by Julia Kent
“It leaves plenty!”
“I want to bring up something more delicate,” I say, reaching for his hand. “It's about work.”
“What about it?”
“I think I want to quit.”
“Quit?”
“Quit. Give Carol a promotion to take over the division.”
“And do what?”
Pointing to my belly is the only answer that question deserves.
“Of course! The babies! Of course,” he emphasizes, face filling with joy as he leans in. “Are you sure? I never wanted to pressure you, but if you want to stay home with them, I'd be overjoyed. We'll still have nannies for support, but it would be a great honor to know our boys are being loved and guided by so much of you.”
“I'm increasingly sure. I need a few more days to make certain, but between Carol doing well, the trust fund money I get anyhow, and the reality check of two babies almost being born pre-term, I’ve been re-assessing my priorities.”
Something dark passes across his eyes. It reminds me of Declan.
“Right. I feel the same way.”
“You want to quit your job? Leave Anterdec?”
“What? No. The reassessing priorities part.”
“What's wrong? You suddenly seem different.”
“Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
A long sigh, then he leans back in his chair and scratches his chin. “It's Declan. And Vince. Dec laid into me for buying the gyms.”
“Why?”
“He says I can't run Anterdec and the gyms and be a good father and husband.”
All the air of this outdoor paradise seems trapped in my lungs.
Beseeching eyes meet mine. “Do you think he's right?”
Andrew doesn't falter very often. Asking me a question like this feels like minor key change that comes across as discordant. Dangerous.
A warning.
“I think,” I say carefully, feeling like every word is a step in an active landmine field, “you have a lot on your plate and will need to scale up support to make it all work.”
“That's a diplomatic dodge.”
“It's not untrue.”
“You're my wife, Amanda. Not a COO being asked to give a report or a forecast.” He looks down, then back up at me. “That day at home, in the pool. I know you were upset that I left. You can be honest here. I want the truth.”
My phone buzzes. It's Carol.
Quick question about the North Shore nursing home account. Are we focusing more on narrative reports, and can we use AI transcription for those, directly from a dictation app? Might make it easier for seniors to explain vs. type.
“Hang on. Work question,” I tell him, giving her a quick yes.
“Role reversal,” he murmurs as he plucks an almond and an olive from a tray and eats them.
I look up from my phone and smile. “I won't need to do this for much longer.”
Suddenly, I can breathe.
Because those words feel true. Right. Open and ripe with the space I want to raise my kids. Privilege is a double-edged sword, and being married to a billionaire means I acquired a heaping dose of it when I took him as my husband.
Why not use it?
Shannon struggles with guilt about the money, but I don't. I view it as a joyful abundance I can share with others. What if I give Carol the opportunity to grow at work, to make more money to raise her kids, while I take the time to be a stay-at-home mother?
What if?
There isn't a what if.
I know what I want to do.
“Really?” he asks as the server removes our finished plate, my stomach full but still ready for more. As I shift in my chair, Lefty does a slow roll. Someday–soon–they won't be in me.
I need to treasure how this feels.
Putting my napkin over the top of my belly, I smile at Andrew. “Really. And I’m so happy you're fine with this.”
“Fine? Better than fine. But it seems so easy for you.”
“Easy?”
“How do you just walk away?”
“Because I know what I want. And fixing other people's problems isn't my role anymore.” I rub Righty. “Fixing their lives is.”
“Fix. You're a fixer. You told me that from the start, when I met you. I didn't understand it then, but I do more and more as time passes. We're different,” he says with a contemplative smile, hand on his chin again, watching me. “I don't fix problems. I find solutions that promote growth.”
“You're more ambitious.”
Something troubled comes into his expression. “Is that bad?”
“Of course not. It's who you are. Something drives you. It doesn't drive me.”
“I don't want to be like my father. I can't let work consume me.”
“Work already consumes you.”
He nods, his eyes moving slowly to the right. It’s a tell that he's thinking, hard, but trying not to be defensive. The long, slow inhale through his nose is another tell.
“It does. Are you worried?”
“No. You're a good man with a huge heart. I know you'll always put us first.”
“Us. Us means more than just us,” he murmurs, pointing me between him and me.
“We're doubling our us in one fell swoop.”
“I wish I could double my time so easily.”
I laugh and move back slightly as a dessert plate appears, covered in an assortment of panellets and two small ramekins of Crema Catalana. “Don't we all.”
Fierce eyes meet mine, the tight grasp of his hand over the back of mine jolting. “Don't let me do the wrong thing.”
“Andrew,” I gasp, surprised by the sudden tone change. “What's wrong?”
“Fathers. Fathering. My dad, your dad, Declan as a dad. Me. Vince was a street kid and old Jorg stepped in like a father for him. Vince accused Declan and me of having daddy issues, and he's not wrong.”
