“So quit,” Nolan says. “Quit Monday, first thing. I triple-dog dare you.”
The thought is so liberating that I can’t help smiling. “Maybe I will,” I say, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders. I tell myself that there isn’t a more supportive man in the world. Was I crazy to think that he was the problem, when it had to be that vile job and all the pressure to bill, bill, bill, bill? I think about acting and how much I miss it—and consider all the other creative possibilities, ways I could be spending my time and life.
Then, like a record screeching to a halt, the next words out of Nolan’s mouth are, “Just think. You could be a stay-at-home mother with complete freedom.”
I give him a blank stare, thinking that there is pretty much nothing liberating about staying home with Harper all day, every day. And that, as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I would probably rather bill hours than be trapped at home twenty-four-seven.
“And then…” he says with a slow smile. I hear a dramatic drumroll in my head before he finishes his sentence exactly as I predicted, “we can have another baby.”
My heart sinks, confirmation that something is very wrong in our marriage, and that I must tell Nolan how I feel. I almost pull the trigger right there at Cracker Barrel, but tell myself we need to get back on the road. Then I tell myself that Nolan needs to concentrate on driving. Then we arrive at Blackberry, and we’re too busy unpacking. Then Nolan wants to go for a quick run and we both have to shower and get ready for the evening. Then we’re on the back patio, sitting on oversize wooden rocking chairs, sipping organic martinis as we watch the sun set behind inky blue mountains—too serene a moment to taint. Ditto to our exquisite five-course dinner at The Barn, the award-winning, romantic restaurant on the property. Then, once back in our room, we both crash, too full of fine foothills cuisine and wine pairings to even stay awake, let alone have a big talk.
—
BUT THE FOLLOWING morning, after I wake up in the high four-poster antique bed and take a few seconds to process where I am and what day it is, I know it’s finally time, that I am out of excuses. I roll over and look at Nolan as his eyes flutter halfway open.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep.
“Good morning. Happy anniversary,” I say, even though I have the sinking feeling that neither will be good or happy.
“Happy anniversary,” he says through a big yawn and stretch. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, squinting at the window. Sunlight is working its way through the closed blinds, but it’s not very bright yet.
Nolan rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Wow. It’s almost eight-thirty,” he says. “I slept like a rock.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Did we fall asleep with the lights on?”
“Yeah. I woke up around two and turned them off.” He smiles, then says, “Wow. No alarm. No Harper. Nowhere to be.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling myself tense as he shifts a few inches toward me, one leg slung over the covers, the other still tangled up in the sheets. I glance down and see his standard morning erection making an appearance in the opening of his green gingham boxers. Although it crosses my mind to just do it, so to speak, I clear my throat and issue a preemptive, foreboding statement. “We need to talk.”
Nolan nods, pulling me toward him, looking into my eyes. If we were any closer, we’d see each other in double. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and say, “Remember yesterday at Cracker Barrel? When you were talking about me quitting and us having another baby?”
“Yes?” he says, looking so hopeful that I fleetingly consider changing course. Saying anything to avoid hurting his feelings. “You think it’s a good idea?”
I slowly shake my head, the high-thread-count pillowcase smooth under my cheek. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“Oh,” he says. Then, after a long pause, “And it’s not the job, is it?”
“No,” I say again, this time in a whisper.
“It’s us, isn’t it?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say, my heart starting to race.
“Yes, you do,” he says softly. “You always know.”
He’s right, at least this time, so I take a deep breath and make my confession. “Yes,” I tell him. “I think it’s us.”
When he doesn’t reply, I continue, starting at the beginning. “Do you remember when you asked me to marry you? In the dugout?”
“Of course,” he says, his brow furrowed.
I brace myself but keep going. “I had no idea you were going to propose,” I tell him. I’ve said this before, many times, but have always couched it in terms of a wonderful surprise instead of shock bordering on dismay. “I really wasn’t ready for that….I almost said no….”
He frowns, then says, “So why didn’t you?”