Even worse, even though Zach and I made promises to each other just a few days ago that we would always talk things out, I haven’t had the courage to bring it up. I didn’t want to seem like a whiner or a nag. I don’t ever want to see “that look” on his face when I try to bring up something to him, and he looks henpecked. I want to be the easygoing wife who can handle sacrifices for the greater good of the family, no matter how miserable it makes me.
“Moira,” Randall says sagely as he takes the plates from me and turns to head to the table. I grab the platter of pasta and follow behind him. After he sets his load down, he turns and takes the platter from me. He places it on the table and turns back again, his hands coming to my shoulders where they grip me with solid comfort. “Hear me when I say… there are many spouses who are completely fine with their significant others keeping hours like that. And that’s okay—nothing wrong with that. But there are others who are not, and there is also nothing wrong with you not liking it. In fact, I expect that has to do with the incredible bond you and Zach have. I expect it affects you harder.”
“You think so?” I ask with a soft smile, wanting him to impress upon me just how special Zach and I are together. I lamely need the reassurance.
“I know it. Never seen anything like it before. And while you may see Zach as being focused on work, I can absolutely guarantee you he is miserable being away from you and the kids. I’m betting the one thing that is keeping him going so strong is that he’s doing this for you and the kids.”
“Neither one of us wants to let you down,” I tell him, making sure he understands Zach will do whatever is necessary to pay Randall back for his generosity.
“It’s not possible for either of you to do that,” he says with a chuckle, and the tightness I had been sporting most of the week in my chest seems to loosen. “Zach is going to have to cut back, that’s all there is to it, and me and the company will adjust. It will be fine, trust me.”
I let out what may be the biggest sigh of relief in the history of sighs. Giving him a grateful smile, I hug him to let him know how much this means to me. “You think he’s going to fight you on that, or will he just capitulate?”
“Sorry?” Randall asks, his head quizzically tilted.
I falter, but then I mumble. “You said he needs to cut back—”
“Well, he does, Moira,” Randall says with a twinkle in his eye. “But I’m not the one who’s going to tell him that. You are. This is yours and Zach’s problem, and you need to figure out how to communicate with each other about it.”
“Pardon me?” I ask, completely dumbfounded.
Chuckling, Randall sits down and uses the tongs I had laid on top of the pasta to dish a tiny bit out for Jaime. He then starts to cut the strands into small pieces with a fork. “I’m not doing the hard work for you. It should be enough for me to let you in on the little secret that I don’t expect Zach to keep insane hours. I expect diligence from him, and he’ll give it to me, but him missing this much time with the family is really not needed. But you need to put your foot down, and you need to let Zach know this. I’m not getting involved because there is a tiny chance that perhaps Zach needs to do this for his own sense of accomplishment, and I’m not about to impede that. That’s for a husband and wife to figure out on their own.”
I stare at him a moment, waiting for the anxiety to creep back in because I’m not getting an easy fix.
But it doesn’t, because he’s right.
I need to do this.
Instead, I give him an eyebrow raised look of awe and shake my head. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“Years of practice, my dear,” he says as he transfers the cut-up pasta to the plastic table of Jaime’s high chair. I grab a small plate and pull some over for Cannon. I don’t bother cutting his up because he’s a big boy who has mastered the delicate art of pasta twirling—somewhat—with a fork. I set it down in front of him and pull the laptop away. He starts to make a protesting sound, but I slide the spaghetti under his nose and he’s adequately redirected, as it’s also his favorite meal.
When I sit down next to Randall, he hands me a plate. We’re silent a moment as we twirl pasta and eat a few bites. After swallowing and patting my mouth with a napkin, I set my fork down and level my eyes on him. “Randall… thank you.”
He glances up, smiles as he chews, and just gives me a small nod in acknowledgment. It’s a confident dip of his head to me, and it says all I need to know.
Chapter 6
Zach