“It’s not? Well, then by all means, tell me what it is that’s upset me since you know me so much better than I know myself.”
“It’s about what I said to Caroline. About having kids someday.”
I take an involuntary step backward. Because he’s right. I hadn’t realized it until he said it, but he’s absolutely right. We’ve talked about kids a lot recently. We had the conversation before we got married, of course, and again more recently. And we’ve always been in agreement that we want to wait. That he’s too busy being a master of the universe and I’m working long hours to get my own business off the ground. And on top of all of that, neither of us have good role models for how to be a parent. We’d agreed that we needed time. For ourselves. To get our lives in order. To get my business rolling.
But lately, I can’t help but wonder if the expression of joy I see on Damien’s face when he plays with our niece and nephew doesn’t also have an element of longing. If he regrets waiting and wants to start a family of our own, just like Sylvia and Jackson have.
“Someday,” Damien repeats, apparently following the breadcrumbs of my thoughts. “That’s all I said to Caroline. Not today. Not next week. But someday.” He takes my hands. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
I swallow, wishing I could read his mind as well as he always seems to be able to read mine. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s not private.”
Something hard flashes in his eyes, and for an instant, I think that I’ve pissed him off. But then he curses softly and shakes his head, his expression as warm as I’ve ever seen it. “You’re right,” he says, and I realize it’s not me he’s angry with; it’s himself. “Goddammit, you’re absolutely right. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His apology is like a ladder by which I can climb out of my deep, black hole. “Really.” I draw a breath, realizing I’m no longer itching for a fight. That, somehow, he has smoothed my rough edges. “I just . . . I didn’t expect it. I mean, we don’t know Misty. And even though Ollie’s mom’s like family—”
“I get it,” he says, leading me back to the couch. “You’re right. And I love you. And I’m sorry.”
He sits again, then pulls me down next to him. I sigh, reveling in the easy way his arm goes around me. The comfortable rhythm of being curled up against him. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “You’re right about my mom and all the rest. It put me in a really crappy mood.”
“I’d be surprised if it didn’t. So here’s the question I have for you.” His voice is so serious, I shift in his arms so that I can see his face more clearly. “Comedy or drama, movie or television?”
I shake my head, amused. “Don’t you have to review some spreadsheets before your call about that production facility?” Damien wasn’t planning to work this weekend, but the construction manager of one of his foreign plants called right before we left Los Angeles. There’s some sort of crisis that needs to be dealt with first thing Monday, local time. With the time difference, that means Sunday afternoon in Texas. “And aren’t I supposed to be prepping for my meeting tomorrow?”
“My call’s not for another two hours,” he says. “And if you do any more prep work, your head’s going to explode.” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues on. “Take a break. Chill with your husband. We’ll have a late lunch, and you can spend all evening going over your notes. Sound like a plan?”
“So long as I don’t have to pick what we watch.” I yawn as I snuggle close, certain he’ll choose something amazing because he always does. And, in fact, I enjoy the first hour or so of Audrey Hepburn’s and Cary Grant’s shenanigans in Charade. I can’t speak to the rest of the movie, though, because the next thing I know, I’m prone on the sofa, disoriented as I wake from an unexpected nap.
Damien’s voice drifts back from the bedroom area, and the television is off. I reach for my phone to check the time and notice that Damien’s notes are no longer on the coffee table. Which explains why I hear him talking to someone—he must be on his conference call.
I sit up and stretch, fighting both frustration and worry. It’s far too early for me to be this tired, and yet I’ve been dragging for over a week now. Even before we left LA, it was often all I could do to focus on my computer screen at work, and coding often felt like slogging through a pudding-filled swamp. I would load up on coffee, but I think I’ve finally OD’d on my favorite pick-me-up, because lately even the thought of downing a cup leaves me vaguely queasy.
In other words, I’m off my game, and that’s both frustrating and a little nerve-wracking. I’m hardly ever sick, but what if this time there really is something wrong with me? I’d told Damien I was fine, but that was more because I wanted it to be true, not because I’m certain. A walk-in clinic wouldn’t make me hang around for something like cancer. They’d let me go home, call with the bad news, and tell me to make an immediate appointment with a doctor in LA.
I stand, propelled off the couch by the warring forces within me. One side telling me to stop worrying, that everything I told Damien about me being fine is absolutely true. The other side arguing that I’ve felt off for weeks, and that, obviously, something is wrong, and I shouldn’t have been so snippy with Damien since he’s obviously right.
I scowl at my phone, not sure if I want it to ring so that I get the bad news, or stay silent so that I can hold onto the fantasy that all is well for just a bit longer.
Then again, maybe I should toss the thing off the hotel balcony, because clearly I’m turning into a raging hypochondriac, and that really can’t be good.
Since none of the options sound appealing, I’m about to head into the kitchen to scope out the mini-bar. At home, I have an emergency stash of frozen Milky Ways, but I’d be happy for even the thawed kind at the moment.
I don’t even get one step before my phone vibrates on the table, signaling an incoming call. I snatch it up, then sag onto the couch when I hear Dr. Cray’s voice asking for me.
“This is Nikki,” I say. “Am I—I mean, is there something wrong with me? Am I sick?”
“Actually, Mrs. Stark, you’re quite healthy.”
I draw a deep, grateful breath, then immediately frown. “Are you sure? The dizziness. And I’ve been so tired lately. Nauseous, too.”
“Your dizziness was caused by the rapid drop in blood pressure, as I—”
“Exactly,” I say. “But why’s my blood pressure off? Please. If something’s wrong, just tell me and get it over with.”
“Slow down. All the symptoms you’ve reported are perfectly normal.”