Love, Redefined: A Contemporary Romance Novel (Love Lessons Book 1)

by Brynn North

  Come to think of it, I had noticed Shane looking at his old friend Aaron holding his newborn daughter close to his chest. When I had asked him about it later that night, Shane dismissed it. “I was just happy it wasn’t me changing diapers in the dirty bathroom.” I had murmured my agreement before falling asleep on his chest.

  “The high school reunion,” I repeated dully. So not only was a nice summer weekend ruined by the reunion, apparently, my whole life was too.

  He nodded, face slack. “I kept thinking of all my old buddies. Most of them had kids, and it seemed to give their life meaning. And me? What do I have?” He gestured around our living room, apparently looking for the meaning of life to materialize in front of him.

  “Uh, what about, you know, your relationship of ten years?” I asked, more than a little sarcastically. Oops. I tried to tone it down. “Your fiancée? Or does that not even count since you never gave me the ring you promised?”

  Shane didn’t answer. My heart sank, and my mind started grasping at straws, trying to hold on to anything that could turn this conversation around. Anything that would rescue this situation, rescue my life. It made no sense to me. Just this morning, I was waking up to an amazing surprise birthday for him, full of hope and excitement for our future. I mean, I spent all day daydreaming about the ring he might give me. Spent all day wondering which of the styles I had so painstakingly pinned on my Pinterest board that I had jokingly called ‘What Love Loves’ might catch his eye. I buried my head in my hands. How could I be going to bed in a nightmare instead, just a few short hours later?

  I started babbling. “I mean, I realize we agreed not to have kids. But I guess it’s worth revisiting big decisions every few years. I mean, I guess I can certainly think about it.”

  Even as the words poured out of me, I wasn’t sure I meant it. It was such a big decision, one that we were firmly in the “no” camp for so long I hadn’t even given it proper reflection. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted kids. Especially since it wasn’t so easy for me to get pregnant and pop out a kid like so many other women. I had never really been maternal to begin with either. The whole idea of motherhood seemed, well, foreign to me, and as little as I knew about motherhood, I was pretty sure it wasn’t a decision you should make after a night with too many drinks.

  “I mean, adoption seems like a lot of work, though surrogacy might be an option. But before we go down that route, we’d have to think it through, make sure it’s what we want before we drop that kind of cash.” I went on and on, trying to make sense of the situation. Not that it made any sense to me, at least at that moment.

  For the first time since we walked through the door, he looked me directly in the eyes. My heart temporarily stopped. “No.”

  “No?” Now I really was confused. “What do you mean ‘no’? You just said you wanted kids. Now you don’t already?”

  “No. I want biological kids. The regular way.”

  “The…regular way?” What in the hell did he mean by that?

  “Yes. I want to experience a wife going through pregnancy. Being there at the hospital. Seeing a baby that looks just like me. I don’t think I can live without it, Katrina. I wasn’t going to do this tonight but…” he drew out the last word, then sighed. “Maybe it’s for the best.” And with his last words, he got up to leave for the bedroom.

  I sank to the floor as all the wind let out of my body, not even caring I was on the carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in at least two weeks. Great. What a time for our Roomba to be broken, during the worst night of my life. I felt like an invisible force had reached out and given me a massive bitch slap to the face, and I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just had to sit there, not feeling and thinking for a while.

  I knew I needed to go to bed, to get my mind off of things. To give me a few hours of glorious ignorance. A few hours to scroll mindlessly on my phone before sleep, living some fantasy that whenever I woke up, my life wouldn’t forever be different. Ruined. Separated into two distinct parts - the Before and the After.

  Even as I thought it, I knew it was stupid. What did it matter anyway, giving myself a couple of extra hours? There was only one thing Shane wanted, the one thing Shane knew I couldn’t give him, even if I wanted to. The one thing I couldn’t physically do.

  Fuck my life.

