Page 58 of The Marriage Rebound

I took a sip of wine and tried to ignore the side-eye she gave me. “Okay, so, whatcha wanna tackle first?”

She looked at me, then dropped her gaze down to my glass. “Kids,” she answered with a heavy sigh.

The wine turned sour in my stomach. Yes, we were supposed to be talking and using calmer heads. Not fighting. But that could quickly change. That was our history. I swirled the liquid around in my glass, hoping for some divine insight on how she’d react when I told her the truth. It was for a good reason. She’d understand.

I gulped down the rest of my wine, then blew out a long breath. “Yeahhh, about that.”

“I know I got really pissed about you—”

“I didn’t really go,” I blurted out. “You and Daddy were gettin’ ready to get into it, and I didn’t want that. I want them to know you and love you like I do, but they can be stubborn and you can be stubborn so I just needed to redirect.”

I waited for Courtney to say something, but she didn’t. Instead, she stared, a range of emotions dancing across her face like a flip book. In real time, I watched as she realized I’d let us have the argument that’d resulted in her leaving me again. She closed her eyes and took a couple deep breaths, an action she’d done countless times before, only this time felt different. This time I noticed a level of exhaustion I’d either never paid attention to or had ignored.

Selfish. Immature. Impulsive.

“Why?”

Her question wasn’t spoken with a raised voice, or with any sort of anger at all. And I kinda wished it had been. That, I knew how to deal with. That, I could defend myself and my actions against. But I couldn’t do anything with the pleading for understanding woven deep in that one-syllable word. I sure as hell couldn’t tell her what I’d told Denise and Tanisha.

“I told you, to change the subject at dinner,” I answered, not looking up to meet her gaze.

“No, Sasha,” she snapped, then paused, taking another deep breath. “I mean later. In the car. At home. At any point. Why would you not say something then?”

She was working to keep a lid on her anger and annoyance. It was new, witnessing my wife’s body language shift. To take the focus off myself and actually take the time to pay attention was an eye-opening experience.

And I felt small.

How could I say I wanted her around when I kept doing bullshit that pushed her away? No wonder she had a hard time believing me. I glanced down at my wedding rings. My heart raced. And my eyes burned again with the threat of new tears. Words failed me. All I could do was shrug. She scrubbed her hands down her face and blew out a long breath.

“Do you still think I’m cute?”

At first she didn’t say anything and I feared my attempt to lighten the mood, deflect, backdoor apologize, something, hadn’t worked, but then she glanced at me, smiled, and laughed a little. She blew out a long sigh. “You let us have a whole argument.”

“I did. I was mad at how you reacted. And the fact you would just shut down the conversation about kids so I just . . .”

“You just thought lying would force my hand?”

“Maybe!” I snapped out the word before I could think better of it.

I was thankful for the distraction that was Vuitton when he jumped up, shook, then trotted over to the back door. I unfolded from the couch to let him out, taking a few moments to compose myself. When I glanced over my shoulder, Courtney was resting her head on the back of the couch, massaging her temples.

“Sorry . . . old habits,” I said quietly, sinking back onto the couch, but at the opposite end.

She looked at me as she sat up. She started to speak, but stopped and just nodded instead. “All good. Consider my hand forced.” Courtney closed her laptop and set it on the cushion next to her.

I examined my nails, clicking the tips together, doing my best to employ some of her breathing techniques so I didn’t go off again. Why was it “forcing her hand” to discuss expanding our family?

“Let me ask you something,” she said, pulling my attention before I could let my thoughts spiral too much.

“What?”

“Do you really want kids? Like really want them?”

I leaned forward and picked up the wine bottle, dumping the remaining contents into my glass. I took a slow, long sip while pondering her question, especially with the way she’d phrased it. Was she implying again that she didn’t think I’d be a good mother? That I hadn’t thought through parenthood?

“I mean . . . yeah.”

She simply nodded again and scratched her forehead. Her reaction did nothing to help the worrying thoughts sprinting through my mind.