“I’m at home,” he says.
I know Adam like the back of my hand. His pauses, his dazed and shaky tone, his calling me to share the frightening news.
“Adam, would you like me to come over?”
“Could you, Halley? Could you come home?”
Ten
I never thought I could feel like a stranger in my own home. Everything looks the same. All the framed photographs are where they were when I left, the living room throw still on the sofa’s right arm, the coasters still stacked on the coffee table shelf. It smells the way I’ve always known it to—like apple cinnamon potpourri. The remote controls are still scattered about the furniture, the magazine bin still filled with already-read magazines that have yet to find their way into the recycling bin. At a casual glance, this is my home. Yet when I sit on the sofa, the soft golden light of the evening spilling through the windows in its routine way, my husband an arm’s length from mine, I feel like an intruder. Everything’s familiar yet foreign. Everything’s where it should be yet misplaced.
Adam looks up from his cell phone. “That’s Griffin,” he says. “Says again that everything’s all right.”
“Good.”
I slowly shake my head, imagining the sheer terror that Nina and Griffin had to go through today. They were having their usual Saturday-morning brunch. They’d invited Adam along, as well as Nina and Adam’s parents. What started as a pleasant family brunch turned into an emergency rush to the hospital when Nina experienced sharp pains in the abdomen. They’d turned out to be contractions. Serious contractions, Adam explained, and not the light ones many women experience a few weeks before their due date. Nina was going into labor a good nine weeks too early.
Luckily, the doctor was able to bring the contractions to a halt and stop the labor. However, Nina will have to be on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. She is now considered high risk. The doctor assured her that if she stays on bed rest, keeps her blood pressure low, and doesn’t endure stressful or high-pressure situations or physically exert herself, Rylan should arrive in the healthy late-thirties-to-forty-weeks zone.
I’m confident Nina, who does not usually succumb to stress, if she stays in bed as the doctor orders, will have nothing to worry about. Still, the thought of Nina’s having to endure a high-risk pregnancy or any complications tears at my heart. Hasn’t she been through enough trying to become a mother?
“Nina asked me to call you,” Adam says. “Tell you what happened and that everything’s okay.”
“Thank you.”
“I would have called anyhow.”
I look at Adam, into his warm, comforting eyes. He’s only two feet away, but I miss him.
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” he says, reading my mind. “Nina doesn’t deserve this.”
“She doesn’t.”
“I knew Nina wanted to be a mother. Above and beyond anything.” Adam’s fingers toy with the throw’s fringe. “But tonight, seeing the horror on her face when the doctor told her she was in early labor, and seeing how relieved and happy she was when she was told everything would be fine so long as she stayed in bed. Damn, Halley.” He sighs. “She wants nothing if not this baby. To be a mother. It was . . . grounding. Being told you can’t leave bed for so long, most people would probably grumble to no end. Think they got a raw deal. Not Nina. I swear, it was like she won the lottery with the doctor’s news.”
“After facing the potential of a premature birth or worse,” I say, “I can imagine.”
“Thank you for coming over.”
“No problem.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s nice to talk to someone after something traumatic like this. Your nerves sounded a bit shot.”
He sighs in response.
“I’m . . . glad you want to talk to me,” I say cautiously.
He shifts in his seat some. “At the risk of sounding selfish at such an inappropriate time,” he says, sheepish, “I couldn’t help but think of you, at the hospital. And how much I missed you, Halley. How you were the only person I wanted to talk to. The only person who could make me feel all right during such a shitty time.”
“That’s not selfish.” I consider extending my hand toward his, letting my fingers touch his. But I hold back and say, “I’d want the same.”
“It’s been a weird couple of months, hasn’t it?” He stops toying with the fringe. One hand now lies limp in his lap, the other resting on the sofa cushion, in the space between the two of us.
“I think that’s a bit of an understatement.” I inch my hand closer to his.
