Pause (Larsen Bros)

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I’m listening.”

It’s hard to look at him. Like he’s a stranger, unknown and untrustworthy. Guess he feels the same way because his jaw shifts and his gaze wanders. To the fridge, along the counter, up to the window. Everywhere but at me.

As if there hasn’t been enough furtive and shady behavior already. The apology for following me to Leif’s was grudging and half-hearted at best. Made only after I refused to answer his calls or respond to his texts for several days. This is what we’ve become . . . this ruin. Though he doesn’t have a hair out of place. His white button-down shirt is immaculate. Same goes for his pinstripe pants. No tie. He would have removed it in the car after he left work. I can just picture him tugging it free and casting it aside. The tension in his broad shoulders easing the farther he drives away from work. I know him so well, but none of that seems to matter these days.

I fill the vase with water and lift the first rose. No thorns. The florist must have dealt with them. Too bad someone can’t do that for my life. “What is it, Ryan?”

“You haven’t heard . . . never mind. Of course you haven’t.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

His face is both empty and set. Giving nothing away. “Celine’s pregnant.”

Everything stops.

“Anna . . .”

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, trying to pull myself together. It’s like I’ve been sucker punched. My brain is reeling, the information refusing to sink in, to make sense. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”

He moves to come closer but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Please, honey. It doesn’t have to affect you and me.”

There’s a stabbing pain inside of me. My heart, I think. Like the last piece of it is breaking, shattering into smithereens. I ran out of tears a while back. Our love has become this brittle thing I couldn’t fix even if I wanted to. That’s the truth. “We were going to try for a baby this year,” I say in a broken voice.

A little human, half him, half me. A family of our own. It might have been hormones, but the thought used to thrill and delight me. And now he’s done that with Celine. A bridesmaid at our wedding. One of my oldest and most trusted friends.

“We still can, if you want,” he says.

I wrinkle my nose. “Holy shit. Are you serious?”

“Yes.” And he is, God help him. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“How far along is she?”

His lips morph into a thin line. Which is answer enough.

“Four months,” I say helpfully. “This is where you say ‘four months’—and tell me that she’s just starting to show. Because you swore you only had sex the one time, remember? A terrible, horrible mistake that just happened once. You remember the story. I’d been unconscious for six months. The doctors had just suggested flicking off the switch and you turned to each other for consolation. So Celine should be four months pregnant.”

Only she’s not, she’s less than that. I can see it all over his face. The last little bit of hope inside of me dies. It sucks to be right. I wanted our marriage to be stronger than this. For our love to mean more than this. But it isn’t and it doesn’t and I’m done. You can only volunteer to get knocked down so many times unless you enjoy living on your knees.

I cross to the sink, taking the flowers with me.

“Anna—”

Mom’s waste disposal roars to life at the flick of the switch. She really should get it fixed. It clunks and clatters and sounds like it’s coming apart. More than loud enough to drown out the worst of my husband’s useless bullshit protestations that I’ve heard a thousand times. How he still loves me. How he’s sorry. How he never meant for this to happen. How we can still make this right if I would just let him fix things. Only some things can’t be fixed. Shouldn’t be fixed.

Other people come to the kitchen door to see what’s happening, but I ignore them. Awkward and embarrassing and whatever—I don’t care. If we have an audience, so what? I haven’t had control over any other aspect of my life lately. Let them see my meltdown in all its furious shambolic glory. Let them witness the final death throes of my supposed great love. It sure makes for one hell of a dramatic birthday. Forget party games, spectacle is the go. It’s his own fault for coming here and doing this now. The idiot.

One at a time, I feed the beautiful, glorious roses into the machine. It churns and crunches and gurgles and grinds them into a gooey pulp. And I don’t stop until every last rose is gone. It’s cathartic, really. Satisfying. Like some weird piece of domestic performance art. And I’m not even artistic.