  3

  My hand lingered on the doorknob. Not once in all the years living in our apartment had I ever been nervous to leave the bedroom. The idea itself seemed silly, but I needed to gather my courage to walk into the living room, the one I had tastefully decorated in neutral shades with the help of both Vi and Pottery Barn catalogs, to execute my plan.

  Ever since the morning after what I started to call The Night in my head, I had woken up hoping the whole thing was just a drunken fight. Sure, we’d have to discuss our drinking habits, but at least that could be worked on, unlike the other issue.

  The morning after his birthday, I had tried to plead with him for understanding, to work through this, but Shane had held firm. He told me he had been struggling with the decision for months now, and he had to be true to himself. No amount of crying, pleading, or lists of how wonderful we could make our lives together with just the two of us would work. All the pleading had just made him more resolute and made me feel more pathetic, and I had fallen into a depressive funk, doing the bare minimum with my freelancing work from bed. I even turned down several other proposals, not having the energy to deal with any new assignments.

  A few nights ago, in a fit of desperation, I had ventured out to the living room, where he had taken to camping out on the couch. I outlined my latest idea - a hobby farm! I had spent the last few hours Googling ideas and farmland for sale near - but not too near - his parents. We had once rented a cottage through Airbnb, complete with a wide-open field when we attended a wedding a few years ago, and Shane had commented about how nice it was to get away from the hustle and bustle of the “rat race”. We loved each other; I knew it. Maybe we had just forgotten how to keep things fresh in our relationship. This was just going to be a bump in the road to our many, many, years together, something we’d laugh about on our fiftieth-anniversary cruise.

  Shane had stared at me incredulously as I outlined how we could get a miniature horse and maybe even a koi pond, though I wasn’t exactly sure how that would work for the fish in the frozen winters of Wisconsin. I’d have to figure that part out later.

  “Don’t you get it?” Shane had asked me after I finished my spiel, though not unkindly. “I don’t want some damn chickens. I want babies. I love you and care deeply for you, but I can’t live my life in a lie to what’s true to me.”

  Well. It seemed like not only was I not going to get an official engagement, but I wasn’t going to get any type of relationship at all. Even though I knew I was doing last-ditch efforts, the realization was still a stab to the gut.

  We had spent the rest of the week in tense silence, mostly avoiding each other, which wasn’t very hard. Shane had worked even later hours than usual and used the hall bathroom instead of the en suite bathroom when he came home. As for myself, I had taken to walking around in a daze, wondering how I went from being pretty much officially engaged to the point I had picked out my engagement photo dress to going to bed by 10:00 to make sure I didn’t run into Shane, all in the space of a week.

  But on Friday morning, I woke before my alarm went off, which was a minor miracle for me. But this morning, I was excited. I had a plan.

  I had spent all night scheming about how we could spend a romantic weekend together, maybe even drive up to Door County, if he agreed to it. I had stayed up for hours, looking at different reviews on TripAdvisor, figuring out the best places to go, and I was ready to bring it up to him. It was the weekend. Surely he had to be in a better mood than earlier this week, right?

  With a final burst of confidence, I slapped a smile on my face and pushed the door open. My idea was a good one, I knew it. This just had to work.

  “Shane?
” I called out. No answer, and I wondered if he already left for work. But it wasn’t even 7:00. He left early, but this would be exceptionally early. I glanced around but saw no evidence of him. I stopped short, just like my heart, when I saw a piece of paper on the table. With trembling fingers, I picked it up and read it.

  I blinked as I scanned through it, trying to pick out as much of the information as quickly as possible. I clutched it to my sweater, the pink one I had chosen out of the closet this morning specifically because Shane always told me my boobs looked great in the low neckline. This couldn’t be happening. Calming my breath down, I finally got up enough nerve to read it again.

  In it, Shane informed me he would be visiting his parents for the next week, and he hoped that I could use the time to pack and find a new place to live. I will always love and care for you, Katrina, but I think it’s best we get some space now. He followed it up with a Love, Shane.

