Will
“Mr. Price, is it okay if I eat lunch in here today?”
My head lifts as I notice one of my eighth-grade students standing in the doorway to my classroom.
Generally, the kids should be eating in the cafeteria, but Logan has been having a rough time so I’ll make an exception. “Sure.”
My classroom is shaped like a rectangle, with storage cabinets, shelves and a couple of sinks lining every wall except for the one behind my desk. I rearrange the tables depending on what we’re working on every so often. Right now, all of the work tables are paired off to make squares.
He walks quietly toward the back of the class to the table where he normally sits and pulls out his lunch. Keeping my head down so it looks like I’m reading something on my computer, I watch him eat. It’s hard to tell from this far away, but it looks as though all he has is popcorn. There’s no way that will fill up a growing eighth grader.
I brought in leftover Chinese food from this weekend. I haven’t started eating it, but Logan doesn’t know that.
“Hey, Logan, do you like Hunan chicken?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know, never had it.”
I stand, lifting my container. “Are you allergic to anything? And do you like spicy food?”
He looks at the container in my hands. “No allergies, and sometimes.”
“Mrs. Price was supposed to come meet me for lunch,” I lie. “Something came up, and she can’t come now. I hate throwing food away, but I’m stuffed. Want to try some?”
He gulps, slowly nodding.
“Grab an empty cup and get some water from the fountain first. I wasn’t joking when I said it was spicy.”
He does as I asked while I sneak a peek in his lunch bag, confirming there isn’t anything else in it.
“It’s on your table,” I say, passing him as I walk back to my desk. “Let me know if you like it.”
I try not to watch him eat, so I focus on loading grades into the system. The software allows students and their parents to log in and get the most up-to-date grading information. The system only works if I actually make the time to enter the assignments as we go instead of letting them pile up on my desk. Teaching art, I rarely have students struggle to pass my class. I’m an elective, so they all want to be here.
“Can I go get some more water, Mr. Price?” Logan asks, now standing beside my desk, my empty Tupperware container in his hand.
“Sure, did you like it?”
He nods, smiling. “It was good, just real spicy, like you said.”
After downing his water, Logan heads out to his next class, pausing in the doorway. “Is it okay if I eat lunch in here again tomorrow, Mr. Price?”
“You’re always welcome as long as I’m in here,” I reply.
“Thanks, Mr. Price.”
I nod and he’s gone. I glance down at what was going to be my lunch, snapping the lid back on it and slipping the now-empty container into my bag. I have a stash of emergency granola bars in my desk, and I have enough time to inhale two of them before my next class starts.
I’ve had Logan in one of my classes for the last three years. His dad is a reservist currently overseas. His mom passed away when he was in elementary school, so while his dad is in South Korea he’s living with his grandparents. From what I understand, both are in poor health.
Logan is a good kid. He loves coming to art class and he’s one of those students I feel honored to teach. At the end of the day, I’m sure I learned more from him than the other way around.
After school, I stayed late to switch out the artwork hanging in the gym hall. With the exceptions of some bulletin boards dedicated to the PTA and certain subjects, the rest of the walls in the school were my canvas. It’s my philosophy that kids are inspired by their environment, that somehow I can encourage their creativity by making art that speaks to them readily available.
Pieces with interesting shapes, colors and three-dimensional craziness were always popular. My favorite projects were the ones where my students had to share a piece of themselves through the art they were creating. The assignment could be something as simple as interpreting the lyrics of their favorite song into a drawing. That way, not only did I get to know their favorite songs, but I also learned how they envisioned the meaning of it.
One year, through a song, I discovered a student was harming herself and was able to get her help. My biggest fear is missing something with one of my kids. That’s why, no matter what, I always make time for them.
I head home once I’m done with switching out the artwork. The middle school I teach at is a short drive from our house. I loosen my tie and waver between opening the windows and turning on the AC for my ride home. I’d be more comfortable with the AC going, but after eight hours of smelling tempura paint I need some fresh air. Besides, opening the sunroof always reminds me of Sarah.
The house smells like crockpot ribs the moment I walk in the door. Something about fall makes Sarah act more domesticated than normal.
“Smells good, babe,” I call out, shrugging off my jacket and placing it on the fennel at the bottom of our wooden bannister. Sarah would rather I hang it up, but what’s the point? I’m only going to put it back on tomorrow morning when I have to leave again.
There’s a study Sarah uses as her office on the main floor. The room looks like something out of a magazine, from the buttery yellow walls to the matching curtains and rug under her desk. She has warm-toned, medium-height bookshelves running along the wall beneath the window and two cushiony armchairs with a matching yellow and light blue print facing her desk.
I sink into one of them and ask, “When’re the ribs going to be ready?”
She swivels her chair to face me. “Hungry?”
I nod. “Starved. I gave my lunch to a student today.”
Her brows pinch together. “Is everything okay?”
