Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

“We know.”

“How’s Nathan?”

I find coffee and pour three cups. “As well as can be expected.”

“Sadie.” She sighs. “Take care of my boy. He’ll try to be strong for everyone. I’m so happy he has you there.”

I stare into the black coffee. I almost wasn’t here, but I am. It makes me grateful I made the hard decisions I needed to—today, yesterday, and in the past. I did it to protect Nathan, but now I that I’ve seen the damage of my one-sidedness, I don’t want to make any more without him. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Have Nathan call me when he’s made arrangements.”

“I will. Talk to you—”

“Wait—Sadie?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Ralph . . .” She pauses and whimpers. “Just tell him I love him. Tell him I never stopped.”

I lean a hand against the counter. I can hear the emotion in her voice, but I can’t distinguish if it’s regret, grief, or something else. “Is that true?”

“Part of me will always love part of him. Those parts are distant memories, but they’re there. I suppose those wounds’ll be fresh tonight.”

I nod. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

We both hang up. Since Thanksgiving is next week, I get turkey sandwiches, cranberry juice, and chocolate pudding. The four of us eat Ralph’s final meal together, and though the mood is somber, we share what we’re thankful for. For me, it’s not just Nathan, but also his forgiveness and understanding. I’m thankful to Nathan for a love so unrelenting, he continues to fight for me. And to myself, for letting him. For finally finding the strength again to let myself want what I know can hurt me.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Nathan and I get in a cab as the sun rises through the skyscrapers. He leans his elbows onto his knees. “I have to make some calls.”

I rub his back. “I’ll take care of it.”

“He has a burial plan.”

“I’m already looking into it,” I say. While Nathan and his aunt stayed with Ralph, I got to work on how to proceed after the death of a family member. There are a lot of details, and I want to take as much as I can off Nathan’s plate.

Nathan’s shoulders sag. He drops his face in his hands and inhales a stuttering, sobbing breath. Nathan has shed few tears in my presence. All that comes to mind is the day I walked down the aisle and the time he took a spiked ball to the crotch during beach volleyball. I scoot as close to him as I can get and hug him tightly from the side. He opens his hand for mine and holds it to his wet cheek.

This is my Nathan. My Nathan doesn’t hold back or withdraw. He loves and regrets, fears and hopes, with his whole heart. I’m happy to be reunited with him, and as hard as the past few months have been, we’re going to come out stronger. But in this moment, I can’t think of anything worse than watching him submit to his pain. I bury my face in his shoulder and weep with him.

Ginger greets us at the door. I came home briefly after dinner last night to check in on her, and it’s almost time for her next round of medication.

“I’ll take her downstairs,” Nathan says, picking up the leash before we’re even through the door.

I snatch it from him. “No.”

He raises his palms as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. “What was that for?”

“I’ll do it.” Nathan is back to taking care of everything and everyone. He measures his love by how much weight he can shoulder, and that has to change. “Then I’ll feed her. I’ll check her wounds. You need rest. Let me help you.”

He lowers his hands. “All right. Geez. No need to get grabby.”

“Yes there is, Nathan.” I pace the tiny entryway. Ginger watches me, back and forth. “I want you to listen to me, because it needs to be said. Going forward, things need to be said, not just tucked away for later.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “I think we’ve proven that.”

“I love how you care for me. I don’t ever want that to stop. You have to let me return the favor, though.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not finished.” I face him. “You came into my life, swept me off my feet, and never put me back down. With that, you set a precedent. Sometimes, you have to let me take care of you. When things get to be too much, tell me. Ask for help. You have to put your own mask on first.”

He angles his head. “Mask . . .?”

“The pedestals,” I continue. “They’re over. Gone. We’re on the ground now, and that’s a better place to be because it’s firmer.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “You lost me. Maybe you’re the one who needs to rest.”

I sigh. “Andrew explains it better. I’m trying to say we aren’t perfect, and we have to own that.”

“Oh.” He straightens up a little. “You want perfect, though.”

“No, I don’t. Not anymore. I want us, the flawed version. I’ll never be the perfect wife, you won’t be the perfect husband, and when we accept that, I think we’ll both be happier. Not perfect, but happy.”

“I never asked you to be that. I don’t want perfect. You have to recognize that if you screw up, you can’t hide because it’s easier. You can’t make decisions on your own so you won’t burden me.” He presses his lips together. “When you’re lost, don’t turn to someone else.”

“And don’t leave me out in the cold again.” We stare at each other. I say, “I need your warmth, even when you don’t think you can give it to me. What do you need?”

“I need to be a father.”

I suck in a breath. I’ve heard I want from him. I’ve heard wouldn’t it be great. When it comes to having a family, Nathan is vocal, but he hasn’t yet said I need.

He takes my shoulders. “I know you’re afraid. So am I. It doesn’t have to be today or next year or three. But I need to love something outside of us. I have so much to give, and you—oh, God, Sadie. So do you. When you stop holding back, you are so loving.”

I feel my face scrunching. Loving? Does he think so? He believes in us. In me. And I do want that—to stand by his side and raise our child together.

“You might even want it more than me,” he says, “and that’s why you’re so terrified. If we can’t conceive, we’ll do something else. Do you think I’d have any less love to give if we adopted?”

His grip on me is firm. I flex my hands in and out of fists because I feel like I need to take a step back and I can’t. This is a different kind of intimacy. Just like Andrew, when Nathan says it out loud, I know it’s true—I am terrified. It doesn’t shock me that he probably knew before I did, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

He lets go and backs away. “There’re clean bandages and medication on the kitchen counter. I’m going to rest now.”

By the twitch of his lips indicating a smile, I sense he thinks he’s had some kind of victory—even though I haven’t agreed to anything.

While Nathan naps, I clean Ginger’s wounds. “I’m sorry you got hurt,” I tell her. “But it’s better now, isn’t it?” She tilts her head. Tenderly, I wrap her paws in fresh bandages. A child is far more accident prone than a dog. Inevitably, bad things will happen. Nathan believes in us, though. I can handle the heartache and disappointment of failing to have a baby. It’s watching Nathan go through it that worries me. I decided not to want kids to protect him, but I can’t make those kinds of decisions without him anymore. “He takes good care of you,” I murmur, “and I guess I do too.”

Once Ginger’s fed and walked, I open the refrigerator. When Nathan wakes up, I want to comfort him with something so delicious, he can’t be sad. He lost his father today, so it has to be good. I decide to make the apple caramel pie I was planning for Thanksgiving.

I make the crust and put it in the fridge to chill, then slice some apples. When I’ve prepped all I can, I move to the couch. Armed with hot cider, I take Nathan’s computer in my lap and call his aunt. Together, she and I make a list of everyone to contact about Ralph’s passing. We discuss what needs to be done over the next few days.