His hand tightens around mine. “It is.” He holds up the rolled magazine and says, “Your letter.”
“My letter.” I give a quirky, childish nod—two shoulders shrugged, lips pressed tightly together, a somewhat sheepish expression on my face.
“I’m really proud of you, Halley. You’re a very talented writer. Always have been. It’s clearly your passion.”
“Thanks. It is.”
“You know, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“What do you mean?”
“You should do more of this.” He holds up the magazine. “Go after what you really want, write from the heart, follow your passion. This”—he gestures to the magazine—“this is good. It’s . . . real.”
“Thank you, Adam. That really means a lot.” It’s my turn to give his hand a squeeze.
“So, Thanksgiving, by the way, was not the same,” he says, abruptly changing topics.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Not just because I drank beer and watched football instead of cave diving with exotic fish.”
I laugh. “Tell me about it.”
He pushes his aviators atop his head. “It wasn’t the same,” he says, looking at me, “because it was without you.”
“Yeah.”
Adam stops walking, and his grip on my hand tightens again. He faces me straight on, those strong shoulders of his broad and in perfect posture, the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes deepening as he speaks, as he smiles. “I love you, Halley. I miss the hell out of you.”
“Oh, Adam, I love you, too.” I can’t help but squeeze his hand tighter in confirmation. “I miss the hell out of you, too.”
“I want you back.” He draws close. He tucks the magazine into his back pocket and swiftly yet gently moves his now-free hand to my lower back. His intimate touch sends a riveting sensation up my spine. I can feel goose bumps cover my upper arms, travel to my lower arms. “At any cost. I want you, Halley.”
Both his hands are now firmly and longingly touching my lower back. I’m pressed up against his chest, my neck craned as I look into those deep chocolate-colored eyes of his.
It takes all the strength I can muster to whisper, “At any cost?” I bring my hands around his waist and tap the magazine in his pocket. “You read the whole letter, didn’t you?” He nods. “The part about not wanting to be a parent? About wanting to rail against the world? Even against the one you love the most in the world, because you feel the unfair pressure to conform? To do something you wouldn’t do for anyone, not even for the person you’ve given your heart to?”
As I say aloud the painfully honest words I’ve written and released for all of Los Angeles to read, I realize for the first time how truly frank they really are. And how painful they might have been for Adam to hear. The brutal honesty in them only adds to the already painful words, and now I have no idea what to say.
“I did, Halley. I read it all. And I’m standing here, telling you that I love you. That I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”
I’m trying to wrap my mind around just what this means for us, for our marriage, for the reason we even wound up in this mess in the first place. Finding the courage to ask the question I hope to hear the honest answer to, I say, “So you changed your mind? About a baby?”
Adam doesn’t answer, so I word it differently—directly—no room for nuance or misunderstanding.
“Do you still want a baby, Adam?”
It takes too long for him to answer. A swelling begins in my gut, and I can feel acid tingle on my taste buds.
“Adam?”
“I want you, Halley.”
“I know that. And I want you. I want only you.” I wrap my arms tighter around his waist. “That’s enough for me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“And I want you.”
“Adam, no.” I stay determined. “Do you still want a baby? That’s the question.”
There’s a long silence before he finally comes right out and says what I know, deep down, has been the answer since he first told me that the plans had changed. His answer is the same as on that night, on the drive home from Nina and Griffin’s.
“I do,” he says.
Tears spring forth without warning. Those two words that once meant eternal devotion and commitment are now wrought with pain and torture. They represent the pieces that are broken and cannot be put back together.
“But Halley, listen,” Adam implores. He grips me firmly—encouragingly—around my forearms. “Listen, Halley. I want a baby still, yes. I can’t help feeling that, just like you can’t help thinking you still don’t want one.”
“Not think, know.”
He rocks back on his heels and groans. “But I want what I have right now, Halley. I want you.”
“So nothing’s changed.”
Gripping my arms even tighter, he says, “Yes! Things have.”
“How?” I say loudly. “You can’t have both. You can’t have me and a baby, Adam. I have not changed my mind, and I never will. I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“Never say never,” he says with a light roll of the eyes.
“Adam, no.”
“Halley, hear me out.”
“I haven’t changed my mind, and clearly neither have you, so we’re back at square one. What the hell was the point of being separated?”
“We both know two pots about to boil over under one roof wasn’t going to solve this.”
“And evidently being apart didn’t do much good, either,” I say bitterly. “What are we doing, Adam? Seriously?” I wave a hand between us. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Adam steps toward me, the gap between us now closed. He moves one hand to my hip. “Things have changed,” he says softly.
“How?”
“I’m willing to look past my wanting a child. Remember how I said I wanted you to consider having one? Well, I’m choosing now to consider not having one.”
“Adam,” I say, brow furrowed. “This is confusing and—”
“Halley, look. I want what I have now, with you.” He cranes his head lower to meet my averted eyes, his grip on my arm now pleading. What was only seconds ago an encouraging hold is now desperate.