I chew the inside of my lip before I reply. “I’m not sure. He asked if he can eat in my class tomorrow, so I’m going to bring some extra food just in case. I don’t know whether I should see if he opens up to me or talk to the school counselor.”
Her eyes drift toward the ceiling. She knows both Christine and I aren’t fans of the school’s guidance counselor. I’ll never understand why someone who seemingly dislikes kids so much went into her profession. On the surface, however, she’s sugary sweet, her goal in life to give you a toothache.
I can’t talk to her about Logan. At best, she would put a note in his file and forget about him. At worst, she’d publicly ask him if he needed free or reduced lunches. That’s the last thing he would want his classmates thinking, even if it were true.
Sarah stands, walking over to sit in my lap and lean against my chest. “There’ll be plenty of ribs left over to bring to school tomorrow.”
That’s my girl.
I dip my head and press my lips to hers as I wrap my arms around her and pull her even tighter against me. She’s wearing a soft, woolen sweater which I look forward to taking off her tonight. When she still had an office for her business, before she decided to move back to Georgia to be with me, she wore nothing but business suits. Can’t lie, those skinny skirts and heels she wore were sexy as hell.
I wouldn’t trade her in yoga pants and big sweaters for the world, though. The changes she made by taking her company remote made a future where our kids could grow up near their grandparents possible. I’ll never forget what she sacrificed for us. Living close to home meant she was also able to form a relationship with my mom. We’ve both now long since forgiven her for her role in our breakup.
I’m not sure she will ever forgive herself, though. She spoils Sarah now, her way of trying to make up for the years we lost. Too soon, I release my hold and follow her as she makes her way to the kitchen, listening as she tells me about her day. She’s efficient, so much so that there isn’t enough work to keep her busy eight hours a day, five days a week.
Before we got back together, she spent most of her time tra
velling. Now that she’s taken over the more administrative functions of her business, I think she’s bored. When we first bought the house, she filled her time with making it a home. Now that we’ve made this house ours, however, I worry that she regrets leaving Colorado for me. All I want is to make her happy.
“What sounds better with the ribs, baked or mashed potatoes?”
“I’m fine with either. Can I help?”
“Keep me company?” she asks.
I tug on her ponytail before sliding onto a stool. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
Her eyes get soft as she smiles at me.
“Guess who I’m having lunch with tomorrow?” She pulls two potatoes from the pantry and starts washing them.
“Should we play hot or cold, or am I randomly guessing?” I tease.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “Oh, let’s play hot or cold.”
“My mom?”
She groans, shutting off the water with annoyance. “It’s no fun when you guess it right on your first try.”
I stand, moving over to kiss her neck. “She called me on my drive home and told me.”
Her mouth drops and she halfheartedly smacks my chest. “Cheater.”
I stay standing, hip pressing into the counter top, and watch her. She never stays annoyed at me for too long. Once she has the potatoes in the oven, I tug her into my arms.
“How’d I get so lucky?” I ask.
She looks up at me, her lips parting. It’s an invitation I can’t resist, so I dip my head to take her mouth. She is so sweet, my Sarah, the girl I’ve loved for most of my life.
When I lift my head, I take in the dazed expression on her face and ask again, “How did I get so lucky?”
It’s not a question she ever answers. It’s just my way of showing her how lucky I feel I get to call her mine.
“I’m the lucky one,” she breathes.
Sarah
My period came today. I was a couple of days late and stupidly I started to hope. Nothing like crying as you sit on the toilet to make any hope you had evaporate. What is wrong with me?
I clean myself up and even though it’s barely noon, I climb back into bed. Half of my day, I spend surfing the internet trying to stretch out my work so I can feel busy. I’ve run my company so well it no longer needs me.
So, what does that make me?
A stay-at-home, want-to-be mom of an empty home?
I call my doctor and make an appointment. Thankfully, he has an opening next week. I can pull myself together and wait six days. The hardest day will be Sunday and lunch at my parents, since Christine will be there with Brian and Calvin. My mom will want to know how this pregnancy is going, so she’ll ask her all about it and then look at me.
The only person who knows we’ve been trying is Sawyer, and I’m sure she told Jared. If there’s something wrong with me, I don’t want anyone else to know. There’s nothing worse than knowing someone is feeling sorry for you.
Will likes to ask me how he got to be so lucky. Will he still feel that way if I can’t have his baby? He would make the best father. He’s told me his children would never be emotionally abandoned the way he had been. That’s why he’s feeding that student of his every day at lunch.
My thoughts fall into a negative spiral of wondering if Will would be happy with adopting. I can pretend the thought of adopting wouldn’t break my heart. It’s hard to imagine another possibility when all you’ve dreamed of for years was creating a child together.
I’m mourning the miniature Will I’ve dreamt or of the little girl with the best of each of us. I want to be a mother. I want to carry my child inside of me. For as long as it took for Will and me to get our happily-ever-after, I never imagined there’d be a possibility we couldn’t make a family.
Six days.
I reach for my phone and call Sawyer.
