by K. A. Berg
______
THE VIEW OF THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE AND THE HUDSON AT sunset from my office is breathtaking. Usually, it calms my nerves, but sitting here, staring out over the city I love, it does nothing to lift my mood. I know Alex wasn’t trying to make me feel so shitty, but that’s all I seem to feel anyway. I can’t help but think about the conversation Alex and I had a few months back. The one where he promised me this wouldn’t change anything between us, and he never wants me to do anything that makes me unhappy. Those words sit like a rock inside my stomach. I don’t doubt his sincerity or even that he himself believes he’ll still love me and look at me the same if I can’t have kids or decide this has all become too much for me. But his words and actions say different things.
It’s been a few weeks since we argued over his public announcement to his team about us trying to start a family, and I still don’t think my feelings have settled in for him. Yes, his words are sweet and supportive. He reads the books. He cares. But it makes me feel like a freak show. It’s been close to ten months since we started trying and the last seven of them have sucked the joy right out of it all.
Deep down I know it’s time to have a serious talk with Alex about how I’m feeling. I’m not sure I have much hope left. But I keep hoping and keep holding on a little bit longer—for him. Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can keep a grip on this dream. I’m unhappy, and it’s not fair. To him. To me. To us. At this point, I believe it’s safe to say I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
“Hey,” Jordan says, startling me as he walks into my office. “What are you still doing here? I thought you left already. I was coming to leave these on your desk.”
“Just doing some thinking,” I tell him, spinning my chair around to face him.
His eyes narrow slightly, and his head tilts as he scans my face for whatever answers he’s seeking. The man has been one of my best friends for the last six years—he knows something’s bothering me. “You okay?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Talking about it with Jordan now would do nothing to help me sort things out. As much as I know he’d listen to me without hesitation, this is private between Alex and me. My feelings are too confusing right now. Alex deserves to know how I’m feeling before anyone else. “Thank you, but no.”
He nods. “Are you avoiding going home?”
Looking around my office, I see it’s fairly obvious. I’ve shut down my computer. There’s nothing on my desk except my purse, and I was facing the wall of windows. “I guess,” I admit and stand from my chair. “But it’s probably time I head home and deal with things.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you guys will figure it out,” he says encouragingly as he lays the papers on my desk.
I’m not so sure anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY
QUINN
THE DRIVE HOME FROM THE CITY TO JERSEY DOESN’T SEEM TO take as long as usual tonight. It passes by in a flash, most likely because I know Alex will want to talk about this morning. He is an intelligent man who knows me extremely well. Knows my body even better. He knows something happened this morning, just not what exactly. If I’d kept my mouth shut and brushed it off as a fluke thing or even stress, I might have been able to pull off the lie, but I didn’t. My condescending remark is now coming back to bite me in the ass when all I want to do is drink a big glass of cabernet and maybe catch the new episode of Orange Is the New Black. Simply turn my brain off and not think about how my life is closing in on me slowly but surely. It’s funny how time seems to work like that. When you’re anticipating something, it seems to take forever to get here. Then, when it finally does, it’s over in the blink of an eye. When you are dreading something, there’s no avoiding it.
Even the elevator seems to be moving quickly tonight. The doors open only a few moments after I press the call button. No one else gets in the car with me. It’s a straight ride to our floor. As I approach our door, I smell food.
Strange. Alex usually waits for me before we order dinner.
The scent only gets stronger as I open the door. I can’t place the smell but whatever it is smells delicious. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven’t eaten since early this afternoon.
Making my way inside, I follow the smells and sounds to the kitchen where I find Alex. Cooking. His back is to me as he stands at the stove, stirring whatever is in the pan on top of it. He’s even completed the chef look with the dish towel tossed over his shoulder.
There are two plates set out on the table, where I think we’ve eaten only a handful of times since we’ve lived here.
Alex turns, pan in hand, ready to put whatever he’s making on the plate. He catches me standing there and smiles. “Hope you’re hungry, angel.”
I have a hard time reconciling what I see, despite how good whatever he made smells. “You cooked?” I ask as I watch him fill the plates with food. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alex cook anything that wasn’t on the grill. And by cooking on the grill, I mean standing there with a spatula and a beer flipping burgers or a steak. Not sure it qualifies him for the next season of Top Chef.
His smile grows brighter. “I did. I thought it would be nice to make you something. It was late, and you were still at work. I know something happened this morning, so I thought dinner would nicely lead toward working through it.” My heart melts a little. “Plus, I wanted to celebrate some good news since the contractor called earlier to tell me all the remodels should be done by the end of the week.”
Even upset with him, his joy is contagious. I try to let go of the negative and embrace the positive. “That’s fantastic news. Did they start painting? I’m dying to see how that blue paired with the stone by the reception desk.”
I lean across the counter and grab a piece of broccoli from one of the plates, and something yellow sitting on the counter next to the cooktop catches my attention. I see the color and the scroll accent on the spine and realize it’s one of the nutrition books I bought on Amazon.
“Did you make one of the recipes in that cookbook?” I nod my head toward the counter.
