I don’t know, but when I think about Vivian, it’s still easy to remember the heady thrill of our first few evenings together. Where Emily and I were warm and comfortable, Vivian and I burned hot, almost from the very beginning, as if our attraction were fated. Every interaction, every conversation seemed to amplify my growing belief that we were exactly what each was looking for in the other.
As the marrying type, I began to fantasize about the paths our life together would take, our passionate connection burning forever. Within a couple of months, I was certain I wanted Vivian to be my wife, even if I didn’t say as much. Vivian took longer to feel the same way about me, but by the time we’d been seeing each other six months, Vivian and I were a serious item, testing the waters about how each felt about God, money, politics, families, neighborhoods, kids, and our core values. More often than not, we were in agreement, and taking a cue from yet another romantic movie, I proposed on the viewing deck of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day, a week before I had to move back to Charlotte.
I thought I knew what I was getting when I dropped to one knee. But thinking back, Vivian knew with certainty—not only that I was the kind of man she wanted, but needed—and on November 17, 2007, we took our vows in front of friends and family.
What happened next? you may wonder.
Like every married couple, we had our ups and downs, our challenges and opportunities, successes and failures. When all the dust had settled, I came to believe that marriage, at least in theory, is wonderful.
In practice, though, I think a more accurate word is complicated.
Marriage, after all, is never quite what one imagines it will be. Part of me—the romantic part—no doubt imagined the entire venture as an extended commercial for Hallmark cards with roses and candles and everything in soft focus, a dimension in which love and trust could surmount any challenge. The more practical side of me knew that remaining a couple over the long term took effort on both sides. It requires commitment and compromise, communication and cooperation, especially as life tends to throw curveballs, often when we least expect them. Ideally, the curveball slides past the couple with little damage; at other times, facing those pitches together makes the couple more committed to each other.
But sometimes, the curveballs end up smacking us in the chest and close to the heart, leaving bruises that never seem to heal.
CHAPTER 3
And Then What?
Being the sole provider for the family wasn’t easy. By end of the week, I was often exhausted, but one particular Friday evening stands out. London would turn a year old the following day, and I’d spent the day slaving over a series of sales videos for Spannerman Properties—one of the largest real-estate developers in the Southeast—as part of a major advertising push. The agency was earning a small fortune for their efforts and the executives at Spannerman were particularly demanding. There were deadlines for every stage of the project; deadlines made even more difficult by Spannerman himself, a man with a net worth of two billion dollars. He had to approve every decision, and I had the sense that he wanted to make my life as miserable as possible. That he disliked me, I had no doubt. He was the kind of guy who liked to surround himself with beautiful women—most of the executives were attractive females—and it went without saying that Spannerman and Jesse Peters got along famously. I, on the other hand, despised both the man and his company. He had a reputation for cutting corners and paying off politicians, especially when it came to environmental regulations, and there’d been numerous op-eds in the newspaper blasting both him and the company. Which was part of the reason they’d hired our firm in the first place—their image needed serious rebranding.
For most of the year, I’d worked punishing hours on the Spannerman account, and it was far and away the most miserable year of my life. I dreaded heading into work, but because Peters and Spannerman were buddies, I kept my feelings to myself. Eventually, the account was handed off to another executive at the agency—Spannerman decided that he wanted a female executive, which surprised no one—and I breathed a sigh of relief. Had I been forced to continue with Spannerman, I probably would have ended up quitting.
Jesse Peters believed in bonuses as a way to keep employees motivated, and despite the never-ending stress associated with the Spannerman account, I was nonetheless able to maximize every bonus. I had to. I’ve never been comfortable unless I was able to put money into savings and our investment account, but the bonuses also helped to keep the balances on our credit cards at zero. Instead of shrinking over the past year, our monthly expenses had grown larger, despite Vivian’s promise to cut back on “running errands,” which was how she’d begun to refer to shopping. Vivian seemed incapable of entering Target or Walmart without spending at least a couple of hundred dollars, even if she’d gone to pick up laundry detergent. I couldn’t understand it—I speculated that it filled a sort of unknown emptiness inside her—and when particularly exhausted, I sometimes felt resentful and used. Yet, when I tried to discuss the matter with her, it often led to an argument. Even when tempers didn’t flare, however, little seemed to change. She would always assure me that she only bought what we needed, or that I was lucky because she’d taken advantage of a sale.
But on that Friday night those concerns seemed distant, and when I entered the living room, I saw London in the playpen, and she offered me the kind of smile that never ceased to move me. Vivian, as beautiful as ever, was on the couch flipping through a house and garden magazine. I kissed London and then Vivian, enveloped in the scent of baby powder and perfume.
We had dinner, talk running to what each of us had done that day, and then began the process of getting London ready for bed. Vivian went first, bathing her and dressing London in her pajamas; I read to her and tucked her in bed, knowing she’d fall asleep within a few minutes.
Downstairs, I poured myself a glass of wine, and noticed that the bottle was getting close to empty, which meant that Vivian was probably on her second glass. Glass one was a maybe when it came to fooling around; glass two made it likely, and as tired as I was, I felt my mood lift.
Vivian was still thumbing through the magazine when I sat beside her. In time, Vivian angled the magazine toward me.
“What do you think of this kitchen?” she asked.
The kitchen displayed in the photograph had cream cabinets topped with brown granite countertops, the color palette matched by the detailing on the cabinets. An island stood amidst gleaming state-of-the-art appliances, a suburban fantasy.
“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.
“It is, isn’t it? Everything about the kitchen speaks to class. And I just love the lighting. The chandelier is breathtaking.”
I hadn’t even noticed the lighting and leaned closer. “Wow. That is something.”
“The article said that remodeling a kitchen almost always adds value to a house. If we ever decide to sell.”
“Why would we sell? I love it here.”
“I’m not talking about selling it now. But we’re not going to live here forever.”
Oddly, the thought that we wouldn’t live here forever had never crossed my mind. My parents, after all, still lived in the same house where I’d grown up, but that’s not what Vivian really wanted to talk about.
“You’re probably right about it adding value,” I said, “but I’m not sure we can afford to remodel our kitchen right now.”
“We have money in savings, don’t we?”
“Yes, but that’s our rainy-day fund. For emergencies.”
“Okay,” she said. I could the disappointment in her tone. “I was just wondering.”
I watched as she carefully folded the corner of the page down, so she could find the photo later, and I felt like a failure. I hated to disappoint her.