Such an unfair question.
“Listen, wanting and expecting are two different things. I’m not sure there’s been a day since I met you that I haven’t thought about sex with you. But for the record, I think about afternoon naps too, yet I rarely take one.”
“Stop bullshitting me, Emmett. Can you just keep your dick in your pants for one night? Can you acknowledge for more than two seconds that I work my ass off taking care of the kids and that maybe I deserve to wash my hair and shave my legs without feeling the need to put out?”
Nine years of marriage … and that was the first time she referred to us having sex as “putting out.” And if I may add something else to the record, she didn’t put out that often after Austin was born. More for the record … I didn’t expect much because I, too, was tired. Granted, she had the hardest role. She was the one who could soothe him. She was his food source. I changed a few diapers and took a few shifts of watching him so she could take a shower or run to the grocery store in peace and quiet.
Of course, I kept all those recorded details in my head. I was a lot of things, but not a complete idiot. Wordlessly, I backed away, before the flame reached the end of the fuse, and snatched my pillow from the bed and a blanket from the closet. Her clean hair and shaved legs could have the whole bed that night. I was fine with the sofa.
A little after two in the morning, a warm body nestled its way between me and the blanket. Familiar curves molded into me in all the right spots. Soft lips teased my neck. And lavender invaded my nose.
She was trying to give me an erection, and I feared it could lead to divorce despite my lack of control over the situation.
With my lips pressed to the top of her head and my hands resting in the safe zone on her back, I whispered, “I’m sorry.” The number one secret to a healthy marriage was to offer blanket apologies on a regular basis and hope you weren’t asked to explain why you were apologizing.
“I’m pregnant.”
I jackknifed to sitting, forcing her to straddle my lap and hold onto my shoulders. Her messy hair rolled down her back and chest while a few stray pieces clung to her face. Pouty lips parted, but what caught my attention was her swollen eyes. She’d been crying.
“You’re …” I dragged out that word because what came after it mattered. My reaction mattered. And I only had one shot to get it right.
Come on! Help me out.
She wasn’t taking the bait. No tossing me a lifeline by filling in the blank. Just the opposite. She blinked slowly waiting for me to sum up her emotions and mine.
I was fucked.
“You’re conflicted.”
She made me wait for what felt like forever. Was conflicted the right word? Was it an insult? Of course she wasn’t conflicted. She was a mother who loved her children and this one would be no different. I’d just set myself up to have to explain why I chose that word. Was I conflicted? Was I not excited to be having another child with her?
My truth involved cautious elation.
“So conflicted,” she confessed, and my body sagged in relief. “I mean … of course I’ll love this child as much as I love Lucy and Austin. But it’s so unplanned. And I’m so exhausted all the time. I’m not sure my body or my mind is ready for this.” She frowned. “That’s why I snapped at you. I’m sorry. Clearly, I’m already dealing with extra hormones.”
“I for—” Yeah. I was on the verge of forgiving her. Such a close call. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Internal high-five.
She nodded several times. “We’ve got this. Right?”
“Of course. I mean … we’re not the world’s best parents, but we’re damn close.” I smirked at the total lie. Perfection wasn’t even in our realm of possibilities. We existed in survival mode twenty-four seven.
Tatum pressed her palms to my face. “Come to bed, baby. I miss you.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. I lifted her off my lap and carried her back to bed.
Two weeks later, she called me just as I was driving home.
“Hey, beautiful. What’s up?”
“Emmett …”
“I can barely hear you. Is everything okay?”
“Emmett …” Her voice was mumbled and weak. It also sounded more like an echo.
“You’re breaking up. I’m almost home.”
“I’m not home.”
“What?” I tried to make out her words.
“I’m at the doctor’s. I … I … oh, Emmett … I lost the b-baby …”
I turned my truck around and sped off toward the medical clinic. “I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.”
When other people experienced loss, it was easy to give condolences, send a card or flowers, and go back to your own life. I didn’t know how to handle the loss of a child. An unborn child.