“Yeah,” he answers without hesitation. Confusion, however, is present in his voice.
My stomach sinks. The hunger I felt when I got a whiff of dinner is gone. Truthfully, all I feel now is the same nausea I felt this morning. Both the sex and dinner make me feel like a piece of livestock.
My need to flee is strong. I need to be alone and away from Alex right now. I can’t do this anymore. I want to blurt it out right now. Scream and yell at Alex. But I don’t. None of his actions are ill intended. Now isn’t the time to say things out of anger. I may feel different tomorrow. Highly doubtful, but regardless now is not the time to have any conversation about my feelings. “I’m not hungry,” I say, stepping back out of the kitchen.
Alex watches me closely. The man isn’t stupid and knows something is wrong. “Angel, we can skip dinner, but we still need to talk. You’re upset, and I need to know why.”
My head shakes of its own volition, and I continue stepping back from the kitchen. “Not tonight. I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed.”
I don’t wait to see if Alex says anything more. I find myself doing the same thing I did this morning: heading to the bathroom. Locking the door. Starting the shower. Keeping my emotions at bay for just a little bit longer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
QUINN
TODAY IS TURNING OUT TO BE JUST AS SHITTY AS YESTERDAY. The momentum of the crap piling up continues to roll forward, ruining each day as it comes. I’ve almost reached my limit on keeping my cool. I didn’t get any sleep last night, tossing and turning all night, not able to ever fall into a deep sleep. I hate fighting with Alex. I hate being angry at him. I hate everything I’m feeling.
Needless to say, I’m feeling pretty bitchy today, especially since it seems my employees can’t do their job correctly.
“Kendra,” I sna
p over the phone as my assistant answers. “How the hell did these reports make it to my inbox like this? Did you not notice they’re incomplete? What the hell is going on over in accounting? Are we now employing monkeys? You better get whoever prepared this report on the phone and tell them if I don’t have the full, completed report on my desk in the next hour, they’re fired.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Taylor,” she apologizes. “I’ll get this taken care of.”
I slam the phone down only to pick it back up. “Jordan,” I bark when he answers. “My office now.”
Jordan storms into my office a few minutes later, wearing a pissed off look on his face. “You know, I get you’re in a bad mood, but I’m not your employee, Quinn. I’m your partner. Please don’t summon me to your office like this again. Not cool.”
Ignoring his comment because I’m too irritated to deal with it, I focus on the problem at hand. “We need to start paying better attention to employee performance. Kendra sends me the accounting report for last month, and its incomplete. Maybe we need to make an example of some people to keep running a tight ship.”
My phone rings and Kendra’s line lights up. I hold a finger up to Jordan and answer, “Yes?”
“I sent you the correct report from accounting,” she says. “Sean sent this month’s report by mistake. It won’t happen again, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Let’s hope not, for his sake,” I say before smashing my finger into the intercom button, ending the call.
Jordan looks at me sadly, shaking his head. “What’s going on with you? It was a simple mistake. The company isn’t going to crumble. We’re not going to go bankrupt over it. When did you become a tyrant? And don’t ever silence me with a finger again.”
My eyes narrow at him. “Little mistakes snowball into big mistakes.”
He scoffs at me and heads for the door. “So, write him up. Follow the protocol we set in place.” He grabs the doorknob but turns back before opening it. “Leave the problems between you and Alex at the door. You need to pull yourself together. If you can’t, then skip the Westerbrook dinner tonight and I’ll make an excuse for you.”
The fucking Westerbrook dinner. I forgot that was today.
_____
WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HAVING DINNER WITH MILTON Westerbrook at eight o’clock at a restaurant in Midtown. Jordan left earlier to head home first since the restaurant we’re going to isn’t far from his house, but he made sure to remind me I need to be there with a smile on my face. Thankfully Alex remembered and texted earlier to let me know he’d meet me there. We haven’t spoken since last night, and I wasn’t sure if he’d show up if I asked. But I didn’t have to since he remembered anyway.
I took the train to work today since I was exhausted and didn’t feel like dealing with driving in New York. I may have accidentally-on-purpose run someone over with the chaos brewing in my head. Now thanks to my driver, Joel’s, inability to take directions I’m starting to think I should’ve toughed it out and driven myself. I told our damn driver not to take fucking Broadway to Midtown, but he insisted it would be quicker than the West Side Highway claiming he’d just come that way from dropping off Jordan and the traffic was minimal. We get stuck in gridlock, and I pull up to our destination at five past eight. Lateness fucking irks me. I’ll deal with Joel tomorrow.
Alex is waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. I slam the car door and rush toward the entrance. He grabs my wrist, stopping me before I can go inside. “They’ve just been taken to the table. I know your pissed you’re late, but take a second to calm down before going in.”
A part of me wants to scream because he’s right and it pisses me off. How can he foresee my anger over being five minutes late, but be oblivious to all the baby shit? How can he be so unaware of the pain I feel inside? Can he not see how broken I feel?
