“Yeah. I know,” I reply with a high, nervous laugh. “First try.”
“Congrats…I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He smiles, then leans in to awkwardly hug me, patting me on the back before helping me out of my jacket, then hanging it in his hall closet. He turns and leads me into his kitchen, as he fires off a quick round of questions. “So, how do you feel? Excited?…How’s Gabe doing?” His voice is chipper, but something about his face looks strained.
“It’s still sort of hard to process,” I say, noticing an open bottle of red wine and two glasses on his counter. “But we’re both happy. And very grateful.”
“Well…that’s fantastic news. Really fantastic.” He pours both glasses, then stops suddenly. “Oh, shit. What am I doing? You can’t have this, can you?”
I shake my head, feeling suddenly embarrassed, though I can’t put my finger on why.
He merges both glasses into one very full one, then takes a sip, swallows, and smiles. “So what can I get you to drink?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m fine,” I say, as we awkwardly stare at each other, and it actually crosses my mind to just say goodbye and gracefully exit.
“Let me at least give you some water,” he says, getting a glass from his cabinet, then filling it from the faucet. He stares at it a beat, then pours it out and hands me a bottle of Poland Spring from his refrigerator instead.
“Thanks,” I say, untwisting the cap.
“Do you want a glass?”
“No, this is fine.”
He gives me a closemouthed smile, nods, then asks when I’m due.
“August third,” I say. “According to our calculations…but we have an appointment next week to check on all of that.”
“So you haven’t been to the doctor yet?”
I shake my head.
“So how do you know for sure that you’re pregnant?” he asks, sounding a little hopeful, though maybe that part is just in my head.
“About five tests tell me I am.” I force a smile.
He smiles back at me, nods, then asks how my parents took the news. “I assume they’re excited, too?”
“I haven’t told them yet.”
“No?”
“Your sister?”
“Nope. Still haven’t talked to her since I left New York….You’re actually the first person I’ve told,” I say with a nervous laugh, suddenly questioning my judgment.
“Wow, Josie…Thank you. That’s so nice….I’m really honored,” he says. “And touched.”
I nod and glance away, mumbling that it’s really no big deal.
“Yeah, it is,” he says kindly, starting to sound like himself again. “And I’m just so happy for you. This is what you wanted—and you got it. Good for you.” He hugs me again; this time it feels warm and genuine.
“Thank you. I really appreciate that,” I say, as we separate. “But there are a couple of drawbacks….” My voice trails off, but I do my best not to look sad.
“Oh?” he replies. “And what are those?”
“Well…for one…I’m going to get really fat.” I laugh.
“Pregnant. Not fat,” he says.
It is the exact right thing to say, and I tell him so.
He smiles and gives me a playful high five. “Gotta love when you say the right thing to a pregnant woman.”
I smile.
“So…what’s the other drawback?”
I take another sip of water, stalling for a few seconds before admitting the truth. How I really feel. “Well, I’m a little sad, too.”
“About?”
“About us…I know this will change things between us.”
Pete nods, now looking unmistakably sad, too. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess it probably will.”
My heart sinks, though I am also relieved by his candor. In fact, his complete lack of bullshit might be one of the things I like best about him. So I press onward—and ask him the question I’ve been wondering since Thanksgiving morning.
“So tell me. If I hadn’t gone down this road…with Gabe…If I weren’t pregnant…?” I stop suddenly and shake my head at the futility of what-ifs. “Never mind,” I say, shaking my head.
“No. Go on,” he insists, holding my gaze. “Please?”
“Okay.” I nod, then take a deep breath and finish. “If I weren’t having a baby, could you have seen a future for us? I mean—any possibility of a future?”
Pete’s eyes say it all, even before he nods and utters a very clear yes.
I chew my lower lip, willing myself not to feel regret. Telling myself we could’ve just as easily broken up in a few months, setting my time line back that much further, bringing me one step closer to my ultimate, inevitable infertility. I also remind myself that this is what I’ve always wanted—that I’m going to be a mother, and although motherhood is a gift, it is also a sacrifice: the ultimate sacrifice. I might as well get used to that now.
“Oh, well,” I finally say, forcing a small shrug and smile. “Story of my life.”
Several long seconds pass before he clears his throat and says, “But ask me the question a different way.”
I hesitate, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Ask me if I can still picture a future for us?” he says, his cheeks now flushed.
My heart racing, I ask the question, our eyes locked: “Can you still picture a future for us?”
He takes one of my hands in his. “Yeah. I can, actually….It’s a long shot…but I still can.”
I shiver, goosebumps rising everywhere—on my arms and legs and the back of my neck. “Really?” I ask, my insides melting, my voice trembling. “Do you really mean that?”
He nods, looking as earnest as he ever has—which is saying a lot. “Yes, Josie, I do mean that. I’ve been thinking about this a lot….And this baby isn’t a deal breaker for me. If anything, it makes me care for you more.”
I have trouble believing what I’ve just heard—and yet I do. “Why?” I whisper.
