All Your Perfects

by Colleen Hoover

  When I’m finally able to respond to him, I do it slowly and quietly because if there’s anything I need for Graham to understand, it’s everything I’m about to say. I lean forward and press my palms against the table, staring directly at him.

  “The fact that you think what you did with that woman was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me proves that you have no idea what I’ve been through. You have no idea what it’s like to experience infertility. Because you aren’t experiencing infertility, Graham. I am. Don’t get that confused. You can fuck another woman and make a baby. I can’t fuck another man and make a baby.” I push off the table and spin around. I planned to take a moment and gather my thoughts, but apparently, I don’t need a moment, because I immediately turn and face him again. “And I loved making love to you, Graham. It’s not you I didn’t want. It was the agony that came afterward. Your infidelity is a walk in the park compared to what I experienced month after month every time we had sex and it lead to nothing but an orgasm. An orgasm! Big fucking deal! How was I supposed to admit that to you? There was no way I could admit that I grew to despise every hug and every kiss and every touch because all of it would lead to the worst day of my life every twenty-eight fucking days!” I push past the chair and walk away from the table. “Fuck you and your affair. I don’t give a fuck about your affair, Graham.”

  I walk into the kitchen as soon as I’m finished. I don’t even want to look at him right now. It’s the most honest I’ve ever been and I’m scared of what it did to him. I’m also scared that I don’t care what it did to him.

  I don’t even know why I’m arguing issues that are irrelevant. I can’t get pregnant now no matter how much we fight about the past.

  I pour myself a glass of water and sip from it while I calm down.

  A few silent moments go by before Graham moves from the table. He walks into the kitchen and leans against the counter in front of me, crossing his feet at the ankles. When I work up the courage to look at his eyes, I’m surprised to see a calmness in them. Even after the harsh words that just left my mouth, he somehow still looks at me like he doesn’t absolutely hate me.

  We stare at each other, both of us dry-eyed and full of years’ worth of things we should never have kept bottled up. Despite his calmness and his lack of animosity, he looks deflated by everything I just yelled at him—like my words were safety pins, poking holes in him, letting all the air out.

  I can tell by the exhaustion in his expression that he’s given up again. I don’t blame him. Why keep fighting for someone who is no longer fighting for you?

  Graham closes his eyes and grips the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He cycles through a calming breath before folding both arms over his chest. He shakes his head, like he’s finally come to a realization that he never wanted to come to. “No matter how hard I try . . . no matter how much I love you . . . I can’t be the one thing you’ve always wanted me to be, Quinn. I will never be a father.”

  A tear immediately falls from my eye. And then another. But I remain stoic as he steps toward me.

  “If this is what our marriage is . . . if this is all it will ever be . . . just me and you . . . will that be enough? Am I enough for you, Quinn?”

  I’m confounded. Speechless.

  I stare at him in utter disbelief, unable to answer him. Not because I can’t. I know the answer to his question. I’ve always known the answer. But I stay silent because I’m not sure I should answer him.

  The silence that lingers between his question and my answer creates the biggest misunderstanding our marriage has ever seen. Graham’s jaw hardens. His eyes harden. Everything—even his heart—hardens. He looks away from me because my silence means something different to him than what it means to me.

  He walks out of the kitchen, toward the guest room. Probably to get his suitcase and leave again. It takes everything in me not to run after him and beg him to stay. I want to fall to my knees and tell him that if on our wedding day, someone had forced me to choose between the possibility of having children or spending a life with Graham, I would have chosen life with him. Without a doubt, I would have chosen him.

  I can’t believe our marriage has come to this point. The point where my behavior has convinced Graham that he’s not enough for me. He is enough for me.

  The problem is . . . he could be so much more without me.

  I blow out a shaky breath and turn around, pressing my palms into the counter. The agony of knowing what I’m doing to him makes my entire body tremble.

  When he emerges from the hallway, he’s not holding his suitcase. He’s holding something else.

  The box.

  He brought our box with him?

  He walks into the kitchen and sets it beside me on the counter. “If you don’t tell me to stop, we’re opening it.”

  I lean forward and press my arms into the counter, my face against my arms. I don’t tell him to stop, though. All I can do is cry. It’s the kind of cry I’ve experienced in my dreams. The cries that hurt so much, you can’t even make a sound.

  “Quinn,” he pleads with a shaky voice. I squeeze my eyes shut even harder. “Quinn.” He whispers my name like it’s his final plea. When I still refuse to ask him to stop, I hear him move the box closer to me. I hear him insert the key into the lock. I hear him pull the lock off, but instead of it clinking against the counter, it crashes against the kitchen wall.

  He is so angry right now.

  “Look at me.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to remember what it felt like when we closed that box together all those years ago.

  He slides his hand through my hair and leans down, bringing his lips to my ear. “This box won’t open itself, and I sure as hell am not going to be the one to do it.”

  His hand leaves my hair and his lips leave my ear. He slides the box over until it’s touching my arm.