“What’s crack-a-lacking, sweet cheeks?”
I sniffle, wiping fresh tears from my eyes, “I got my period.”
“Aww, honey.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You stop that kind of talk right now. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why can’t I get pregnant?”
“Have you talked to a doctor?”
“I made an appointment for next week.”
“Good. Who knows? Maybe it’s Will.”
“Don’t say that.”
She starts laughing. “Maybe he has a late-night porn addiction and all of his spermies are ending up in some Kleenex.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “There’s nothing wrong with his sperm.”
“How do you know?” she argues, teasingly.
“Trust me, I know.”
“Oh, shit, Sarah. You know you can’t get pregnant giving head.”
“You are such an asshole.”
Suddenly, I wish we were Face timing, since I’m certain she’s smiling and I miss her face.
“I’m the best asshole ever,” she replies.
“You are,” I agree.
“Feeling better, my dearest?”
She always was the best at cheering me up. “I am.”
“So, are you going to tell Mr. Price about your doctor’s appointment?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Want my opinion?”
I shift onto my side. “You know you’re gonna give it to me whether I want to hear it or not.”
“Don’t keep this from him.”
I sigh. She’s right. I know it.
“I’m ashamed.”
“Oh, honey.”
I’m silent, as much as I can be as I begin to cry again.
“Do you want me to come down for a visit?”
Of course she would offer that. She’s the most giving and generous person I know, aside from Will. I know she’s breastfeeding, so if she came she’d bring Pascal. It’s horrible to think, but I’m not sure I can handle having a baby in my house the same day I learn I may never be able to have one of my own.
“No, I’ll talk to Will.”
“You need someone to go with you to that appointment. Worst-case, you could always take Will’s mom.”
Sawyer has lost her mind with that suggestion. Why on Earth would I bring the woman who never thought I was good enough for her son to an appointment that proved it?
“No way.”
“She loves you. I know you don’t believe that, but she does.”
“She had a jacked-up way of showing it back in the day.”
I hear her inhale through her nose. “Sarah. I thought you had forgiven her.”
I pull one of Will’s pillows from his side of our bed into my lap. “It’s hard to forget.”
“I get that. All I ask is that you stop mentally punishing her for stuff that happened in the past. You don’t want to be a bitter broad.”
“A bitter broad?” I laugh.
“Yep. It’ll make you get wrinkles and shit.”
I sit up in bed, pushing his pillow aside and tugging the covers toward my lap. “Okay, I’ll try not to be a bitter broad.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
I gulp. “I’ll tell Will about the appointment tonight.”
“Good girl.”
“Thank you for being so awesome.”
“I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too.”
After we hang up, I turn on the TV. I’ve already finished everything I had needed to do work-wise and don’t want to get out of bed. If something else comes up, they can call me. I pick a movie from on-demand that I’ve seen before, a comedy, and try to relax. I’m asleep before the opening credits are done.
I wake to the bed dipping and two strong arms pulling my back against a solid chest.
“Are you feeling okay?” Will asks, kissing the side of my head.
I turn, tucking my nose under his chin, into his neck. There is something so comforting in the way he smells, and in the warmth that radiates from his skin.
&
nbsp; “I got my period today.”
His arms tighten around me.
I can’t see his face, but I imagine his expression is disappointed. “I’m sorry, honey.”
I pinch my eyes shut in an attempt to discourage the tears that are suddenly forming. “What if something’s wrong with me?”
His arms tighten. “There is nothing wrong with you.”
“Will you still love me if I can’t ever get pregnant?”
He leans back, his finger coming under my chin and lifting my face until our eyes meet. “Don’t think like that, ever. You are my entire world. There is no choice in whether I love you or not. I just do and always will, no matter what.”
I dip my head and bury my face back into his neck. “I want to have your baby so much.”
His hands move up and drift into my hair as he leans back to kiss my face. First my cheeks, then my forehead and lastly one hard kiss against my lips.
The intensity of his eyes pierces mine. “I only want you to be happy.”
“I only want to make you happy.”
“Don’t you understand you already do?” he murmurs against my skin.
“I made a doctor’s appointment for next week. Will you come to it with me?”
“Yes.”
Silently, he holds me. I watch the light peeking through the slats of our blinds travel across our bedroom until the room darkens and they disappear altogether. Will pulls away to go downstairs and make us dinner. I stop in the bathroom first before following him. It doesn’t happen often but there are times, even after almost three years of marriage that I wonder if I’m good enough for him.
He has this uncanny ability to make me feel worthy of his love nine times out of ten. It’s just that last one time where my own insecurities doubt him. It’s silly—stupid, even—and I try to convince myself I deserve him. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, it’s clear that crying for most of the day did me no favors.
Will looks delicious all the time. How is that fair? From the moment he wakes up—even when he’s still sleepy—to the moment he lays his head back down to go to sleep. He had the flu last year and still looked gorgeous. I wonder if people see us together and think he’s too good for me.
Them (Him #3) Page 2
