by Kate Meader
I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror, my slim frame in the drop-dead-gorgeous Badgley Mischka suit. My hand went to my stomach. Flat as a board, like it had never happened. I’d recovered quickly, my body telling me to get a move on. To get over it.
And I would. Shaking my head, half-determination in the gesture, I opened the bedroom closet, pulled out one of the carry-ons, and unzipped it. A couple of shopping bags lay inside, and curious, I opened the first one.
A gasp escaped me.
I picked up one pair of cute little booties with satin ribbons, marveling at their softness. And the colors? A beautiful rainbow of pastels like something out of a children’s book. In another bag I found a tutu, its frilly skirt like an Elizabethan neck ruffle. And—oh!—a Cubs onesie, possibly the most adorable thing I’d ever seen.
Each reveal stabbed deep, feeling like the worst gift giving ever. An anti-holiday. These things looked like they would better fit a doll rather than a living, breathing—
“Hey,” I heard behind me, the greeting pinning me in place. I couldn’t turn. I couldn’t meet his accusing gaze.
Gently, Grant took the onesie out of my hands, which had locked up like a crone’s claws on the soft fabric. “I just saw this stuff and couldn’t help myself. Forgot it was here, to be honest.” His voice sounded rusty.
Tentatively, I slanted a look. He looked tired. Haunted.
“Grant—” I had no clue how to respond. A normal woman would have cried at seeing these reminders of a dad-to-be’s pride, but shock wouldn’t permit me to react. Vaguely, I was aware of him putting the relics of our loss into a bag, and then he left the room, to hide them from me, perhaps.
When he returned, I was still in the same place. He sat on the bed. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I should’ve taken care of it ages ago.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I was starting to pack for the trip and…” I waved ineffectually at the suitcase, as if he couldn’t put two and two together himself. Needing to occupy my hands, I yanked open my underwear drawer, conscious that it might be hiding some other horror I was unprepared for. “I’m sorry about missing the appointment. The shit hit the fan with one of my clients showing up at the office out of the blue.”
“That’s the third time we’ve had to cancel,” he said wearily. “If you don’t want to do this, you need to tell me.”
“I do!” My enthusiasm was a little over the top given the circumstances—or perhaps because of them. Who was dying to engage in couples therapy to discuss a miscarriage? After what I’d just seen, though, it seemed like Grant needed this more than I did. I wasn’t the one hoarding adorable baby clothes in a closet.
“She said that we should reassess if this is what we really want,” Grant continued. “That we both have to be on board.”
“It’s just that the holidays are the worst time to be starting this. We’re both so busy with our caseloads and plans for the trip.” The words dried up under the weight of Grant’s silent censure. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a freak for not wanting to spill my guts to a stranger.”
I couldn’t even cry at the sight of a Cubs onesie. I couldn’t cry at all. Every part of me was numb, especially my tear ducts.
“Did you ever have any intention of going to therapy? Or are you expecting me to forget about it?” He could mean the therapy, the miscarriage, or us.
I wanted to scream, Why can’t you forget? Why can’t we just move on?
But I couldn’t say that. Marriage, the work of it—and boy was it work, lately—required that we respect each other’s grieving process, though it seemed his carried more weight than mine.
He bought clothes for our baby.
Resentment that I had to do this his way bit my neck. “I need to get ready for the trip.”
Cat Damon gave a whiny complaint. I swore he picked up on the thick tension between us.
“Don’t want to go, do you, kitty?” I stroked his back and picked him up, putting him in the suitcase while I chose which panties would be appropriate for staying with my mother-in-law. They were no longer useful for seducing my husband. Believe me, I’d tried. “You’d rather stay here, wouldn’t you?”
“Which one of you does that apply to?” Grant muttered.
“Well, I can’t say it’s going to be easy. Your mom will know something’s wro—not quite right.” I’d asked Grant not to share what happened with our families or friends. We’d withdrawn from them in the last couple of months, but the true test would be with Sherry. Grant’s connection to her was so strong that I didn’t see how we could fool those insightful eyes of hers.
Strange to say it, but it would’ve been easier to spend the holiday with my crab-hearted family where no one said what they meant or cared to probe deeper.
“She could help, you know? My mom. She’s good at that kind of thing. Loves you like her own.”
And I adored her. “Sneak some therapy in over the holidays?”
“God knows nothing I’m saying is working.”
The words cut me deep, not just that he was hurting but that I was the cause of it. Lately, it all felt like my fault. The ditch was deep and unclimbable, and I couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery sides. “We tell our clients time and tears. We’re going to get there, Grant.”
“You don’t want to go home, do you?” He meant his home in Helen, Georgia.
I didn’t answer, which was answer enough. I wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep forever.
“Aubrey, I—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it in a way that made my hands itch to smooth. To soothe him. “I can’t do this anymore. I feel like we’re having the same argument over and over.”
