Page 53 of Promise

Just one more time, I begged, although I’d nearly died. I’d had some kind of seizure. A drop in blood pressure.

No more, he said. There had been fear in his voice, although I wasn’t listening at the time. That fear didn’t register until after he left, when I was questioning everything.

Presently, I don’t respond to him, but my heart screams that I missed him, too.

“Like I was sorry it hadn’t worked like we planned,” he continues. “And how I wanted to write us a new plan.”

“By racing,” I answer. Because that had been his proposal. A change of scenery, as if moving away would erase all the pain in my heart and disappointment in my head.

“Well,” he chuckles, but it sounds bitter. “That had been part of the thought.”

But I didn’t race. Racing wasn’t about me. I would have had to give up the home that I loved and the nearness of my family. I didn’t want to move away.

He clears his throat. “But I realize now that racing was more about me. I thought if I reinvented myself, maybe I’d be good enough for you in other ways.”

This has me sitting up, the water sloshing around me.

“Dart.” I choke on his name. “You were never not good enough.”

“But I wasn’t, was I? I didn’t provide you with the one thing I’d promised to give you.”

I pause a second, realizing he thought all his worth was tied up in having a baby.

“You gave me lots of things, Dart.” I glance around the bathroom, full of every feature I wanted. Subway tiles and a soaker tub. The double vanity and pretty tiles.

But he’d also given me so much more than a bathroom. He’d given me a home. A place we called our own. A place we worked together to renovate, providing us a space to rejuvenate at the end of a long week and take joy in during the holidays. He’d also given me his devotion. He was as dedicated to having a baby as I was.

He loved me. I had no doubt about that. He loved me when he was here.

“Did I push you away?” I ask, the question nearly choking me. However, I know the answer before he tells me the truth. I pushed.

“I think we both pulled away, baby.” A soft thud hits the door again, and I imagine him tapping his head against it once more. “And I’m sorry I did that to us.”

“I don’t think you did it alone,” I admit. We both pulled away as he said. When I grew so dissatisfied with myself and turned toward work as a place to hide. A place to feel capable. And he disappeared at the track, racing in circles, chasing I don’t know what.

For the longest time, I worried he had a death wish. It scared me. I didn’t believe he’d really be that reckless, but I was still afraid.

And he’d been afraid when I had the last miscarriage.

And instead of pulling together, we went in opposite directions.

“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper, but I’m not certain he hears me. My throat is suddenly too tight.

I’m sorry because I’ve missed him. I wish I’d been better for him. He needed me as much as I’d needed him, and we simply failed each other.

I have further confirmation that he might not have heard me when he knocks harder on the door, just once, and says, “Well, I better get back to cleaning up.”

“Okay,” I say, a little louder this time.

“I’ve got a baseball game tonight, but⁠—”

“No, go. You should take a break, too.” I don’t say it bitterly. He’s done so much as well. Dinners. Even laundry. And all the handyman jobs.

“I could stay home, though,” he finishes his thought. His voice sounds hopeful.

“No, go see your friends. I’ll be out in a little bit.” The water is already starting to cool. The bath hadn’t been as relaxing as intended, but it had been refreshing in a different way.

We talked, and I had a few things to think about.