Unpredictable

by K. A. Berg

  Her voice cracks, giving away the hysteria growing inside her. I need to get her to see that’s not the case and she’s getting all worked up in these worst-case scenarios which may not even be relevant to us. “Quinn, none of that…”

  “None of that will change anything?” she cuts me off with a sardonic laugh. “Bullshit! We’ll go through whatever treatments the doctors recommend, and I’ll be a human pin cushion taking hormones and drugs every day. We’ll spend the next five years in and out of doctors’ offices. I’ll be completely and utterly miserable. Every pill, every shot will be a daily reminder of how I’ve failed you as a wife. I can’t do it, Alex…”

  “You don’t even know if anything’s wrong yet…”

  She slams the wine glass in her hand down on top of her dresser, splashing its contents across the top of it. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore!”

  Ignoring my own anger, I step closer to her and reach out, taking her hand in mine. I try my best to convince her it doesn’t have to be this way. “Quinn, there may not even be anything wrong. We can have the tests done first and then decide what to do with the information we learn from them. But not having them done at all is stupid. We should at least know.”

  She shakes her head adamantly and pulls her hand from mine. She paces back and forth in the open space between her dresser and our bed. “If it were meant to be, it would’ve happened, and it didn’t. I know people go through other methods all the time. That’s good for them. I’m glad it worked for them. But you know what, it doesn’t work for everyone. Some people only end up with more heartbreak and pain. That’s not something I can handle. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “But at least we’ll know one way or the other. If nothing is wrong, then we’ll know it’s not our time yet, and we have to keep our heads up. Have faith…”

  She growls in frustration, interrupting me, as she runs a hand angrily through her hair. There’s a fire roaring in her eyes. “You. Are. Not. Listening. I did have faith. Just this morning. But all faith got me was a crushed heart right there in the bathroom of my office as another small part of me died. Again. For the eleventh month in a row. I can’t do this anymore. I cannot keep living like this.”

  “You’re not the only one who is sad and frustrated with this process,” I point out. “I hate seeing how this makes you feel, but you’re not trying to find a solution or be optimistic. You’re choosing to make yourself miserable and only focus on the negative. We haven’t even been trying as long as some couples. People try for years and finally find success.”

  “Stop acting like I’m a problem for you to fix.” She grits her teeth. “I’m a person with feelings and you telling me how I feel is wrong is not okay. I’m entitled to feel however the hell I want.”

  “You are, but…”

  “No more buts,” she says, grabbing her forgotten wine glass. She takes a big gulp and stares me dead in the eye. “Listen to me… I said I would try, and I did. We tried, but it’s not happening. There’s a reason. We have each other, and you said you only needed me. You said you’d support me, and we could stop if it got to be too much.”

  “Are you saying you want to take a break?”

  Her head shakes. “I don’t want to take a break. I want to stop altogether. I can’t keep feeling so out of control.”

  My heart plummets to my stomach. I take a step away from her and run my hands through my hair, stopping at the nape of my neck. I hide my face between my arms while trying to compose myself. Anger. Sadness. Resentment. They all course through me, and I need a minute.

  I sit on the bed with my head in my hands as the array of emotions barrel through me. Yes, I did tell her I’d support her decisions, but when I promised those things, I didn’t think she’d bail on the whole thing. How can she just give up? She’s overreacting and stressed.

  Picking my head up, I pin her with a glare. “Why can’t we take a break? Ignore everything out there on the table for now. Forget all about babies for the next six months. A year. But let’s not give up. We’ve come this far.”

  “I don’t know how else to say this, Alex,” she huffs. “I’m done. I have no desire to continue trying or to continue having this conversation.”

  The anger in my chest goes from shimmering to boiling as she stands there like the dictator of this relationship. I stand from the bed and narrow my eyes. “Was this all some cruel joke? Why did you open this door only to shut it without caring how I feel or even telling me you were considering this? Why bother trying if you were just going to cut and run when the road got a little bumpy?”