“If you’d just let it play out, Grant—”
“No, Bean.” He stood, his usual solidity somehow diminished. The guilt I felt in that moment crushed me. I’d done that. “No.”
He was right about the same argument. We’d already had it, once, three times, ten. We might change the verbiage and shift the emphasis onto different words, but the crux of it was the same: He wanted vivisection, I wanted a burial.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he left for Georgia, leaving behind a Post-it note telling me to take some time to think. But that was the problem right there: I didn’t want to think at all. I wanted to feel safe in my husband’s arms with his body taking charge of my pain, our mutual desire dulling the worst of it.
I wanted to block out however long it took me to be normal again.
But that time to think turned into time to fail. My husband never returned to our home, and a few weeks later I began the process to formally separate. To sever those last threads bonding us. Together in our tomb of a marriage, I was only hurting him.
And now we’re back, full circle with another road trip, another holiday. Grant will be here any moment and I’ll be ready with my suitcase full of gifts and snacks and potential.
Grant
I’m outside Aubrey’s place on the Monday morning before Thanksgiving, letting the engine idle and psyching myself up for the journey ahead.
Am I out of my ever-loving mind?
Three days in a car with my ex-wife and her demon cat. Three days of her scent and her sighs, her surface-level conversation and bone-deep condescension to keep the hurt at bay. When I told Max, he responded exactly as I suspected he would: Good luck. He’s never pried about our breakup, just accepted it as inevitable. But since he found Charlie, I see him foaming at the mouth to know.
How can I explain when I hardly know myself?
So there was an inciting event, but plenty of couples get through their pain. If they’re strong enough, they overcome the lows. I thought we were strong enough. I was wrong.
Admitti
ng that to my friend would have killed me. It’s taken me over a year to admit it to myself.
Lucas, on the other hand, grinned in that inane British cheeky chappy way of his. No good luck or well wishes from him, just a recommendation to bring condoms. Idiot.
It’s weird to see my partners so loved up, the last two guys I’d expect to find lifelong happiness with another person. Of course, there are no guarantees. I’m the poster boy for that.
My phone buzzes, and I can’t help smiling at the face I see materializing on my screen.
“What’s up, Bug?”
“Don’t call me that!” My eight-year-old sister, Zoe, rolls her eyes as only eight-year-olds can do. “I’m too old for it.”
“But you thought it was cute last month.”
“Exactly. Last month,” she says with all the wisdom that a month older can give. “Mom said you’re not coming home for Thanksgiving!”
I wince. “I am, but remember, the holiday is an entire weekend. I’ll make it there on Sunday.” I intend to fly down after Libby’s party, then back up to drive Aubrey home.
“When it’s over!”
Such drama, but that’s my little sis. She adores me, which is understandable because I’m awesome, but less understandable considering our age difference of twenty-three years. My momma married Jake during my second year of law school, then along came Zoe—or Bug, as I called her from the start. Perfect timing, really, because damn, I’d been worried about my momma all alone back home. It had always been the two of us against the world. The woman made a shitload of sacrifices to get me where I am, so God knows meeting a good guy like Jake was the best thing that could have happened to her. Until Zoe, that is.
“I’ve got something for you, but if you’re going to whine…”
That tune changes faster than a tick. “I won’t! I won’t! What is it?”
“A surprise, and that’s all I’m gonna say. Hey, is Momma there?”
“I’m here, hon!” Of course she is. At forty-seven, it’s hard to believe she has a thirty-one year old son. She’s still young and energetic, shining brightly with her naturally blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. “Now, I don’t often agree with your sister, but she’s right on this. You should be home with your family for the holiday.” She lowers her voice. “Where you’re wanted. Do they even serve turkey up there, or is it somethin’ fancy like filet mignon and lobster for luncheon?”
Sherry usually equates imagined class differences in food terms. She’s met Aubrey’s parents only once, and she was less than impressed.
“Momma, I’m just doing Aubrey a favor. She hurt her arm and can’t drive, and it’s important she get to Boston to see her grandmother. The woman’s knocking ninety after all.”
“I know, I know! God, you’re nothin’ but a sucker for that girl.” She sees my frown and quickly amends. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” The tacked-on again is unspoken.
“We’re just friends. This is a couple of buddies helping each other out.”
“You ain’t never once looked at that girl like she was your buddy, Grant Roosevelt Lincoln.”
She’s right. I fell hard for her, and only in the last couple of months have I had the strength to get up. A woman like Aubrey can level a man.
As if conjured, the heartbreaker herself appears at the front door to her building, cat carrier in hand. She’s wearing my favorite red coat, the one that makes her look like a wicked fairy-tale character, walking in the woods, cruising for trouble. But it’s draped over her shoulders because of the sling. She must be freezing.
“Momma, I gotta go. I’ll check in on Thanksgiving. Say hi to Jake and bye to Zoe for me.”
