by R. C. Martin
“Feliz aniversario, mamá,6” I tell her before I let her go.
Looking up at me, she replies, “Thank you, Michael.” She then looks out over the yard, searching for my dad. I know when she spots him because her whole body relaxes as she sighs happily. “I’m ready for forty more.”
I LOOK DOWN at my wife’s bare legs as she kicks her feet lazily in the pool water. Her dress is gathered above her knees, and I’m half listening to the conversation she’s having with my brother while simultaneously thinking about when I get to strip Veronica naked and satiate the hunger she ignited earlier.
She laughs at something Gabe says, leaning into my side, and I lift my gaze to her face. When her amusement fades away and she again talks around me to my brother, she doesn’t pull her body away from mine. I don’t mind; rather, I take another swig of my bottled water and watch as my oldest nieces—ages seven and nine—fool around in the pool, completely oblivious to the party happening on dry land.
“Hey, word on the street is you signed another bill this week,” Gabriel announces, nudging me with his elbow.
“That I did, big brother. All in a day’s work.”
“God,” he groans, shaking his head at me. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to be proud of you, or completely annoyed when you say stuff like that.”
“Tell me you’re not talking shop,” Tamara begs as she comes up behind us. Gabriel tilts his head back as his wife affectionately runs her fingers through his hair. I chuckle when I note the look on her face reads more like a warning than an expression of love.
“No new laws were discussed. I promise.”
Her warning stare turns to one of suspicion as her eyes shift from Gabe to me and then back again. He distracts her and changes the subject.
“Where’s Josiah?” he asks, speaking of their youngest.
She laughs softly as she replies, “Charming all the ladies with grandma.”
“Figures. The little flirt.”
At four, Josiah has already learned the power he wields with his big, green eyes and long, thick lashes. I don’t envy his parents for the trouble he’ll bring home when he’s older.
“Anyway, Abbie said she and Graham have some sort of gift for mom and dad. They’re trying to gather everyone around the deck. You’ve all been summoned.”
“A gift?” He tosses me a frown before looking back up at Tamara. “We all went in on the gift together. I thought the plan was that we’d present it to them at the end of the party?”
“Yeah, well, I’m fairly certain you had nothing to do with this gift. Come on. Help me get the girls out of the pool.”
Shrugging, he simply drops his focus onto his daughters before he calls out, “Everly? Isla? Come on out. Time for a break.”
They whine in protest, but obediently trudge their way out of the water as Tamara and Gabe grab them each a towel. Standing to my feet, I don’t bother to unroll my navy khakis. Instead, I help Veronica up before we make our way toward the deck for Abbie’s mysterious announcement. We situate ourselves near the front of the crowd, and I pull Veronica against my chest, wrapping my arms around her middle.
It doesn’t take long before the guests that remain have all gathered in an anxious silence. Abigail stands with one hand wrapped around Elliana’s little fingers, who waits as patiently as a four-year-old can, while her other hand is hidden behind her back. Graham holds Isabella in his arms, who rests her head tiredly against her father’s shoulder.
“Okay, you’ve left us all in suspense,” says dad, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “We’re ready when you are.”
Abigail beams over at our parents before bending down and whispering something in Elliana’s ear. She nods and holds out her hands, then Abigail gives her an envelope that she rushes to my mother.
Mom’s quick to take the delivery, and gasps loudly when she sees what’s inside. “Another grandbaby!” she cries out in excitement.
The moment the words fall from her mouth, I feel it as Veronica’s body goes rigid in my arms. I give her a reassuring squeeze, pressing a kiss against her temple, but she doesn’t respond. I allow her a moment, watching the scene unfold before me as everyone exchanges hugs and congratulations with the expecting parents. I long to be up there as well, celebrating with my family, but I won’t go without making sure Veronica is all right.
“Babe?” I murmur into her ear.
She blows out a breath, as if she’d been holding it this whole time, and then spins around to face me. I can see right through her smile as she insists, “I’m fine. This is great news!”
I don’t get a chance to remind her that it’s okay—that she doesn’t have to lie to me—because she’s out of my grasp and on the deck with my siblings before I can stop her. Then, by the time I’ve managed to offer my own congratulations to Abbie and Graham, she’s nowhere to be found.
“I know what you’re thinking,” says dad, gripping hold of my shoulder and grabbing my attention. “Just let the news settle. She’ll be okay.”
I nod, giving up my search long enough to chat with my father. Being the man of the hour, he’s pulled away from me after only ten minutes, but I don’t mind. Intent on finding my wife, I slip inside to take a look around the house. I discover her in the kitchen, her hands busy as she appears to be cleaning up and storing leftover food.
“Babe, what are you doing? Come back outside with me.”
“You know, it’s such a mess in here!” she says, not bothering to look my way. “I’d hate for your mom to have to deal with all of this after the party. You go ahead. I’m going to stay in here.”
“Vee—you don’t need to do this by yourself. I’m sure—”
“I’m fine, Michael,” she insists, her tone sharper than it was before.
I furrow my brow at her, wishing she would quit using that damn word. As if she can feel my stare and hear my thoughts, she finally looks up at me and tries offering me a small smile.