  Just seeing the words written in his familiar handwriting had cut me deeply. Love, Shane. Love, I seethed. Why not just sign it the way he really meant? Bye forever, Shane. What idiot would write the word love in a breakup letter? Especially when that was your girlfriend’s last name, the nickname you used on her? I wanted to crumple up his note and throw it in the fireplace, even though it was gas and had a glass front so wouldn’t even burn it, anyway. Instead, I settled for tearing it up into tiny pieces, which I threw in the trash like confetti in a reverse celebration.

  To make matters worse, if it was even possible, his note also encouraged me to respond to his draft of our split finances he had included on a second page. Please, let me know what you think of the agreement, he had written.

  Let him know what I thought, my ass, I thought to myself as I burst into fresh, hot tears. Shane had been my first serious boyfriend, and until this week, I thought would be my only boyfriend. This heartache, the feeling like the world was ripped out from under me for reasons I couldn’t control, was a new feeling, and one I didn’t particularly welcome.

  Tears kept coming as I scanned through the second page. He had been generous with his proposal, especially considering his job made up the bulk of our household income and we weren’t married. The one thing that cut me to the core was he asked for the apartment. The place we made our home. I glanced around the room, noticing minor details like the pink platter I picked out from West Elm, and the pig-shaped salt and pepper shakers I saw at a vineyard we visited in Napa Valley and had to have. Even the green plant in the corner was one I had grown from seed, starting back in LA.

  The thought of giving up the apartment hurt like hell, even though I grudgingly admitted to myself that him keeping it made more sense than me. He made more money and could afford it, and it was right on the train line he used every day for work. I could do my freelance editing work anywhere, even with a roommate. I had to admit to myself that this place would cease to be my home, no matter what personal touches I had put into it.

  Well, fuck it. If he wanted the apartment, then he would get the fucking apartment.

  I spent the next several hours tossing as much of my stuff as I could into garbage bags, then into my car, and after a mostly sleepless night, I hit the road first thing the next day to make the six-hour drive from Chicago to Minneapolis, landing on Vi’s door.

  4

  I rapped on the front door. When she didn’t immediately answer, I pounded harder. It was before noon on a Saturday. What better did she have to do than to answer the door?

  “You better be at home and not in some damn hot yoga class you paid thirty bucks to do!”

  “I’m calling 911!” Vi’s panicked voice rang out. “I’ve already got my phone in my hand. All I have to do is press the button and they’ll be able to track me. Don’t even need to say a word.”

  “I’m not a murderer!” I screeched. Damn Vi and all those true crime shows she loved. She’ll never trust a soul except for her parents and maybe her brother, Boston. My head began to pound.

  “You are too! Who else just knocks on someone’s door?”

  “I’m a woman! And most murderers are male,” I called through the door, exasperated. Vi listened to true crime podcasts all the time. She should know this.

  I could tell she was considering this from the way she paused, thinking.

  “And it’s me, Katrina.”

  “How would you know my best friend’s name? Did you murder her too and steal her phone?” Her shriek would alarm the neighbors if she didn’t calm it down. I hoped her townhouse had good sound insulation between the walls.

  “No! It’s really me!”

  “Prove it then. Tell me something only Katrina would know.”

  I sighed. As soon as Vi opened the door, I would march right over to her TV and delete her Netflix queue. “In seventh grade, the only reason you passed Spanish was because you cheated by looking at my final exam. Which, by the way, you were a shitty cheater, because I got an A, and you only got a C.”

  I heard nothing but silence, so I pressed on. “And in eighth grade, you told everyone your first kiss was with Gerry Richards behind the bleachers at the football game, but really it was with Aidan Sovinski. You were just too embarrassed to admit it because he was the only boy in the entire school who took a full shower after gym class, which involved getting bare ass naked in those awful community showers. The rumor was that he did it because he liked to show off his dick.”

