“First of all, I actually couldn’t have knocked her up last night. Because we didn’t have sex.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, thinking of that gross hmmm sound he made when he kissed her. “You guys never stopped touching each other all evening.”
“Well. If you must know, we got in our first fight last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, resisting the urge to ask him about it. Then I say, “But at some point, you could end up getting her pregnant—or just marrying her—and then realizing that she completely sucks.” I say the last word with as much fire as I can muster.
“That’s totally different,” he says as I notice dark circles under his eyes and a massive underground zit emerging on his forehead. “And you know it.”
“Well, every situation is different,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “And this one is way, waaay too messy and complicated and fraught with dangers and pitfalls. If I got just one veto in your life, this would be it.”
I picture Leslie’s uppity little nose, then ask if I get a veto in his life, too.
“And you know what the biggest problem here is?” he asks, ignoring my question. “In a sea of really big problems?”
“What?” I ask at my own peril.
“Dude likes you.”
I stare at him, confused, and he clarifies. “Pete.”
“I know who ‘dude’ is,” I say. “But I don’t get your point. Of course he likes me. He wouldn’t do this for me if he didn’t like me.”
Gabe shakes his head. “No. He likes you. As more than a friend. As more than a ‘hey, let me loan you some sperm.’ He wants to sleep with you. Date you. Maybe marry you.”
“You’re nuts!” I say, laughing and throwing a pillow at his face. “No, he does not.”
He lofts the pillow into the air, and we both watch as it falls neatly in place. “I’m a guy,” he says with calm certainty. “I can tell. I know. And I promise you—this would be an absolute fucking disaster. As in…the biggest disaster you’ve ever put in motion. And that’s saying a lot.”
His face falls as soon as the words are out. “You know what I mean,” he says, looking guilty.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling crushed, knowing that we both know that there will always be a far worse and much darker disaster in my past.
chapter eighteen
MEREDITH
In true Nolan ignore-the-issue style, he returns from his run several hours later (after I’ve cried and showered and dressed and cried some more) and tells me he thinks we should just enjoy the weekend. The coward in me is relieved, but at the same time, I am incredulous, frustrated, and worried that nothing is going to change—in my heart, our marriage, my life.
And that feeling grows larger when, that evening, we exchange anniversary cards, have another long, romantic dinner, and then return to our room, where I reluctantly initiate guilt-driven but resentment-filled sex.
While it’s actually happening, I make my mind as blank as possible, which in turn makes me realize just how much of sex is mental. In other words, it’s virtually impossible to make it a purely physical act. It is always more than that.
Afterward, Nolan curls his body around mine and says, “Did you…?”
“You couldn’t tell?” I murmur.
“Just confirming,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
“Good,” he says, tightening his embrace. His arms are strong, warm, comforting—and the feeling that washes over me is a complete contradiction to everything I told him this morning.
I kiss the side of his elbow, the only thing I can reach, and say, “I’m sorry, Nolan. For earlier.”
Then, as I get ready to backpedal, he shushes me and says, “Let’s just go to sleep, Mere.”
I close my eyes, deciding that for now, I’d rather doubt myself than doubt my marriage.
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, right after breakfast, we drive back to Atlanta, heading straight to my mother’s house to collect Harper. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since we dropped her off, but it feels like much longer, and I can tell Nolan misses her as much as I do, both of us practically running into the house. He gets to her first, picking her up out of her chair to give her a big hug. I hover beside them, waiting for my turn as I inhale her strawberry Lip Smacker scent. But before I can hug her, she scrambles back down to the table, returning to her elaborate art project incorporating crayons; rubber cement, tape, and paste (because you can never have too many adhesives); and copious amounts of purple glitter.
“I want a hug and kiss, too,” I say, stooping down to her eye level.
She turns her head a few degrees and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“How about a hug?”
She shakes her head and says, “Later, Mommy. I’m very busy now.”