He pauses and frowns, looking deep in thought. “Because it shows me what you’re made of,” he finally says. “It shows me that you’re strong and independent and truly committed to the most beautiful thing a woman can do….I’m blown away….” He smiles. “Blown away, but not going anywhere.”
“Even though it could get really messy?” I ask, thinking of how Will used to feel about Gabe. About anything that deviated from his script of how life should look.
“Yeah,” he says. “Love has a way of working stuff out. Even the messy parts.”
“Wait,” I say, feeling a smile spread across my face. “Are you saying you love me?”
“No,” he says, grinning as he takes my other hand. “But I’m not ruling it out….I could definitely see myself loving you…loving both of you.”
For a second I think he means Gabe, then realize that he’s talking about the baby.
“That’s funny,” I say, squeezing his hands and smiling, “because I could definitely see the two of us loving you back.”
chapter thirty-four
MEREDITH
“Isn’t there another way?” Nolan asks me in early December as we stroll through the botanical garden, enjoying the Festival of Lights with Harper, one of our holiday traditions.
“What do you mean ‘another way’?” I say, keeping my eye on Harper, who is about ten yards ahead of us.
“Can’t we find a way to be happy? Even though you don’t love me?”
I sigh, weary of his self-pitying comments, and say, “Nolan, I do love you.”
“Okay. Even though you aren’t in love with me,” he replies, as we begin to go around and around in the same futile circles.
You aren’t in love with me, either.
Yes, I am.
No, you’re not.
But I’m happy with our marriage.
You can’t be.
I’m happy enough.
“Happy enough” is not enough.
I
t is for me; why can’t it be for you?
And that’s what it has always come back to over the past few weeks, since I returned from New York. The worst of my anger has ebbed, and we’ve agreed not to make any big decisions until after the holidays, but that question always remains: Is what we have enough?
I think of the recent heart-to-hearts I’ve had with Ellen, and the several intense sessions in Amy’s office. I’ve even talked to my mom a bit about the subject, though I’ve yet to admit just how dire things are. We all agree that there is no bright-line litmus test for what works in a marriage, or for what happiness looks like. That it all comes down to the two people inside the relationship.
On the one extreme, there are those rare soul mates, the blissful marriages filled with unwavering passion in which both parties are completely head-over-heels in love. On the other end of the spectrum are the shitty relationships, marked by dysfunction, mean-spiritedness, even abuse—those that are destined to end in divorce or disaster.
In between lies a vast bandwidth of gray-area marriages. Some are arranged by two families, built entirely upon shared values rather than the notion of romantic love. Others have become sexless over the years, morphing into merely high-functioning partnerships, two people committed to their children, or the religious institution of marriage, or the theoretical idea of family and forever. Sometimes people are brought together by loneliness—or default, because nobody else seems to want them.
All of these scenarios can easily be dismissed as pitiful or a version of settling. And for a long time, I subscribed to this notion, too. Now, I’m beginning to see that many different kinds of marriages can work, as long as both people are satisfied by the status quo. But it has to be both, not just one, and I’m pretty sure this is what Nolan is trying to say now. Can’t I just accept what we have, and who we are together, and find a way to be happy in spite of what we don’t have? Can’t I, just for once, see the glass as half full? Can’t I get on board with him, and find a way to make this work?
I watch him take the last sip of his hot chocolate and toss the cup into a garbage can. He then pulls out his phone and calls out to Harper.
“C’mere for a second, honey. Stand right there. In front of that tree,” he says, pointing to a huge magnolia strung with thousands of tiny purple and green lights.
Harper happily obliges, posing with a big, toothy grin, then runs ahead again as Nolan checks the image, frowns, puts a filter on it, then shows me his work. “Cool shot, huh?”
“Very cool. Text it to me. I’ll Insta it,” I say, wishing that life were that easy. Take the flawed image and simply crop it, brighten and saturate it, throw a fancy filter on it. Make it what you want it to be. Then again, I think that is the way Nolan approaches life, with his rose-colored glasses.
As if reading my mind, he says, “I know our marriage isn’t perfect. I know we have things to work on…but we make a really good team, Meredith. Can’t we just try a little harder to…to get some of that magic?”
I sigh, noticing that he said get, and not recapture, and tell him I don’t think it works like that; either the magic is there or it isn’t. “Besides,” I say, “isn’t that what we’ve been doing for the past seven years?”
Nolan shakes his head and says, “No. It’s not at all what we’ve been doing…because we weren’t being honest with each other.”
“I was,” I say, my defensive instinct kicking in.
“No, you weren’t,” he says, his face becoming animated. “You weren’t truthful in the dugout when you said yes. You weren’t honest on our wedding day…and even before that, you weren’t being true to yourself.”
I know he’s talking about acting and New York and law school and maybe even moving back to Atlanta and into my childhood home, and I can’t deny the charge. So I simply shrug, and tell him maybe he’s right.
“But now you know the truth about the night Daniel died,” Nolan continues. “And I know the truth about your feelings….Now we both know the truth….Isn’t that a clean slate?”