“In the hospital, when I wasn’t thinking about Nina and praying that everything would be all right, I couldn’t help but think about loss. About us. I don’t want to lose you, Halley.”
I let my fingers find Adam’s, and despite the discomfiting sensation of being a stranger in my own home, as soon as my hand finds his, I know exactly where I am.
“I don’t want to lose you, either, Adam.” I let my hand tighten around his.
“I love you. Always have, always will.” He pulls our hands toward his side, naturally making me inch closer to him. Our eyes lock.
“We’re still not fixed, Adam,” I whisper.
It isn’t a romantic thing to say, in the way the connection sparked by the emotional roller coaster of the day and the low lighting are romantic. It’s warranted, though. It’s a caution.
“But we’re not broken, Halley.”
Adam looks from my eyes to my lips. He studies them the way he sometimes does before he kisses them, softly at first, and then hungrily. It’s this gaze that makes me move that inch closer, that makes me whisper his name right before he presses his lips to mine. His kiss is exactly the way I remembered—soft, then hungry, then tender and every single perfect adjective a woman can write about being in the heat of the delicious moment.
As Adam moves his kiss to my neck, leaving a trail down my nape and along my shoulder, I give in to the space of unbroken yet not fixed. I’m filled with a cocktail of emotions—grief at the potential loss of Rylan and everything that Nina wants; joy that everything I want is right here, in my arms; worry that Charlotte will not find her way out from under the rubble; and sadness over just how much pain life can bring.
Both of Adam’s hands now press firmly, eagerly against my hips. My head rests on the arm of the sofa as Adam hovers above me, his mouth only inches from mine, breathing heavily and looking deeply into my eyes. I am also filled with a reassuring and convincing hope—despite my best efforts to stay optimistic without playing into the hands of false hope—over just how much beauty life can bring.
Adam and I unexpectedly make love, and in a way we never have before, that quiet early Saturday evening, when the light is low, the words unsaid are many, and the rekindling of the connection between husband and wife is attempted. We give in and make love even though we will have to face the problems we set aside for this intimate moment when we unwrap our arms from each other, when we say goodbye and I go home. We make love as if it’s the first time and the last, a unique compilation of desperation, defenselessness, and desire. He moves inside me the way he always has, and I hold him as if I never want to let go. He looks at me as if he doesn’t want this moment to end, and I close my eyes and say his name in the same throaty and pleasing way I have since our first time. It’s as if time stops or something. As if in this union our problems are put on pause and we can attempt to return to a happier time, a simpler, less messy time. There’s no thinking about what comes after or how we got to this point. There’s just the moment of now. The very complicated now when we ignore reality and cling to what we know, what we miss. And it is that complication, that image of clinging to hope and the past, that hurts.
I come shortly after Adam, and then we hold each other, breathing heavily, collapsed in exhaustion on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms.
He runs his fingers through my sweat-dampened hair. “Some things never change, do they, Halley?”
>
I touch the speckling of coarse hair across his cheeks and chin. I kiss two fingers and press them to his lips.
It isn’t what never changes.
But what has.
I don’t leave until the next morning. When I glance at my cell phone I notice a text message from Marian: Guess you’re at Charlotte’s for the night. See you in the morning! XO
“How about breakfast?” Adam says with a grin.
Front door wide open, I’m about to step outside when he places a hand on my hip. “At your favorite place, Le Pain Quotidien?”
Adam’s touch sets loose butterflies in my stomach, but not the kind I’m used to, not the kind I want to feel. Rather, I feel vulnerable, as if I should be anywhere but here. So I say, “That’s all right. I should get home. Marian’s probably worried sick about me.” I hold up my cell phone. It’s a lame excuse.
“Text her you’re A-okay.” His hand remains on my hip.
Exactly. Lame excuse.
“Adam,” I whine playfully. I step out onto the front walk.
“Halley.” I turn back. Adam has one arm crooked over his head, resting against the doorway. “I really enjoyed last night.”