“Hey. At least James was around. My dad...” I let my voice drift off, unsure what to say.
“It's hard being a grown-up, isn't it?”
I eye the one and only chocolate pastry on the tray and point. “Am I being childish if I say I want that all for myself?”
Big, booming laughter pours out of Andrew as he lets go of my hand and slides the entire dessert plate in front of me.
“Not childish at all. You're eating for three.”
“Then let's flag down Connie, because I need two more.”
“You deserve it, Amanda. You deserve everything.”
The bite of creamy chocolate is in my mouth as he says this. I answer with my mouth rudely full:
“You've given me everything I need or want, Mr. Ambitious.”
“Is there anything I've missed?” He's eyeing the treats on the table.
I look him over, carefully weighing my words as I swallow and reach for his hand.
“There is one thing.”
“Name it. I'll make it happen.”
“You.”
“Me?”
“I want more of you.”
Chapter 19
Andrew
“We need to talk.”
My words make her look at me with so much fear, I instantly regret them, kicking myself for not being better at this. But how can you do better when trying to tell your wife that her deadbeat father is about to be released from his prison term for vehicular manslaughter–and wants to see her?
If someone's an expert at this, Gina would have found them for me and I'd have paid whatever price they quoted.
Balancing Amanda's health and stress levels, the babies' safety, the very real possibility that Leo could go around me, and Amanda's need to know is damn near impossible.
So I’m going to do the adult thing.
Tell her.
Questions float in her eyes as she walks over to a chair, hands on the wooden back, and begins to sway. Her hips hurt less when she does this.
Which makes me think of her pain.
Which makes me think of early
labor again.
Which makes me not want to say what I need to say.
Damn Leo for putting me in this position.
Damn him.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's technically wrong, but I have something sensitive to tell you, and I'm trying to figure out how to do this without upsetting you. You have the whole early labor thing, and I don't want–”
“Andrew.”
I sigh. “Right. Here goes: Your dad wants to see you.”
“My what?”
“Your dad.”
“I'm not going all the way to Iowa to see him. Not now.”
“He's not in Iowa. He’s in New Hampshire. Got out a year or so ago. He lives an hour and a half away.”
“He's that close?”
I nod.
“How long?”
“You mean, how long has he been there?”
“How long have you known?”
Damn. Caught.
“Long enough.”
“Andrew.”
“A few months. Security checks on him regularly.”
“And Leo–my dad–he reached out to you? Why not me?”
“He didn't want to upset you.”
“Andrew.”
“Fine.” One hand rakes through my hair nervously as I eye her belly. “A long time ago, I wrote him a letter.”
Oh boy. The look she gives me.
“Told him if he wanted to contact you, to go through me first.”
“You threatened him?”
“What? No! Of course not. I simply asked him to contact me if he wanted to talk to you.”
“Or else you'd...?”
“You make me sound like a gangster.”
“At best, what you did was paternalistic and infantilizing of me.”
“Excuse me? I was protecting you.”
“I didn't ask you to insert yourself into my relationship with my father.”
“Yes, you did.”
“When?”
“The day you married me.”
“See? Paternalistic!”
“I didn't want to see you get hurt.”
“But you did hurt me, Andrew. You took away my choice. I can handle being contacted by Leo just fine.”
“I wanted to keep you safe.”
“No, you wanted to control the outcome.”
“Same thing.”
“NOT the same thing! And I've wondered why my father stopped contacting me. Now I know!”
I am so confused. “What?”
“Leo used to write me. Here and there. It wasn't more than every six or eight months, but it was something. And then the letters stopped.” She thinks for a moment, suspicion growing in her expression. “Right around when we got married.”
My shoulders drop. “Damn.”
“You kept his letters from me?”
“I don't understand what you're asking.”
“You've been blocking me from seeing Leo's letters,” she says slowly, anger building.
Oh, no. She's got this all wrong. “No.” I shake my head. “I haven't received anything from him until today.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I don't lie to you.”
Silence ticks by like hope dying. How did we get to this point? I take in her gorgeous form, so big and round, her body a sacrifice to my own blood. Nothing in the world allows me to give to her what she is offering me in the form of our children, but I have to try.
And being her shield is all I can offer.
“Honey.” I walk over and take her hand, which hangs in mine. The pit of my stomach drops as she looks away from me. This is a new level of anger, uncharted emotional waters. I'm treading water. I've capsized my own boat and have no idea where to find land.
Better figure out how to stay above water before I lose my strength.
Her silence makes the waters choppier.
“I haven't received any other letters from him, Amanda,” I say softly, my heart pleading with hers for connection. “Just this one. And I'm coming to you about it.”
“You have a father,” she says, her voice hollowing out my gut. “Our children get James as a grandfather. You see your dad every week. He's a blowhard and has some seriously controlling tendencies, but he's here. He's around. He's engaged. Our kids will know him.” Those last two words come out hard, raw, and her voice shakes at the end. “I don't even know my own father.”
