“In a word? Yes.”
I smacked my palm against the surface of the water. “No! That’s the wrong answer. You shouldn’t have lied to me, especially not about something so important.”
“Fe, how can you—” He growled, cutting himself off. “You did the same thing to me.”
I stilled, bracing myself for his next words. “What are you talking about?”
“Your headaches?”
I released a silent sigh of relief because he was referring to the headaches.
Once upon a time, early in our marriage, I’d lied to my husband about something huge. He’d forgiven me. But more than that, he’d promised to forget as well. Right now, this argument would’ve been the perfect time for him to wield this weapon of my past mistake.
And yet he didn’t. And I loved him for it.
I drew my knees to my chest and refocused on our present debate. “Nigeria ranks fifth in the world for kidnappings of oil workers. Accepting this assignment was dangerous and you should have discussed it with me first. The headaches are completely different.”
“Are they?” His eyebrows shot upward expectantly. “It’s the same thing. You don’t think the headaches are a big deal even though I see them as dangerous.”
“You didn’t see this assignment as dangerous? Somehow I doubt that.”
“It was triple the money, Fe.”
I was about to launch another volley, challenge his assessment of the situation, when the meaning of his last statement crystallized.
I gaped at him, staring at his grim expression. “Triple the money?”
“Yes. Triple. This assignment was going to give me the ability to stay home for longer periods, maybe two months at a time for the next few years.”
I blinked at that. I realized my mouth was hanging open, so I shut it. Of course I wanted him home for longer stretches of time. The kids would be ecstatic. But a little voice, a desperately angry voice, in the back of my mind whispered, Two months isn’t long enough. I need him home.
I watched his chest expand with a large inhale, and as he released it a good deal of his anger dissipated, leaving him looking remarkably tired.
“When I was home this last time, last week, do you know what Grace asked me?”
I shook my head, studying him, his desolate tone causing my chest to constrict.
“She asked me if next door neighbor man-child, Professor Matt, was her new dad.”
I flinched, felt the corners of my mouth curve into a startled frown.
“And Jack answered before I could. He told her that just because they saw Matt more than they saw me, it didn’t make him their dad.” Greg paused, holding my gaze for a moment before finishing hesitantly. “He said it made Matt their stepdad.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed because Jack’s conclusion had been so innocently logical and ludicrous; then covered my mouth with my fingers. “Oh no.”
“Oh no is right.” He gave me a commiserating, sad smile and scratched the back of his neck.
“You took this assignment so you could be at home more?”
He didn’t precisely respond to my question, instead admitted, “I hate being away from you and Jack and Gracie. I hate watching you do everything on your own and pushing me away all the time—because you don’t want to be a burden.” He said burden as though it were the most repugnant word in the English dictionary. “We are not your parents, Fe. Everything I have is yours. You are not a burden.”
“I know, I know.” I reached forward and grabbed his hand, needing to touch him. “But you work so hard, Greg. I never wanted you to think I don’t recognize that. I know you still enjoy the work, and I know you make a real, tangible difference, but I also know it is work. You provide for your family, so we can live in a nice neighborhood, in a beautiful apartment, in my favorite city. And I appreciate you, what you do for us.”
He held my hand in one of his, and traced the lines on my palm with a fingertip. “I know . . . but it’s nice to hear you say the words.”
I gave him a slight smile. “I should say them more often.”
“You should. You should hire a skywriter and write me a song.”
I laughed lightly. “Ode to Greg Archer, Earl of Cynicismshire.”
“Technically, I’m the seventeenth Earl of Cynicismshire. The fourth Earl was a cannibal; did I ever tell you that? He used to eat his housemaids, or so the legend goes.”
I shook my head at him and his silliness, and I realized just how much I missed him. Really and truly missed him. This version of Greg, this man I married when I was far too young to be making such important decisions. The man who challenged me to do backflips, called me a misogynistic hermit, and teased me about liking lentil soup.
Even when he was home, between assignments, I missed him. We never caught our breath. We were hardly ever a couple, because we were too busy being a family. Selfishly, I wanted more than two months at a time.