“All right—” But I’m already hanging up as I jump out of the SUV.
“You should have taken a cab,” Aubrey says, frowning over my shoulder. “You’ll never get parking around here.”
“Don’t need to. We’re taking my car.”
She narrows her eyes. “No…no, we should go in mine.”
“I don’t like your car.”
“You’ve never even driven it.”
“Exactly.” I approach the cat carrier, now placed at her feet. “Hey, you little ball of bile, how ya doin’?”
“M#%*&!” Ever the charmer, the cat always sounds like he’s cussin’ me out. He follows up with a hiss in case I have any doubts.
“He knows you hate him,” Aubrey says, her tone a touch gleeful. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
I hunker down and meet the cat, a tabby with ’tude, on level terms. Around his right eye, the fur is darker, giving him the look of a pirate, complete with patch. He’s got to be at least ten years old, and Christ, he’s never liked me, even though I rescued the little prick. Do you think he appreciates it? That’d be a hard no.
“Hey, buddy, ready for a road trip?”
The hiss evolves to a growl.
I stand. “Think we understand each other.”
“He’ll feel better in the back of my car. More familiar.”
“I’m driving, so it’s mine or nothing.”
She sets her mouth in that way that makes me want to kiss it, plunder it, do filthy-gorgeous things to it. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later we’re already arguing about the music, or rather Aubrey is. I’m staying out of it.
“I’ve already said I don’t care which station you play.”
“But all your channels are set to classic rock and—ugh—country.”
“So find another one you like.”
She grumbles, muttering things like “typical” and “difficult.” I don’t challenge her, because I know she’s nervous. This is Aubrey’s way of settling in.
She opens up her phone. “I’ve mapped the route. I expect we can make Buffalo by dinnertime.”
“We’ll be stopping in Cleveland, Bean.”
“But that’s only a third of the way. If we press on to Buffalo, we could do this in two days.”
“You really want to see your mother a day early?”
She looks out the window. “She’s not that bad.”
My silence substitutes for commentary.
“She just has certain expectations.”
“Which no one can ever meet.” I’m talking about myself, but I may as well be speaking of Aubrey and her entire family. Not ready to fight with her on this—plenty of time for that—I change the subject. “I want to hit the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, so Cleveland it is. Besides, I told you this would take three days.”
“I know, but…” She pauses. “Cat Damon won’t like it.”
Aubrey won’t like it, she means. I don’t care. My car, my rules.
My Aubrey, my plan.
What’s the plan? I’m not sure yet. But I need time to crack her shell, to find the woman I fell in love with the first moment I laid eyes on her. Two days won’t be enough.
She adjusts the radio dials again, looking for something that appeals to her. She finally lands on NPR, where they’re talking about the science of sleep. The gist of the piece is that you need eight hours a night and don’t even think about trying to compensate by sleeping extra on the weekends. Your body won’t fall for that scam.
“You sleeping well these days?” I ask.
“Okay.”
I slide a glance at her, noting the perfect pink tinge to her cheeks, flushed with the heat in the car. When she had problems sleeping, usually because she worried about everything—her career, her cases, her clients, her bosses, her parents, her brothers, her grandmother, her cat—I’d take charge with the Grant Sleep Solution.
“Not getting enough orgasms, Bean?”
“Knew it wouldn’t take long.”
“What?”
“Sex, Grant. I knew it wo
uldn’t take long for you to bring up sex. Let’s be clear. You and I will not be connecting our genitals on this trip.”
“You old romantic, you.”
“I’m serious. Just because—” She cuts off.
“Just because what, Bean?”
She makes a sound of annoyance, sort of like the cat. “And that Bean business. You can stop that, too.”
“It’s your name.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a dumb nickname you came up with because—” She stops, evidently remembering why I came up with it and the night I explained it. Thoroughly. She fumbles in her bag and pulls out her laptop. “I have work to do, so silence would be appreciated.”
“Sure thing, Bean.”
“Grant!” But she’s laughing at my orneriness. “Why are you so damn stubborn?”
“We both are. It’s why the sex was so great. Neither one of us ever wanted to give in.”
She’s firing up her laptop. “Well, stubborn didn’t work so great outside the bedroom.”
Thing is, we were pretty good in every other room of the house, too. Aubrey liked to have her way, and for the most part I let her. As long as she let me lead when it came to her pleasure, the rest was always negotiable. Except now I know what I did wrong. I should have pushed back more, taken a firmer hand in managing her grief. Our grief.
If we’d shared that grief with anyone beyond our bubble of two, I know what they would have said: it wasn’t a real child. Just a mass of cells, hardly formed. But we both knew different. Aubrey miscarried in her eighth week. But for that brief time we were pregnant, I was happier than I’d ever been. We were buoyant, and our fledgling hope was crushed too soon.
I lost a child, and in the process, I lost the love of my life.
Chapter 6
Aubrey