“I guess,” I say, though I’m not sure what a clean slate really gets us, other than forgiveness and understanding. These are no small matters, but not enough to create magic. “But where do we go from here?”
“Well. For one, I’ve been thinking about our house….I really think we should sell it.”
“We can’t do that,” I say, but I feel a rush of relief just considering the freeing possibility of living somewhere—anywhere—else.
“Sure, we can.”
“Mom would be devastated. Dad, too.”
“They’d get over it,” he says. “It’s just a house….It’s just not good for us, living there….Every time I walk by his room…”
“I know,” I say, sparing him the rest.
“And I think we should consider leaving Atlanta, too. At least for a while. We need an adventure. Just the three of us. We have enough money to do it…and I’ll always have a job to come back to,” he says, talking excitedly.
“Where would we go?” I ask, playing along for a second.
“Anywhere we wanna go,” he says. “New York City? You could act again….”
I shake my head and tell him that I think I’m finally over the city—and acting.
“Okay, then. Where would you like to live? What do you want to do?”
I tell him I don’t know, anything but the law. I’ve been back at work since the week of Thanksgiving, but I’ve already made the decision to resign, as I realize that it’s a lot easier to say what you don’t want than what you do want.
“Well, let’s think about it,” he says as we quicken our pace to try to keep up with Harper. “Let’s really, really think about it. Let’s think outside the box…like Josie….”
My shoulders immediately tense at the mention of my sister—whom I’ve yet to communicate with since she left New York in the middle of the night.
“Say what you will about her,” Nolan continues. “And I get it…she can be a real pain in the ass. But the girl knows how to think outside the box.”
“She’s selfish,” I say, the default tagline I give my sister.
“Is she, though?” he asks. “Or is she just trying to be true to herself? Having a baby alone is really brave.”
“She won’t go through with it,” I say. “She’s not that brave.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But we can be. Let’s be brave together, Meredith. Can you just keep an open mind and give it one more, last-ditch try?”
Always before, his idea of trying felt like faking, even lying. Having another baby. Making our parents happy. Going on family vacations to Disney World and the beach, smiling and posing for photos to promptly post for all the world to see. Going through the motions of pretending to be the perfect family. Daniel’s sister and his best friend, brought together by tragedy, yet utterly and totally “meant to be.” Hashtag blessed.
But suddenly now, his idea of trying feels authentic, and I see a small glimmer of possibility.
“Maybe,” I say.
He takes my hand, then stops walking, facing me. “Don’t say maybe. Say yes, Meredith. Not for Daniel or your parents or even Harper. But for us.” He is pleading, begging, yet still looks so strong.
I look into his eyes as it occurs to me that we are standing exactly as we did on our wedding day, before our family and friends, promising forever. Yet remarkably, I feel closer to him now, in this crossroad of crisis.
I hesitate, holding my breath, before I finally nod and say yes. It is a soft and shaky yes, filled with apprehension, but it is still a yes, and it is more sincere than my yes in the dugout all those years ago. Then, for the first time in forever, I take his hand, rather than the other way around, and we continue on our way, following our little girl along the lit garden path.
chapter thirty-five
JOSIE
It is December 22, what would have been Daniel’s fortieth birthday, and I am waiting at the bar at Blue Ridge Grill for Meredith. We have yet to com
municate since New York, except to email about plans for tonight, which I spearheaded. At eight o’clock, we will be joined for dinner by our parents, along with Gabe, Nolan, and Harper, but we agreed that the two of us need to talk first and find a way to put aside our differences, at least for the evening.
Determined not to be late, one of Meredith’s many pet peeves, I am actually a rare fifteen minutes early, and use the time to mentally prepare for what’s to come. Gabe and I plan to tell everyone our news tonight—that we are now eight weeks pregnant. But I start to second-guess myself, worrying that Meredith will accuse me of making this emotional anniversary about myself. It might be a fair point, but for the fact that this has been my only chance to see her—and I fear that it’s not going to happen again, at least not anytime soon.
Sitting at the corner of the bar, nursing a club soda with a lime, I keep my eye on the door, spotting my sister the instant she walks in. She sees me right away, too, and acknowledges me with a little wave. I take a deep breath and pray for the best.
“Hi,” I say as she approaches me. Her expression is serious, but not angry, and I take this as a good sign.
“Hi,” she says, slowly unbuttoning and removing her navy peacoat, then hanging it on the back of the stool. She sits, crosses her legs, then crosses them the other way.
“I was going to order you a drink,” I say as the bartender comes to take her order. “But I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
She tells me that’s okay, giving him a perfunctory smile and ordering a house cabernet.
“We have two,” he says, sliding her the cocktail menu on an iPad.
She pushes it back and says, “You choose, please.”
Only then does she turn to look at me directly. “So,” she says tersely. “How are you, Josie?”
“I’m doing okay,” I say, feeling doubly nauseated—both from morning sickness that lasts all day and from the mere thought of the evening that stretches ahead. “And you?”
She sighs again, but says she’s fine, too.
“Are you back at work?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “No. I resigned yesterday, actually.”