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I slap my laptop shut, too afraid to see what comes next.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A month after Allison’s memorial, I left my job atThe Grit.
Ben found a way, just like he promised, and it involved me going freelance. I would continue writing for them on a project-by-project basis, then when we went public with our relationship, it wouldn’t look as bad. It wouldn’t look like a boss and his employee; it wouldn’t have started when Allison was still alive.
We had connectedafterward,of course. After Allison was dead. After I was already gone.
Our wedding was small, intimate. It didn’t feel right to Ben to have a grand reception, and I tended to agree. It was his second marriage, after all, less than a year after Allison’s death. And besides, I didn’t have many people I wanted to invite.
To be honest, I didn’t have anyone at all.
We exchanged vows in Chippewa Square, the cobblestones providing a makeshift aisle, our altar an archway of sweeping trees. I wore white, a simple summer dress, and remember grinning widely every time a random passerby would whistle as they caught a glimpse. After so many months of secrecy—of trying to ignore each other atthe office; of being out in public together, but not reallytogether—it felt good for the world to acknowledge us.
To acknowledge me.
After the ceremony, we went to dinner, just Ben and me. We ate pasta and drank two bottles of rosé, laughing and beaming and utterly giddy at the thought of spending the rest of our lives together. We had moved into our house just a few days earlier, but the furniture hadn’t been delivered yet, so we spent our wedding night in an improvised bed made of blankets and throw pillows laid out across the living room floor. I remember the mismatched candle collection flickering from the mantel, the flower petals he had ripped from my bouquet and sprinkled across the carpet. It was passionate and romantic and emotional and real.
It was the happiest night of my life.
We had talked about children, of course. Neither of us wanted them. Ben was too busy. His priority was work, it always would be, and he knew that would make him absent: one of those fathers who was never really there. I understood that—appreciated it, even, having grown up with one myself—so I told him I never saw myself as a mother, either. And that was the truth. It reminded me too much of Margaret: of what had happened when another life had been left in my care.
Of how badly I had failed the first time.
But then something inside me started to change. It was a slow revelation, barely there, that took years to take root, like a helicopter seed drifting away before planting itself in open soil. I was enjoying freelancing, for the most part, but it was different fromThe Grit. I didn’t have an office or coworkers; I spent almost all of my time alone. I got to travel a bit, here and there, but mostly I was home, spending the majority of each day glancing at the clock, counting down the hours until Ben would walk back through the door, and I would finally have some company.
And then, of course, there was Ben. The subtle changes that took place in him, too. The way he stopped eying me as I slinked around the house in my barely there bathrobe, his eyes cast down at his computer instead. The way he seemed to get home later and later, our once-fresh marriage suddenly grown stale. Before, he seemed so excited by me. Soalive.But now that he had me, I felt myself starting to tarnish in his eyes, like a piece of fine jewelry left alone for too long. I tried to tell myself that that was just marriage—an inevitable, slow decay that took place as the years stripped us of our spontaneity and spark—but I didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want to accept that, only four years in, things had already stalled.
I didn’t want to accept that after everything we had gone through together—after losing Allison, and my job, and all those other little casualties that felt like they were offered up in the hopes of somethingmore—this was it.
I remember that morning so vividly; the morning that seed finally sprouted into something wild and alive. It was like an invasive weed I could no longer contain, snaking its way through my brain and taking over everything. I had been thinking about it for a while, really. I had been thinking that maybe a baby wouldn’t be so bad—in fact, maybe it would begood. Maybe it would nudge Ben to stay home a little more; to shift his priorities. Maybe it would help bring us back together—and maybe,maybe, it would be my chance to take care of someone after I had failed to take care of Margaret.
My chance to make up for my past.
So one morning, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, the silent click of the lock making my heartbeat rise to my throat. I can still picture myself standing over that toilet and pushing my birth control pills through their foil casing, one by one, and into the water, like they were some kind of ceremonial sacrifice. The tickle of anticipation in my stomach as I flushed, watching them spin in circles until they disappeared altogether. Ripping Ben’s clothesoff as soon as he got home and lying in silence together afterward, wondering. Waiting. Trying to somehow feel it happening beneath my skin.
And I felt guilt, yes. The shame for lying and even a little twinge of embarrassment at having stooped to something so devious and low—but also the thrill of having some semblance of control over my life again.
Of making a decision for myself for once.
To be honest, I didn’t really think it would happen—or at least, not that fast. But it was only a matter of months until it hit me: a wave of nausea so intense that my arm shot out to the side and grasped the kitchen counter with a grip so tight it was startling. I remember closing my eyes, pursing my lips. Forcing the vomit to glide back down my throat before running into the bathroom and collapsing onto the floor.
I remember reaching slowly for a test, the still-full box wedged and ripping, where I had hid it in a dusty corner like a mousetrap, ready to snap at my fingers.
“Ben?” I had yelled, my eyes boring into those two pink lines, unsure if they were real. “Ben, can you come in here?”
But then, I remembered: He wasn’t there.
Months went by, and things continued to change, only not in the way I had hoped. I watched as my skin pulled and stretched and dimpled like Play-Doh; as my ankles swelled up and my belly button popped. I smiled as old coworkers placed their palms on my stomach, feeling the kicks and commenting on my glowing skin, but all the while, I felt like I was hiding something: a dirty little secret they couldn’t possibly understand. Because I could still remember that moment in the bathroom, the initial reaction that flared up so quickly, like that first bout of nausea I pushed down just as fast. I remembered what it was like to sit on that tile, test in hand, my eyes drilling into those two pink lines as the silence of my house, my life, echoedaround me like a scream underwater—somehow both strident and smothered at the exact same time.
Before the tears and the excitement and the joy kicked in, I felt something else first. Something I didn’t expect.
As sudden as a blink, barely there, I felt a stab of regret.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
There’s coffee in the kitchen. I heard Waylon get up this morning, shuffle down the hall, and put on a pot. I heard the sputter of the water, the screaming steam. The clank of ceramic mugs as he pulled them out of the cabinet and set them on the counter, pouring himself a cup and walking into the living room. The scent trailing behind him before branching off and wafting down the hall, under my door, looking for me.