“I can move past wanting a baby,” he says. “If you end up wanting one, then great, we’ll have one!”
“Adam—”
“If you don’t, then . . . we don’t. But we’ll have each other. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“Can you honestly stand here right now and tell me that you want to have a baby? Never mind how I feel. Can you tell me that you want to become a father someday?”
He nods before saying, “Yes.”
“But that you’ll put that aside in order to be with me?”
“Selfless love, Hals.”
I step back from his hold and grip my head in confusion. “Adam, this is . . . a love that’s conditional. It shouldn’t be like this.”
“No, Halley. The only condition is that I have to learn to settle with the very real possibility—likelihood—that I won’t be a father. But I love you. I want you.” He gently pulls me close. Bringing his lips nearer mine, he whispers, “I’ve had a lot of time to think this through, Halley. If you’ll have me, I want to go back to the way things were.”
It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to have what we once had. To go back to the way we were.
So why, as Adam holds me against his chest, as his lips come to meet mine and taste me, dance with me, shower me with the love we share for one another, do I feel as if we can’t go back? As if there is no having what we once had because nothing has truly changed? Or because everything has?
Adam still wants a child, only he is now willing to suppress his paternal urge—settle!—out of some selfless love for his wife.
And his wife? She’s the woman who gets what she wants at the expense of her husband’s wishes. Of his fulfilled life, his joy, his happiness. So it is Adam’s choice to choose the two
of us over a family of three, but why doesn’t it feel right? Why doesn’t it feel like enough?
“Adam,” I say, pulling back from the kiss.
“No, Halley.” His tone, his eyes, his embrace are pleading. “You win.”
“I . . . win?”
“Yes. We don’t have to have a baby. You don’t want one.”
“And you still do!” I can’t help but point this out, again and again.
“You and me, Halley.” His voice is unwavering. “That’s what I want. Let’s not lose us.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking down at the concrete under our feet. “That’s what I want, too.”
Adam lifts my chin. Our eyes lock. “I love you, Halley.”
“I love you, Adam.”
“Come home.” His thumb runs along my lower lip. “Move back in. Before Christmas.”
“Yeah?” I’m trying to digest all of this. Everything seems to be happening so fast, even though we’ve been separated for so long. It feels like an eternity. I should be leaping at his suggestion to move back home. I mean, this is what I want! I wanted Adam back. I wanted to be just us again. I wanted him to concede having a baby.
Concede. The word is foul, like I do. Like separated and baby and settle and . . . divorce. Like You win.
I shouldn’t win anything. Marriage is full of compromises, yes, but winning? Conceding? This is a marriage, a true love. There aren’t sides to take or victories to be had or games to concede.
Despite the storm swirling inside my stomach and the heavy cloud that still seems to be hanging above our heads, even on this arbitrary date sandwiched between holidays when we’ve evidently reached our happy solution, I look into my husband’s eyes and I acknowledge that the man I want to spend the rest of my life with is right here, before me, declaring his love for me, wanting what I want. So he wants a little more, and something I won’t give; he wants me. And I want him. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that all that really matters when it comes to a real and lasting love?
“Before Christmas,” I agree, although rather absentmindedly. I expected to feel a greater sense of satisfaction at this conclusion. I suppose it’s the sudden nature of its arrival and the discomfiting idea of winning and conceding that throw me off. I let a small smile form on my lips. Adam is grinning from ear to ear.
“Say . . . tomorrow?” Adam suggests.
“Tomorrow?” I ask in surprise.
“I want you back home yesterday. But you take whatever time you need to pack up and come home.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll be there, waiting.” His hand finds mine and we begin our walk back to the town house.
After a few steps, I say, “How’s next Saturday sound?”
His face lights up. “Next Saturday sounds perfect.”
And just like that, the date is set.
“Girl, this is great news!” Marian says. “He wants to make it work. You guys are getting back together. Oh, I’m so happy for you!”
I immediately curb her enthusiasm by telling her how Adam still wants a baby but that he’ll let it go and we’ll make it work.
“You can make it work, Hals,” Marian insists. In an effort to assuage any worries, she pitches her classic worst-case-scenario speech. “Okay, Hals, what’s the worst that could happen?” she says.
“The worst?”
“Yeah, the total worst.”
Before I can answer, she does for me. “Worst-case scenario is you and Adam get back together and years later, or whatever, he decides, after all, he can’t suppress his fatherly feelings anymore. He just has to have a baby.” She presses a palm to her heart, for dramatics. “You guys agree to disagree and move along your own ways. You decide on an amicable split, and that’s it. You did the best you could, and you move on.”
“Yeah, that’d be the worst,” I soberly agree.
“Or, you get back together now, work things through, rekindle that spark, and this baby thing never comes up again. He realizes his silly paternal desire wasn’t as great as he thought. Happily. Ever. After.” She smacks my thigh.
“You’re right.” I let my wet bun come undone and shake my hair about.
“Attagirl!”