  Another several seconds went by. I decided to up my game.

  “Do I need to talk about how your brother Boston humiliated you by telling your ninth-grade crush you created a custom MySpace background -”

  “STOP!”

  I grinned. Even Vi had her limits, I guess.

  The door flew open, and there stood my gorgeous best friend, all five-feet-two inches of her, with beautiful dark brown hair flowing down her tiny frame. Despite it being a weekend morning, Vi was dressed to kill in silk pajamas and fur-lined slippers. Small bird tattoos flowed from her upper arms all the way down to her wrist. Nobody would ever look at this woman and think she was obsessed with true crime stories and could cite all the famous serial killers roaming the U.S. over the last fifty years.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “Finally! Didn’t you recognize my voice?”

  “A girl can never be too careful,” Vi replied prissily. “Especially when her best friend, who lives hundreds of miles away, shows up on her front door unexpectedly.”

  “Fair point,” I conceded. “Now let me in. And start pouring the damn mimosas.”

  She frowned. “I don’t have…”

  I shoved a drink tray of McDonald’s orange juice at her, followed by a bag of McMuffins. “Don’t give me any excuse you don’t have cheap bubbly in the fridge. You live for that shit.”

  “Fair point,” she echoed me, widening the doorway. “Now start spilling while I start bartending.”

  “Does mixing cheap bubbly with even cheaper OJ really count as ‘bartending’?” I wondered, as I pushed my way through and looked around. Vi’s townhouse on the edge of the river in Minneapolis was stunningly decorated, which made sense given she was one of the city’s top interior designers with an eye for detail. Fifteen-foot ceilings soared above me, and huge glass windows gave me a view of the park and river across the street. Through the windows, I could see a man push his little girl on a swing, and a man bike by with an old school boom box attached to the back of his bike, blaring a Bruce Springsteen song. The townhouse wasn’t huge, but the atmosphere was so welcoming and comforting that I wanted to weep.

  Which I did. For hours. Sitting on her white linen sofa, surrounded by throw pillows that must have cost over a hundred bucks each, I spilled out the story of my last week. The story I was too hurt and ashamed to tell anyone until now, even Vi. The story of the longest week of my entire life. Vi only stopped me once to cancel her spin class, telling me she would get a lecture from the instructor later in the week but assured me this was more important.

 
Vi listened intently, only interrupting to say things like, “What a fucking bastard!” or “That did not come out of his mouth.”

  “Oh, it did.” I drained the last of my mimosa and crumpled the plastic McDonald’s cup in my hand. I put it on the coffee table, though it looked incredibly out of place on the expensive piece of furniture, like a pony at a dog show.

  “Oh, honey,” Vi leaned forward to hug me, just like she did all those years ago when she stood by my side after the operation that took out yet another cyst on my ovaries that was causing me so much pain. “I’m so glad you came. He’s a right bastard, and we will get you through this. I wish you had told me sooner. I would have been on the first flight out to get you.”

  “Thanks, Vi,” I sniffed, grateful down to my toes. Despite my crappy week, I knew I came to the right place.

  “So, do your parents know you’re here? How long are you staying?”

  I sighed and looked down at my McMuffin wrapper. I started to carefully smooth it out and fold it into a neat square. “No, and I don’t know.”

  I loved my parents, I really did. Mom was just a little…judgmental. She always felt like she knew best. I could already imagine how the conversation of Shane leaving me would go. Or me leaving Shane. I didn’t know what the exact answer was - I mean, he told me he didn’t want to be with me, but I was the one who’d left. So who left whom? I had no idea. I mean, he was the one who told me he wanted the condo, but did that mean I had to bolt two states away? Should I have stayed to fight for my man? Hell if I knew. All I knew was that my mind felt like I was floating in space, with no gravity to pull me down. Like the last ten years of my life was a book I read once, not something I actually lived through.