“Yeah. I would,” he says, kicking off his leather flip-flops. His big toe angles toward mine, and I meet him halfway, our feet now touching.
“I think big families are awesome,” he says. “I always hated being an only child. Still do. It’s a lot of responsibility to shoulder—you know, with the family business…and now my parents getting older….Besides, it’s just kind of lonely. Sad.”
“Harper doesn’t seem to mind,” I say. “She’s never asked for a baby brother or sister. I think she likes getting all the attention.”
“Yeah, but that’s a problem, too,” he says. “You say yourself we spoil her too much. Another baby would fix that….Only children have issues.”
“You don’t,” I retort. “You’re very normal.”
I catch my tone of voice just as he does. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” he asks.
“I didn’t,” I say, even though I know I did—and that sometimes I equate normal with boring. Why do I consider my husband boring when he is frequently the life of the party? Other people always laugh at his jokes, especially women.
“Well, putting aside the pros and cons…I just want another one. I mean…God forbid…what if…” His voice trails off and I give him a horrified look.
“Don’t say it.”
“Okay,” he says, confirming that he was actually going to suggest a second child as an insurance policy against losing Harper. “But you know what I mean….”
“No,” I say, appalled. “I don’t. That’s not a reason to have another baby.”
“All right, what is a reason, then?” he asks, taking a tactful turn.
“Because you actually want one,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “And as I said…I do.”
I nod as he has made this quite clear for two years now, maybe closer to three. I know the first time he made the suggestion I was still nursing Harper, and had to resist the strong urge to throw a bottle of freshly pumped breast milk at his head. “Got it,” I say.
“So, tell me. Where do you stand, exactly? Did you mean what you said to Ellen today? Or not?”
I swallow, tip my head back to look at the ceiling, then close my eyes. “I don’t know, Nolan….Right now, I guess I don’t want another….”
“But Harper’s four—”
“I know how old she is,” I snap. “But I’m just not ready.”
“Okay. But do you think you’ll ever be ready?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.” I open my eyes, look at him, and make myself tell him the truth. “Probably not. No.”
He looks stricken, maybe even devastated, and I suddenly hate myself, not for what I’ve just admitted to my loving husband and the amazing father to our child, but for what I’m not telling him. My full answer.
“Well,” Nolan says, releasing my hand and slapping his thighs before he abruptly stands. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I say softly, looking up at him.
“For letting me be the second person to know. Just after Ellen,” he says, then walks over to my neatly organized baskets, picks up the pink elephant, and drops it into its proper container.
chapter eleven
JOSIE
The following Tuesday night, I drive back over to school for our annual Open House, the night when parents meet their child’s teacher, visit the classroom, and hear an overview of the curriculum. Afterward, everyone convenes in the auditorium, where the headmaster and a few other administrators give a spiel about how amazing our school is in order to inspire parents, already paying thousands in tuition, to open their checkbooks and donate a few dollars more.
I always dread the parental interaction the night entails—without a doubt, it is my least favorite part of teaching. This year is worse than usual, for obvious reasons, and as I pull into the faculty parking lot, I have the distinct feeling that I might actually pass out from nervousness over seeing Will again. It doesn’t help that it’s god-awful hot and humid out—or that I’ve been juicing for forty-eight hours straight in an attempt to fit into an ambitious size-six dress purchased specifically with this evening in mind.
I park my car, unfasten my seatbelt, and blast myself with AC before calling Gabe for a final dose of moral support. When he doesn’t answer, I fight the temptation to call Meredith. We haven’t communicated at all since she left my house in a huff, and for once I’m determined not to cave first.
Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I carefully apply a fresh layer of lip gloss and mascara as Sydney Swanson, my fellow first-grade teacher and closest colleague, pulls into the spot beside me, making a fish face through her window. Sydney is one of the sunniest, most upbeat women I know, which is especially impressive given that she’s thirty-nine and in my dismal relationship boat. She also happens to be six feet in flats, further narrowing her dating pool thanks to her nonnegotiable he-must-be-taller-than-I-am-even-in-heels criterion.