  There have only been a handful of times I’ve cried this hard in my life. Three of those times were when the IVF rounds didn’t take. One of those times was the night I found out Graham kissed another woman. One of those times was when I found out I had a hysterectomy. Out of all the times I’ve cried this hard, Graham has held me every single time. Even when the tears were because of him.

  This time feels so much harder. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face this kind of devastation on my own.

  As if he knows this, I feel his arms slide around me. His loving, caring, selfless arms pull me to him, and even though we’re on opposite sides of this war, he refuses to pick up his weapons. My face is now pressed against his chest and I am so broken.

  So broken.

  I try to still the war inside me, but all I hear are the same sentences that have been repeating over and over in my head since the moment I first heard them.

  “You would make such a great father, Graham.”

  “I know. It devastates me that it still hasn’t happened yet.”

  I press a kiss to Graham’s chest and whisper a silent promise against his heart. Someday it’ll happen for you, Graham. Someday you’ll understand.

  I pull away from his chest.

  I open the box.

  We finally end the dance.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  * * *

  Then

  It’s been five hours since we said I do on a secluded beach in the presence of two strangers we met just minutes before our vows. And I don’t have a single regret.

  Not one.

  I don’t regret agreeing to spend the weekend with Graham at the beach house. I don’t regret getting married five months before we planned to. I don’t regret texting my mother when it was over, thanking her for her help, but letting her know it’s no longer needed because we’re already married. And I don’t regret that instead of a fancy dinner at the Douglas Whimberly Plaza, Graham and I grilled hot dogs over the fire pit and ate cookies for dessert.

  I don’t think I’ll ever regret any of this. Something so
perfect could never become a regret.

  Graham opens the sliding glass door and walks onto the balcony. It was too cold to sit up here when we were here three months ago, but it’s perfect tonight. A cool breeze is coming off the water, blowing my hair just enough to keep it out of my face. Graham takes a seat next to me, tugging me toward him. I snuggle against him.

  Graham leans forward slightly and places his phone next to mine on the railing in front of us. He’s been inside breaking the news to his mother that there won’t be a wedding.

  “Is your mother upset?” I ask.

  “She’s pretending to be happy for us but I can tell she would have liked to have been there.”

  “Do you feel guilty?”

  He laughs. “Not at all. She’s been through two weddings with two of my sisters and she’s in the middle of planning the last one’s wedding. I’m sure a huge part of her is relieved. It’s my sisters I’m worried about.”

  I didn’t even think about them. I texted Ava on the way here yesterday, but I think she’s the only one who knew. Ava and all three of Graham’s sisters were going to be bridesmaids in the wedding. We had just told them last week. “What did they say?”

  “I haven’t told them yet,” he says. “I’m sure I won’t have to because ten bucks says my mother is on the phone with all three of them right now.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be happy for you. Besides, they met my mother on Easter Sunday. They’ll understand why we ended up doing it this way.”

  My phone pings. Graham reaches forward and grabs it for me. He naturally glances at it as he’s handing it to me. When I see the text is from my mom, I try to pull the phone from him, but it’s too late. He pulls it back to him and finishes reading the text.

  “What is she talking about?”

  I read the text and feel panic wash over me. “It’s nothing.” Please just let it go, Graham.

  I can tell he isn’t, because he urges me to sit up and look at him. “Why did she text you that?”

  I look down at my phone again. At her terrible text.

  You think he jumped the gun because he was excited to marry you? Wake up, Quinn. It was the perfect way for him to avoid signing.

  “Sign what?” Graham asks.

  I press my hand against his heart and try to find the words, but they’re somehow even harder to find tonight than they have been the last three months I’ve avoided talking about it.

  “She’s talking about a prenuptial agreement.”

  “For what?” Graham says. I can already hear the offense in his voice.

  “She’s concerned my stepfather has changed the will to add me to it. Or maybe he already has, I don’t know. It would make more sense, since she’s been wanting me to talk to you about it so bad.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “I was going to. It’s just . . . I don’t feel like I need to, Graham. I know that’s not why you’re marrying me. And even if my mother’s husband does leave me money in the future, I don’t care that it would go to both of us.”

  Graham hooks his thumb under my chin. “First, you’re right. I don’t give a damn about your bank account. Second, your mother is mean to you and it makes me angry. But . . . as mean as she speaks to you sometimes, she’s right. You shouldn’t have married me without a prenup. I don’t know why you never talked to me about it. I would have signed one without question. I’m an accountant, Quinn. It’s the smart thing to do when assets are involved.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting him to agree with her. “Oh. Well . . . I should have brought it up to you, then. I didn’t think the conversation would be this easy.”

  “I’m your husband. My goal is to make things easier on you, not more difficult.” He kisses me, but the kiss is interrupted by my phone going off.

  It’s another text from my mother. Before I can finish reading it, Graham takes the phone from me. He types out a text to her.

  Graham agreed to sign a postnup. Have your lawyer draft it up. Problem solved.