“I did, too.”
I hug my purse tighter to my side. The pointy edges of the heavy silver eight-by-ten photograph frame dig into my armpit. It’s one of my favorite photos of ours, taken on the Greek island of Mykonos. Adam and I had booked lodging at what turned out to be, unbeknownst to us, a gay resort. We had a fabulous time, though we were the oddballs on site. It was a vacation not at all short on laughter and good memories, and this photo represents that. A simpler, happier time. A time when all that mattered was that we were together.
I don’t tell Adam I’ve taken it. Not because I want to see if he’ll even notice it’s missing but because taking it is such a nostalgic move. When we separated, I took mostly my clothes, bathroom products, stuff I need in my everyday life. I didn’t pack up my collection of books and movies or select photos and knickknacks from around the house. My taking this one photo isn’t necessarily indicative of the state of our marriage, but what if Adam sees it that way?
“Thanks for coming over,” Adam says.
As great as last night was, I can’t be here any longer. I can’t watch a tempting Adam standing before me, barefoot, hair askew, T-shirt raised by his stance, exposing the sexy section of tanned torso where his abs end and his pelvis begins. And he’s wearing that crooked grin of his, with a dark overnight shadow—it gets me every time. If we hadn’t had sex last night, you could bet that we would right about now.
No, I can’t be here any longer because it hurts too much. It hurts too much to feel as if I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“You know,” he says, rubbing his jaw, “I didn’t expect this to happen.”
“I didn’t, either,” I assure him.
He leans forward and says in a husky voice, “But I’m really glad it did.”
I scratch at my eyebrow and look up at him, face pulled tight in confusion. “Look”—I glance behind me, body language for I really should be going—“I should go. Call me if you hear anything from Nina. I mean, I’ll talk to her, but in case she needs me, or you need me, or . . .”
“I will, Halley.”
“Okay,” I say in a high, nervous pitch. “Then . . . have a good day.”
“You want to do lunch again?”
I’m already halfway down the walkway when he asks. I pause, drum my fingers against my purse strap.
“Adam, I love you, and I loved last night, but . . . it’s confusing. Complicated. You know?”
“It’s just lunch, Hals.”
“Lunch.” I nod to myself. It is just lunch he’s offering, not an afternoon delight. Lunch. Something we agreed to do more often together anyway. Before last night.
“Yeah,” I say, “lunch is good.”
“Then I’ll call you about another lunch.” He smiles.
“Like, next week? Or the week after?” I need some space. Need to regain my footing. I feel as if I’m blushing bright red.
“Sure.”
Before I get into my car, I look back at Adam. His arm is still raised over his head, T-shirt pulled up past his waist, biceps flexed. He gives a loose wave with one hand. I wave back and get behind the wheel.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, starting the engine. “What now?”
“Oh. My. God!” Marian’s sitting on the sofa when I break the news of last night to her. Her response is exactly what I expected. “This is huge!” She’s still in her pajamas—a pair of boy-shorts underwear and a loose-fitting black tank—and her hair is in a loose bedhead bun. A blanket drapes over her legs, her computer is opened beside her, a glass of orange juice is in her hand.
I fill her in on all the details, including the unfortunate reason for my showing up on Adam’s doorstep.
“Poor Nina,” Marian says, clutching a hand to her chest. “I’d lose my frickin’ mind if I had to stay on bed rest. How’s she doing?”
“Doing well, so I hear. I’m going to go visit her next week. I’m sure she could use the company, what with bed rest here on out.”
“Damn, well, at least she’s okay.”
“Definitely.”
“And at least you got some!” Marian playfully smacks my thigh. “Hear, hear.” She hands me her glass of orange juice. “This is toast-worthy.”
I take a sip of what turns out to be a mimosa and hand the glass back to her. “I wouldn’t say toast-worthy.”
“You and Adam slept together. You had sex! This is awesome.”