“Please, sweetie. I want to help. Let me help.”
With our eyes locked, we remain unmoving in a silent standoff. Knowing that this is a battle I always seem to lose, I don’t say another word before I turn on my bare heel and leave her in the kitchen.
It’s true that I’ve never resented Veronica. I’m not heartless. I’m aware of the pain that she feels knowing that she cannot give me what we both once dreamed and hoped for. Nevertheless, I cannot deny the disappointment that eats away at me every time she shuts me out—as if it isn’t my broken dream, too.
OUR RIDE HOME is a silent one. Veronica only came back to the party when Tamara went to get her, informing her that we were about to present my parents with our joint gift—a five day Caribbean cruise. Not five minutes later, she expressed her desire to go home, complaining of being tired. I didn’t deny her request, and we said our goodbyes before joining Clay and starting for the mansion.
As always, she thanked him for escorting us before we went to our room and he went to his. Now, as we both stand in the closet, undressing for bed, I can’t seem to take my eyes off of her. It’s not lust I feel, but a deep sense of responsibility. It’s important to me that Veronica never feels as though she’s somehow less of a woman because she can’t bear children. I know it’s something she struggles with from time to time, but that’s not something with which I’ve ever crowned her identity. In my eyes, she’s the woman God created her to be—nothing more, nothing less.
Furthermore, she’s my wife. Her body fits with mine, which I intend to remind her of tonight.
Once I’m down to my boxer briefs, I don’t bother putting on any other clothes. She’s slipping on a dark purple negligee when I walk toward her. I press my chest to her back, my hands immediately reaching for her breasts. They sit heavily in the silky material, and I massage them gently, silently expressing my intentions.
“Mike,” she murmurs, her tone not the least bit inviting. “For me or for you?”
I hold her tits firmly, pulling her against me even tighter,
and then dip my head so that my lips graze over the tip of her bare shoulder. “For us,” I reply between kisses.
She sighs, gently taking hold of my fingers and prying them away from her chest. Squeezing my hands, she admits, “I’m sorry, Mike—I know I promised, but—”
I shake off her hands, gripping hold of her waist, effectively cutting off her refusal. Not wishing to push it, I turn her around and pull her against me before I insist, “Fine—then talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“You know what I’m feeling,” she says, avoiding eye contact with me as she tries pushing out of my arms.
I tighten my grip around her and confess, “No, Veronica. I don’t know what you’re feeling. That’s why I’m asking.”
“You do,” she argues, lifting her head and allowing me to see the pain in her gaze. “You’re just making it worse by humiliating me and making me say it out loud.”
I blow out a scoff, my arms loosening from around her as I take a step back. “Are you joking? Asking after the well-being of my wife is now somehow humiliating for her?”
“That’s not—that isn’t—” She shakes her head, clearly at a loss for words. When I drop my arms completely, she steps toward me, circling hers around my waist as she tries to apologize. “I didn’t mean that. Can we please just drop it?” She hugs me closer, smashing her chest against mine as one of her hands slides down my back and over my ass. “I’m sorry. Let’s just have sex. I shouldn’t have said no.”
“Yeah, well, you did,” I mutter, removing her arms from around me. “Forget I asked.”
When I leave her alone in the closet, she doesn’t stop me. I’m at my sink in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when she enters to do the same at her own sink. I keep watching her in the reflection of the mirror, but she doesn’t ever look up to catch my eye. The longer I stare at her, the more frustrated I become. It’s been ten years since we found out that the chances of Veronica ever being able to carry a child to term were basically nonexistent. After ten years, I’ve managed to convince myself that nights like this don’t have to end in an argument. The fact that she continues to prove me wrong makes me wonder if we’ll ever be able to move past it.
We finish in the bathroom at the same time, both of us heading straight for the bed. We turn down the sheets together, and I hit the lights before climbing in with her. She doesn’t attempt to touch me, and I don’t make the effort, either. I listen to the sound of her breathing, waiting for her to fall asleep; but I can tell she’s as restless as I am.
An hour later, when my eyes finally start to grow heavy and I begin to doze, I feel it when she reaches for my hand. She squeezes my fingers once before she lets me go and turns onto her side, facing away from me. As sleep pulls me under, I’m unsure if I hear her whisper I’m sorry, or if it’s only in my dreams.
* * *
1 Hello, beautiful girl.
2 You, my little girl, out!
3 But I’m hungry, mama.
4 Okay, okay, fine.
5 My daughters.
6 Happy anniversary, mama.
Michael
IT’S BEEN A week since my parents’ anniversary party. Veronica and I haven’t made love in all that time. In some ways, that’s not unusual. However, over the last seven days, the absence of our intimacy isn’t a result of our busy schedules—it’s a statement. It’s a message that my sister’s announcement has ripped open an old wound that Veronica simply refuses to discuss. Last Sunday, on our way to church, she broke the silence that had existed between us all morning, took my hand in hers, and said that she was fine; that what she was feeling would pass.
That’s all she gave me.
That’s all she ever gives me.
No es suficiente—never enough.
