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“Sorry,” I say. “The Chick Tribe has had a busy morning…” That’s what we call ourselves. It was a joke at first, or at least I think, but somehow it stuck. Anyway, it’s good for business, nonetheless. “What did you ask?”
Ordinarily, he’d be annoyed I wasn’t listening. But those two words have power. The kind only money and influence bring.
“Will you be home when I get home?”
“I don’t know. Depends on how long things take at the hospital…”
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do for June, love. It’s important you let her rest.” He sighs. “And, she needs to not rely so much on you. We need you at home, Jos .”
“I know,” I agree. I check the number of likes I received. Shit. I forgot to tag the shoes. Everyone wants to know where they came from. I glance at the bottom of my heel. I can’t remember now and then I look over at my husband. “But the kids are getting older, and you’ll be working late… so I just figured—”
He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Is it really so much to ask that the first thing I see when I walk through the door is my wife’s beautiful face?”
I swallow hard. “No,” I say, and suddenly it clicks. The shoes came from Nordstrom’s. Last season. I should have thought of that. I can’t very well say this. It’ll be disappointing to the tribe. “What time should I have dinner ready?”
He nods and gives another of his reassuring smiles. “That sounds perfect,” he says which doesn’t answer the question at all. He stops at a red light and just when I think he isn’t going to say anything further, he does. “I really couldn’t live without you, Josie. I know this isn’t easy for you…with everything going on right now…but most things in life that are meaningful aren’t easy.”
I frown. It sounds like he just pulled a random quote out of thin air and inserted it into our conversation. Also, I feel one of his pep talks coming, and I’m not in the mood. Speaking of easy, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I don’t want to hear it, so I throw him a curveball. “Do you think you can pick up James from soccer?”
“What time?” he asks, furrowing his brow. I don’t know why he’s confused. It’s farcical. For the past seven months, our son’s practice has ended at the same time everyday.
“5 o'clock,” I answer, careful to keep my tone steady. Neutral. Tone is important to my husband. It’s written into the manual.
“Sorry. I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have a patient at 4:30.”
Of course you do, I almost say. I stare out the passenger window and bite my tongue instead.
“How about stopping off for coffee?”
I look over at him. My husband doesn’t drink coffee. Which means I usually don’t either. But I see it for what it is—a peace offering.
I look over and nod. “That sounds great.”
He winks at me, an unspoken gesture that says so much. He looks so boyish behind the wheel, relaxed, the sunlight glinting off his skin. I see the love written in his expression, and it’s hard to be angry about the rest of it. It’s familiar, this look, a reminder of what was, what has always been. I remember he winked like that on our wedding day, standing at the altar, as though the two of us were in on some sort of secret the rest of the world didn’t get.
“It's a good thing he'll be driving in a few weeks…”
“Huh?” Then I get it. He’s not thinking about our wedding day. He’s thinking about our son.
“James.”
“Yes,” I agree, although I'm not so sure. I’m not ready to have another thing to worry about.
I see his eyes glance at the clock on the dash. “They grow up so fast, don't they?”
“They do,” I reply, and at least that much is true.
We stop for coffee at a new place, or at least I think it’s new. Maybe I just never noticed it before. I don’t drink coffee anymore, so it’s hard to say. In any case, we don’t speak much after that. Grant says silence is golden.
At home, he drops me at the door, or rather in the drive. He has to run. I feel that familiar pang, loneliness, or longing, who’s to say? It only lasts for a second, because when I walk in the front door there are a dozen long-stemmed pink roses sitting in the foyer. I lean in and inhale the familiar scent, and then I pluck the card, sliding it between my fingers, feeling the weight of the paper. I open it, even though I’m pretty sure I know what it will say. There are only a few variations. I love you. Always have. Always will. Love, Grant.
I lean back and snap the photo with my phone. I post it to Instalook with the hashtag #luckiestwifeever .
And I am the luckiest wife ever. If one is to overlook the fact that my husband had his assistant order these, and someone else deliver them, and the fact that he can’t be here for me when I really need him. If you forget to consider those things, then yes, it’s all true. I roll my shoulders and try to release the weight of this morning. This isn’t his fault, the situation with June. Well, not entirely. I shouldn’t be so annoyed with him. He is trying. Clearly, he’s trying.
I set my phone down and sit on the plush bench in the foyer. It’s well-cushioned and pale green. Grant’s choice. I know he won’t like me sitting on it, having just been at the hospital. He despises germs, which is why I had to practically beg him to let me see June, given the infection. I half-expected he’d say I shouldn’t go back up this afternoon. But he didn’t.
I crack my neck and open my phone. I check Instalook to see how many “likes” I’ve gotten. Forty-five in nineteen seconds. Not bad. Still, I sigh. I reply to the comments about the shoes. Grant brought them back for me from a trip, I lie.