“Awesome’s one way to describe what happened last night. It’s still . . . really good.” This, despite the conflicting emotions, cannot be denied.
“Of course it is. It’s like riding a bike.” Marian takes a long drink of her mimosa. “You don’t forget.” She leaps from the sofa and busies herself with refreshing her drink and making me one.
“But it was . . . different,” I say, tucking my bare feet into the ends of the blanket.
“How so?”
I groan, dropping my head against the sofa back. “I don’t know if it’s because of the high emotions with what happened with Nina, or because it’s been so long, or because we’re technically separated. It was like . . . conflicted. Like we were having sex to try to get over our problems. Pretend they weren’t there.”
“Screwing your way to a solution?” She cackles. “Honey, you guys are married. It’s totally normal to have sex. God, don’t read too much into it. And makeup sex is some of the best.”
“Marian,” I say, looking to her as she sails across the living room floor, two filled glasses in her hands. She slides the partially opened balcony door all the way open with her shoulder and says we should sit outside. “It wasn’t makeup sex,” I say. I lie on my side on one of the chaises and face Marian.
“Well, sex it was.” She holds her glass to mine. “Cheers.”
Our glasses clink. Then I shake my head.
“We were close, yet somehow far away,” I say. “It was the same—the motions—but different.”
“Same motions, different emotions,” Marian says.
“Yes! And then afterward I felt like I’d crossed a line.”
“A line?” she says, perplexed.
“Like, I can’t help but feel that by being intimate with Adam I was trying, in some twisted way, to ignore or suppress how complicated things are.” I pause. “Like I’m trying to ignore that things have changed. Because things have, Marian.”
“Go on.”
“Sex with Adam shouldn’t feel like a desperate act to go back to the way things were, you know? It shouldn’t feel like a safe place to escape answering questions. It shouldn’t feel . . . different! And at the heart of it, this stupid difference, this change, hurts. It hurts so deeply I found myself wanting to be anywhere but there, with him.”
“Oh, Hals.”
“I don’t know.” I rub the side of my head. “There’s a very go
od chance I’m reading too much into it.”
“It sounds like it.”
“But there’s still a very good chance that I’m not, and that Adam and I are slipping away. That our problems really are bigger than us. Bigger than we can handle.”
“Prob-lem. Singular, honey.”
“Problem. Problems. It’s still a mountain to climb.” I take a sip, and Marian does the same. “Part of me wishes we hadn’t had sex last night. Because then I wouldn’t know that it could be different. I wouldn’t have to think about why it was different.”
“I get you. But Halley, if it really was different, then don’t you think, even though it sucks to feel this way, that it’s good you know now? So you can make a more informed decision?” She firmly presses her lips together and tilts her head in a knowing way. “Better to know sooner rather than later?” With a heavy sigh, she sets aside her drink, leans back, and tucks her hands behind her head. “In a manner of speaking, I’ve been here before, Halley.”
“Cole,” we say simultaneously, and my eyes widen.
“Marian, I saw Cole’s Facebook page open on your computer.”
Marian is nonchalant as she says, “I look him up from time to time.”
“Omigod, Marian.” I sit upright.
“It’s pretty pathetic, actually. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“What?” I can’t believe my ears.
“The age of social media. Don’t tell me you’ve never looked up an ex.”
“Yeah, that’s one thing. For years is another. And you and Cole? I—I—I thought you guys were done? Through! Absolutely finished?”
“I did, too.”
“What?” Marian’s got to give me more to work with here. “What happened?”
“That whole sooner-rather-than-later thing?” she says. “How I probably should have figured out I didn’t want to marry Cole before I put on the big white dress?” She looks to me with two raised brows, and I nod. “Well, son of a bitch, I should have realized sooner rather than later that I’d made a terrible mistake.”
“But you didn’t really know you didn’t want to marry him until you wound up at that church,” I remind her.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 17