Now, as we stand in the lobby of my father’s church, chatting with my siblings before we all go our separate ways for the day, the look in her eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. I can’t explain what it is that she tries to hide behind those brown irises—jealousy? Inadequacy? Anger? Sadness? It’s a combination of things—an emotional cocktail for which I don’t know the recipe. It’s her best kept secret. Between the look she’s giving me, and the expression she’s trying to hide as she talks to Abigail and Tamara, I decide that my attention is best focused elsewhere.
I’ve got Josiah in my arms, and I shift my gaze from my wife to my nephew. He’s getting a little big to be held, but I can never refuse him when he insists that he needs to be closer so that he can show me something. Currently, he’s explaining the art project he made in children’s church, his little fingers pointing at various aspects of the paper he holds in front of us. I listen intently, until Gabriel says that it’s time for them to be getting home.
After I set Josiah on his feet, my family and I make our exit together. The parking lot is busy, with people leaving the first service of the day while others pull in for the second. We call out our goodbyes, and as soon as Veronica and I are alone, the tension that’s been between us becomes more obvious. Frankly, it’s starting to get exhausting. Not wishing to turn our mediocre morning into a heated one, I continue to avoid the subject she doesn’t wish to discuss and ask her what she plans on doing with her day. Just like every other day this week, she answers with a long list of tasks. I don’t remind her that it’s Sunday or that I’ll be back in the office tomorrow; I don’t imply that I think she could make time for me. I say nothing at all.
I CONTEMPLATE COMING up with one excuse or another to get out of the house all afternoon. It isn’t until after dinner—a meal shared with my wife, filled with mindless chit-chat—that I decide I need a break from her charade. After my food has settled, I go knock on Clay’s bedroom door. He answers almost immediately, and I ask if he wouldn’t mind going on a run.
“I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes,” he says in reply.
I dip my head in a nod, sure that he doesn’t realize how much I appreciate his service. I know he’s paid to be my shadow, but that doesn’t make me any less grateful that I’ll have a willing companion on my run. We don’t usually talk much during our exercise, but at least I know his silence isn’t weighed down with some sort of hidden heartache I’m not privy to.
“Where are you going?” asks Veronica as she enters the room.
I don’t bother looking up from where I sit, on the bench at the foot of the bed, lacing up my tennis shoe. “Out for a run.”
“Now? It’s nearly eight.”
“Yeah. Now.” My laces tied, I slip my phone into my pocket and walk past her toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She doesn’t speak a word of protest; then again, I don’t give her a chance. When I step out through the side door, I find Clay already waiting for me. We don’t waste any time before we start down the driveway.
We’ve been running before the sun is in the sky for so long, as we jog out of the neighborhood, I find myself paying more attention to our surroundings. Wishing to switch things up a bit and lengthen our track, I suggest we circle our way around to my office and weave through the downtown area. He agrees, indicating that with the late hour on a Sunday evening, there shouldn’t be too much activity to worry about.
It takes us twenty minutes to reach the building that houses my office, and I run right by it, letting my feet take me where they will. A few minutes later, as we turn down a recently familiar street, I slow my pace when I catch sight of the little brunette from the Prohibition Lounge. She looks to be standing just outside of the establishment, her phone pressed to her ear. My pace shifts from a jog to a walk as I draw closer to her, approaching with the intention of saying hello. It’s uncanny that our timing would have us on the same sidewalk at the same time. Remembering the invitation she extended the last time I was with her, a small smile tugs at my lips as I draw closer—Clay falling behind a step.
Foster, she had told me. My last name is Foster.
It isn’t until I’m almost right next to her that I realize that Blaine Foster is cry
ing.
Thinking back on the first false smile she ever gave me, on the disappointment I felt and the determination I held to find her true smile, it never occurred to me how much more it would bother me to see her cry.
But it does—it bothers me a great deal more.
Blaine
HE PROMISED ME.
He promised me he’d be here.
We had a good week. We had one of those weeks where I was reminded of all the reasons why I love him. Last weekend, I had a couple days off, and we spent all of that time together. We stocked up on groceries—and he paid for half. He took me to this free, outdoor art expose on Sunday afternoon, and then we hit a couple breweries with some mutual friends of ours. Still feeling guilty about our fight, he offered to drink light so that he could be our ride home at the end of the evening, and he kept his promise. I had so much fun, I kept him up all night to show him how much I appreciated the weekend he had shared with me.
Our bliss spilled into the days that followed. On Tuesday, he got a call about a commission piece he’d been hoping for—a mural for the Denver School of the Arts. His meeting was on Wednesday. When I offered to let him borrow my car, he declined and assured me he’d find his own way. It put me at ease, knowing that he had heard me; grateful that he was making an effort to address the aspects of our relationship that worried me.
But then Friday came.
I got home from work a little after two, as usual, only Mateo wasn’t home. I called him what must have been five-hundred times, but he never answered. Even though I was exhausted as hell, I couldn’t go to sleep, restless from wondering where he was or if he was okay. When he stumbled through the door after four in the morning—drunk and high, and mumbling some lame-ass excuse about losing track of time with his clan—I was so irritated that it took me another hour to fall asleep.