But, at this moment, none of it matters. All my personal shit stays out here on the sidewalk. Taking a much-needed cleansing breath, I compose myself. Westerbrook has been a friend of Jordan’s father for years. He was our first official investor. He’s more than that to Jordan though. This was someone who worked with and knew his father well. Jordan grew up around this man. When Milton told Jordan he’d be more than thrilled to get on board with us, it was a huge feeling of success for him. And me. “Okay, let’s go.”
We join our party at the table. I smile, nod, and listen to stories about their kids and grandkids. Dinner is good. Hailey laughs at something Marcia, Mrs. Westerbrook, says while Jordan and Alex entertain Mr. Westerbrook with talk of Alex’s new venture.
Milton smiles over his porterhouse and asks Alex another question. “Since the construction is almost done, when are you looking to have your grand opening?”
Finishing a bite of his chicken, Alex answers, “Not for a little while longer. I don’t plan on an actual opening until early spring.”
“What made you want to make the change?” he inquires.
Alex looks at me. Last time he answered this question things took a seriously wrong turn, leading to me avoiding going to any more games subsequently.
He chooses his words more carefully. “I wanted to be in a position where I was home more and not traveling all over.”
“That’s so sweet,” Marcia says, looking up from Hailey’s phone where she’s looking at some photo of Jaden. “She’s just the cutest thing. I can’t wait until our daughter-in-law has our newest grandchild. She’s due right before Christmas.”
“How wonderful,” Hailey says. “How many is this for you guys now?”
Marcia beams. “This will be number five. And what about you, dear?” she asks Hailey. “Any plans for more?”
I don’t like the turn of this conversation. I can already foresee that question being turned to me at any moment.
Hailey nods. “I’d love more. But maybe not for another year or two.”
As predicted, Marcia’s gaze swings from Hailey over to Alex and me. “How about you guys? Any plans for kids? Now with Alex home more, the timing would be perfect.”
My hand grips my wine glass as I try not to sound like a bitter bitch. “A family would be wonderful..”
Marcia shakes her head in jest. “I don’t know how you girls manage to do it. My biological clock started ticking in my late twenties. By thirty, I swear my ovaries were screaming for more kids.”
My biological clock has only ticked for a short time, and I am listening to it, but it doesn’t matter. Why does everyone make it sound so simple? Like all I have to do is spread my legs and listen to a fucking clock. So easy.
God, I want to scream. Why do babies have to come up in every damn conversation?
I try not to gulp my wine. I look at Hailey and Jordan across the table and see the compassion in Hailey’s eyes as she draws the woman’s attention back to her.
Alex grips my knee under the table and shoots me a quick, tight smile. The rest of dinner is a blur to me. Everything seems to be on auto-pilot. I smile at all the right times. Nod when appropriate. Shake hands. Fake pleasantries as we part. My mind is entirely elsewhere. I’m tired of it all. I can’t keep this up. I need to be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ALEX
ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH DINNER, QUINN SHUT DOWN.
As soon as babies came up, she checked out.
She was infuriated when Mrs. Westerbrook asked about her plan for children. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her wine glass. All I could picture was her shattering it, sending glass everywhere and staining the white tablecloth with her shiraz. If she didn’t shut down whatever part of herself she did, I have no doubts the dinner would have gone south quickly.
Same as last night. She decided she didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering her, and she checked out.
What I don’t get is why. Quinn’s behavior is starting to remind me of the old Quinn. The one who would shut down and run rather than be honest and deal with her problems. I’m tired of her keeping things from me. I can see it, festering under her
skin.
It’s clear, as we stand here in our home, in deafening silence, something big is brewing in the air. We’re getting to the bottom of this tonight.
She hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday morning, so I know it has something to do with me. But what? I don’t know. Quinn is breaking down. I can’t catch her if she doesn’t let me in.
The moonlight from our living room window casts a glow down one side of her body. She stands silent, still in her navy dress and heels, looking out over the river. It’s almost as if she’s looking for the answers to her problems out in the water. Sadness blankets her—from the slump of her shoulders to the way she leans on her arms, gripping the window ledge.
Crossing the room, I stop at the wet bar at pour two fingers of whiskey into two glasses. As I approach Quinn, I hand her one. She lifts one arm from the window, taking the offered drink, and I pull her back into my chest. “Quinn, you need to talk to me. I don’t know what’s going on or how to help you.”
The tone of my voice remains calm, and I patiently wait for her to answer me. She brings the tumbler of liquor to her lips as her body trembles slightly in my arms. I squeeze tighter, trying to show her it’s okay. I’m here no matter what happens, despite the unsettled feeling lingering between us. Talk to me.
“You know…” Her voice has a nostalgic flair to it. “There was a time when babies weren’t even a thought in my mind. No one ever talked about babies. There wasn’t always a pregnant woman in the same room as me everywhere I went. Now, it seems every day, in some way, babies manage to make an appearance in every conversation, in the same elevator as me, just everywhere. And why does it seem that women always want to advise on something or another when it comes to kids and babies? Did I ask for advice? Do I have a sign around my neck asking people to give me their opinions on when I should have children? Or do I have something tattooed on my forehead that says unleash your innermost thoughts on child rearing? I’m so tired of everyone’s opinions.”