“Adam’s come to his senses,” I say. “I mean, he could have said he doesn’t want a baby after all, but—”
“Tiny, surmountable details,” Marian brushes off.
“You should have seen him,” I say dreamily, thinking of Adam’s face close to mine only minutes ago—his inviting smile, telling eyes, soft lips. “I don’t doubt he loves the hell out of me.”
“I don’t, either, Hals. Never have.”
“And I love him more than anything.”
“It’s written all over this pretty little face.” She draws a finger in the air about my face.
“This is right,” I say in a convincing tone. “This is.”
“You bet it is.”
“We’re getting back together.” My voice rises in pitch toward the end of my sentence, delight at our resolution beginning to bubble forth.
“Hell yes, you are!” Marian rubs her hands together and gets a devilish grin on her face.
“What?”
“So, when do we get your stuff packed and back home?”
“Are you kicking me out?” I say with a laugh. “I actually thought I’d stay here for the week and move in over the weekend?”
Marian seems surprised. “Stay as long as you like,” she says. “If you want my opinion, though,” she adds with a sly look, “I’d run into that man’s arms.”
“The goal’s before Christmas,” I assure her. “Saturday’s the plan.”
She squeals, then says, “I’m a bit bolstered by your happily ever after.”
“Oh?”
She nods, lips pursed. “I need to try to get one for myself. I think someone’s paying a certain firehouse a little visit soon.”
“Seriously?”
In theory, it seems like something Marian would do—finally confront Cole after all this time. But I can’t picture it, because I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how it will all go down. What will she say? What will he say? Will there be tears? Oh, there will have to be tears. And shouting. But can they forgive? Can they move on?
“I’m doing it, Halley,” Marian says with pride and insistence. “I’ve waited long enough. We all need our happily ever after somehow, someday.”
Fifteen
It’s been days since I’ve heard from Charlotte. Sometimes no news is good news, although in situations like these, and when one’s got a creative mind that won’t quit, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that no news means very bad news. I could never imagine Marco taking his anger out on Charlotte in a violent way, but this crazy year’s taught me that Murphy’s Law is a thing, and anything is possible.
So I decide our silence has gone on long enough, and I’ve given Charlotte enough space. I send her a quick text. Everything okay, sis?
Her response comes only a couple of minutes later. Surprisingly yes. Call you tonight?
Absolutely, I type back.
I don’t let the phone ring more than once when I see Charlotte’s name pop up hours later. I cheerfully answer the call. “Hey! How are you doing?”
“I’m alive.”
“That’s important. And Marco?”
“Also alive.”
“Also important.”
I’m relieved at the lack of the crying that I had expected to hear, as during our last call.
“So, how do things look?” I get right to it.
“We went a solid forty-eight-plus hours not talking,” she says, her tone regretful.
“Oh, Charlotte.”
“He’s been sleeping in the guest room, using the guest bath. We have dinner together. For the kids. Basically there’s been as little contact with each other as possible. But the moratorium lifted after two days.”
“Oh?”
“Before I crawled into bed, by myself, Marco was in the room. And no, he didn’t have a knife
or a golf club.”
“Okay,” I say with a laugh.
“He didn’t say much. He was reserved—still a bit icy but not frigid. He said he didn’t want to lose me.”
“Omigod, Charlotte. That’s good!” I breathe in grand relief.
“But that he’s really angry with me. Unbelievably angry.”
“Understandable.”
“He says he wants to go to therapy. To try counseling. To work through this.” At long last she begins to cry, but her gentle sobs and lack of moaning, and the turn of events itself, tell me they’re tears of joy, relief, hope. “He said he wants to work to save our marriage.”
“I’m so happy for you, Charlotte. That’s wonderful news.”
“It is. We’ve still got so much to work through. This is a start, though. This is just what I want. What we need.”
“Exactly.”
“I love Marco so much. So incredibly much. I’ve just . . . lost my way.” She inhales deeply, a high note of exhausted relief pealing over the line. “We need counseling. We need help. We’re finally going to get it, and I think we can work through this.”
“Of course you guys can.”
“Well, I need to get going,” she says at the sound of her kids in the background. “I wanted to let you know things are working out, slowly, one step at a time.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Yeah,” she says in a small voice. “We’re still not talking much, and we’re still in separate beds, but we’re under one roof.”
“Isn’t that half the battle?”
As the idiom goes, when it rains it pours, and my oh my does it pour on Thursday night. What is supposed to be the night I settle in with a bath and the final chapters of Nina’s book turns out to be a scene from Sweeney Todd. That’s an exaggeration, but blood may as well be flowing.
“I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” Marian screams. She’s got her hands fiercely clapped to the sides of her head, her acrylics boring into her scalp. She messes her hair while screaming, “I’m an idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot!”
“Marian.” I try to soothe her, but it’s no use. She’s run amok, charging up and down the hall . . . into my bedroom, into hers . . . through the living room . . . briefly stepping onto the balcony, then back into the living room, all the while shouting obscenities and insults at her own expense.
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