  He sets the phone on the railing and, similar to the first night we met, he pushes the phone over the edge of the balcony. Before my phone lands in the bushes below, Graham’s phone receives an incoming text. And then another. And another.

  “Your sisters.”

  Graham leans forward and gives his phone a shove, too. When we hear it land in the bushes below, we both laugh.

  “Much better,” he says. He stands up and reaches for my hand. “Come on. I have a present for you.”

  I grab his hand and jump up with excitement. “Really? A wedding present?”

  He pulls me behind him, walking me into the bedroom. “Have a seat,” he says, motioning to the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hop onto the center of the bed and wait giddily for him to get back with the gift. It’s the first gift I’ve ever received from my husband, so I’m making a way bigger deal out of it than it probably needs to be. I don’t know when he would have had time to buy me something. We didn’t know we were getting married until half an hour before we came here.

  Graham walks back into the room holding a wooden box. I don’t know if the box is my present or if there’s something inside of it, but the box itself is so beautiful, I wouldn’t mind if the actual box was my present. It’s a dark mahogany wood and it looks hand-carved, with intricate detailing on the top of the lid.

  “Did you make this?”

  “A few years ago,” he says. “I used to build stuff in my father’s garage. I like working with wood.”

  “I didn’t know that about you.”

  Graham smiles at me. “Side effect of marrying someone you’ve known less than a year.” He takes a seat across from me on the bed. He won’t stop smiling, which excites me even more. He doesn’t hand me the present, though. He opens the lid and pulls something out of the box. It’s familiar. An envelope with his name on it.

  “You know what this is?”

  I take the envelope from him. The last time we were at this beach house, Graham asked me to write him a love letter. As soon as we got home, I spent an entire evening writing him this letter. I even sprayed it with my perfume and slipped a nude pic in the envelope before I sealed it.

  After I gave it to him, I wondered why he never mentioned it again. But I got so caught up in the wedding, I forgot about it. I flip over the envelope and see that it’s never even been opened. “Why haven’t you opened it?”

  He pulls another envelope out of the box, but he doesn’t answer me. This one is a larger envelope with my name on it.

  I grab it from him, more excited for a love letter than I’ve ever been in my life. “You wrote me one, too?”

  “First love letter I’ve ever written,” he says. “I think it’s a decent first attempt.”

  I grin and use my finger to start to tear open the flap, but Graham snatches it out of my hands before I can get it open.

  “You can’t read it yet.” He holds the letter against his chest like I might fight him for it.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he says, putting both envelopes back in the box. “It’s not time.”

  “You wrote me a letter I’m not allowed to read?”

  Graham appears to be enjoying this. “You have to wait. We’re locking this box and we’re saving it to open on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.” He grabs a lock that goes to the box and he slides it through the attached loop.

  “Graham!” I say, laughing. “This is like the worst gift ever! You gave me twenty-five years of torment!”

  He laughs.

  As frustrating as the gift is, it’s also one of the sweetest things he’s ever done. I lift up onto my knees and lean forward, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’m kind of mad I don’t get to read your letter yet,” I whisper. “But it’s a really beautiful gift. You really are the sweetest man I know, Mr. Wells.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m glad you like it, Mrs. Wells.”

  I kiss h
im and then sit back down on the bed. I run my hand over the top of the box. “I’m sad you won’t see my picture for another twenty-five years. It required a lot of flexibility.”

  Graham arches an eyebrow. “Flexibility, huh?”

  I grin. I look down at the box, wondering what his letter to me says. I can’t believe I have to wait twenty-five years. “There’s no way around the wait?”

  “The only time we’re allowed to open this box before our twenty-fifth anniversary is if it’s an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency? Like . . . death?”

  He shakes his head. “No. A relationship emergency. Like . . . divorce.”

  “Divorce?” I hate that word. “Seriously?”

  “I don’t see us needing to open this box for any other reason than to celebrate our longevity, Quinn. But, if one of us ever decides we want a divorce—if we’ve reached the point where we think that’s the only answer—we have to promise not to go through with it until we open this box and read these letters. Maybe reminding each other of how we felt when we closed the box will help change our minds if we ever need to open it early.”

  “So this box isn’t just a keepsake. It’s also a marriage survival kit?”

  Graham shrugs. “You could say that. But we have nothing to worry about. I’m confident we won’t need to open this box for another twenty-five years.”

  “I’m more than confident,” I say. “I would bet on it, but if I lose and we get divorced, I won’t have enough money to pay out on our bet because you never signed a prenup.”

  Graham winks at me. “You shouldn’t have married a gold digger.”

  “Do I still have time to change my mind?”

  Graham clicks the lock shut. “Too late. I already locked it.” He picks up the key to the lock and walks the box to the dresser. “I’ll tape the key to the bottom of it tomorrow so we’ll never lose it,” he says.

  He walks around the bed to get closer to me. He grabs me by the waist and lifts me off the bed, throwing me over his shoulder. He carries me over the patio threshold and back outside to the balcony where he slides me down his body as he sits on the swing.