Her hand squeezes mine.
“I'm sorry.” A part of me wants to mention that our children only have one grandmother–her mother–but now isn’t the time for that. Amanda needs to say her piece.
I need to just listen.
This isn't something I can protect her from, is it? I was wrong.
And I should have realized it sooner.
“I don't even know how to process this, Andrew. It's bad enough my father crawls out of the woodwork after years of not hearing from him, but,” she gestures at her midsection, “now we have two babies coming soon, and my own husband isn't who I thought he was.”
A discordant note clangs through my brain.
“No.” I pull her to me, wrapping my arms around her. She doesn't fight the contact, but she doesn't look up at me, either. Her hands hang by her side. “Amanda, no. That's not where this needs to go.”
“It's not? Then where does it go, Andrew?” She finally looks up, and I hate what I see in her eyes.
Disappointment.
All of it for me.
“I–”
“Do you remember, when we were first dating, how you handed me that manila envelope with the research you did on my father? How horrified I was to know you went snooping into my past?”
“And you already knew where he was. And that he had three years to go.”
“Sure. I knew he was out but didn't know where he was. And here we are. Nothing changes, does it? You were intrusive and paternalistic then, and now you're still the same. Except I'm even more vulnerable.” Her hand pushes me away and she rubs her belly.
“That's not true.”
“Of course it is! My entire body is being stretched from the inside out–I'm growing two babies! Your babies! And you treat me like I'm some kind of child who can't handle the realities of her own life!”
“I do not.”
“You do! Why would you screen my contact with my own father?”
“Because I knew it would be painful.”
“This is more painful, Andrew.”
“I'll never do it again. Ever. You have my word.”
“Your word?” She lets out a scoffing sound that damn near breaks me.
“I promise that I will never, ever try to protect you without talking to you about it. Without making sure you are an equal partner in whatever worries I have about keeping you and your heart safe.”
“That's a start. But you did the same thing when we first met and here you are, doing it again.”
“I didn't make a promise to you then. I am now.”
She takes a moment to think about it, then concedes. “Fair point. You didn't promise then.” The hard look in her eyes loosens, but barely. “I've been so sad my father didn't answer my letters.”
“I'm sorry, honey. If it's my fault, I'll fix it.”
“How?”
“By talking to Leo.”
“No.”
“Fine. I won't.”
“No–I mean...” She sighs, then puts both hands on her belly, rubbing. All her attention is on the babies as seconds tick by, the beat of time making me feel pregnant, too.
“I'll do whatever you want.”
Suddenly, she looks up, tears making her eyes shine.
“He wants to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about them?”
“No.”
Squaring her shoulders, she stands as tall as she can while holding forty-five pounds of baby in her torso. “Well, then, he's about to find out.”
“Huh?'
“Do you h
ave his number?”
“Yes.”
“Text him.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You want to see him now?”
“I am thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twins, Andrew. It's now or never.”
“But–”
The glare I get tells me I'm in the doghouse, so don't argue.
So I don't.
Amanda says she'd like to see you, I type to Leo's number. I slip the phone in my breast pocket and look at her.
Ding!
We both jolt.
“Probably Gina,” I mutter, but when I look, it's Leo.
You free now? I'm in Nashua.
He types an address. I map it.
“He says he's free now,” I murmur, surprised.
“Then let's go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Andrew.”
“You're sure.” I text José, who replies immediately that the car will be ready in five.
She's bereft but determined, soft but firm. “He's my father. He wants to see me. How could I not?”
And then she slips her arms around my waist, leaning in, muttering into my chest. “And wanting to protect me is sweet, but if you go all alpha like that again and cut me out of my own decisions, I'll just end up hating you.”
“I would die if you hated me.”
And then she weeps into my shirt until José appears, the front door open, his face changing as he sees us.
He slips out quietly, ready when we are.
When you hear the words halfway house, what do you envision?
We pull up to a large, white home with black shutters, two doors off a porch indicating it's a duplex of some kind. I realize I expected something seedier.
This looks like a pleasant nursing home on a quiet side street.
Except there are five men in folding chairs, all smoking, all looking ragged and worn out.
“Andrew,” Amanda says, clutching my arm. We're in the Tesla Model X. On second thought, I didn't have José drive. This is too personal, too raw. We need to be alone.
I text Leo.
The oldest of the men on the porch, a guy in a Red Sox ball cap, checks his phone. Then he looks up and stares at our car.
“That's him,” she gasps.
I see the resemblance, but barely. Amanda's got big eyes, brown and warm, with a face that's confident but sweet. She used to change her hair color frequently, but with the pregnancy she's gone back to her natural color, a soft brown that suits her.
