don’t want kids. Or dogs. Or rabbits.”
He juts out his jaw, looking like a stubborn child. “You don’t know that.”
“Okay, so do you want kids?”
He frowns. Not his normal, adorable grumpy scowl, but a thoughtful frown that gives me the impression he’s thinking it through. After a moment, he nods. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
His tone is so serious, I almost laugh, despite the circumstances. “Okay, next question. Have you ever thought about whether or not you want kids before this moment?”
“Does that matter?”
Does it matter that this man—this smart, sexy, amazing man—clearly decided just now that he wants kids solely because I said I wanted them? I don’t even know what to think about that, about how tempting it makes him.
“I don’t know. But I do know this—my life is messy. Really messy. I’m a flibbertigibbet.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Do you even know what a flibbertigibbet is?”
“No.” He looks offended, like he should know and he’s disappointed in himself for not knowing. “But you said it like it was a bad thing.”
I resist the urge to rub my hands down my face. I hate having to explain this. I hate how vulnerable and needy it makes me feel. Like I’m making excuses for myself, when that’s not what I’m doing.
But Max deserves an explanation. I owe him that much.
“When I say I’m a flibbertigibbet, what I mean is I have ADHD.”
He frowns when I use the term, and I can practically see him mentally pulling up what he knows about ADHD and comparing those characteristics to my behaviors.
I cut him off at the pass. “I wasn’t diagnosed until high school, because ADHD in girls looks different than it does in boys, and most teachers don't know the symptoms well enough to suggest testing. For me, it shows up in a lack of impulse control, disorganization, and horrible time management. I’ve learned to cope. I don’t expect special treatment. But it makes everything just a little bit harder.”
He’s still frowning, but this time it’s his intense-thought frown. His puzzling-things-out frown.