  “I did tell you. You just weren’t listening. Just like you aren’t listening now. I’m miserable. We’ve fought more since starting this than we have in all the time we’ve been together. We’re losing us. I can’t stand that we’ve become the people only focused on one thing. It’s getting worse. Look at us right now.”

  Irritation consumes me. I want to shake her until she stops being so scared. “So, you’re going to give up because things are a little rough now? No doctors. No breaks. Just done? Because you’re scared? This is the past all over again.”

  “What are you talking about?” she snaps.

  “You’re scared. You want something, but don’t want to run the risk of getting hurt in the end. You’ve got a thought in your mind and rather than face this thing head on, you’re running…”

  “I’m standing right fucking here,” she screams over me. “How am I running? I did everything. All of it: books, diets, vitamins, peeing on test strips, taking my temperature, sexual positions. What more do you want from me?”

  “For you to start looking at all our options, that’s what I want. Even if there is a reason we can’t have kids of our own, we can always adopt. Foster. There’s so much else we can do. You. Are. Running.”

  Her lips move, a denial ready to come out but I continue without letting her speak. “If you would just open your eyes, you’d see all the amazing things we have going on in our lives. We’re both successful. We’re starting a new business. We’re closing on our dream house in two weeks. We’re healthy. I’m happy with our lives, why can’t you choose to be too? You are choosing to live your life this way—only focused on what’s missing and solely on getting pregnant. We’ve got so much else going for us than just trying to get pregnant. Things aren’t working out the way you want, so you’re done? Don’t I get a say in the decision? A decision affecting me too. You’re acting a whole hell of a lot like your father right now, Quinn.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Quinn flies into a rage, her voice booming through the room as she screams her words at me. Her eyes thin to tiny slits of blue and the vein in her neck throbs as she yells. If only she would use that fire when it came to having a baby. “I’m acting like my father? I’m the only focused on having a baby? What about you, huh?”

  Excuse me? I don’t think so. “How the hell could you ever relate me to your father?”

  She shoves her finger into my chest, poking me repeated as she continues on. “You spend hours reading all the self-help books. Now you’ve spent weeks researching fertility doctors and clinics throwing all my inadequacies in my face. How do you think it makes me feel having to watch you sit and try to figure out ways to help me get pregnant? Me. Not you. Me. Because in the end, the pressure is all on me and my body. Or how you go out of your way to cheer me up every time I get my period…”

  “I’m being fucking supportive,” I shout over her, pissed she’s putting me in the same box as her worthless father for being kind and compassionate. “How is trying to be there for you being like your father?”

  “Everything you do or say seems to be about getting pregnant and having a baby; how is that being supportive? All you’re doing is continuously reminding me I’ve failed you which makes you the one acting like my father. Not me. You’re the one telling me we should ask for help because of course I can’t do this on my own. You’re the one reminding me how I’m failing you because I can
’t get pregnant the old-fashioned way. You’re acting like Louis, not me.”

  “That’s far from true. The problem could be with me, Quinn. Neither of us has any idea what the issue, if any, is. Don’t tell me I don’t know…I feel the pressure too,” I argue, pointing out it takes two to make a baby. “It’s not all on you, and I’m not throwing anything in your face. I'm trying to be there for you, show you we’re in this together and I’m here for you, but you keep twisting this into something bad.”

  “Oh my god…” she shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m not twisting anything, Alex. Everything you do is about knocking me up.”

  She’s lost her mind. “How?”

  Her arms cross over her body, and she lets out an annoyed huff. “The night you made me dinner is a perfect example. I thought it was such a sweet thing to do. But you didn’t do it for me. It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was about me getting pregnant.”

  My head shakes, and my hands ball into fists at my side as I stare at her in disbelief. “No… you’re the one who bought the fucking cookbook. Don’t turn that around on me because I used it…”

  “Let’s not forget about sex,” she continues, clearly on a roll with no intentions of listening to anything I have to say. “Our mission to have a baby has managed to kill sex for me. It feels like nothing more than a chore. You get to fuck away with no pressure at all. No one is waiting to see if you wind up knocked up. For Christ’s sake, you killed my orgasm the last time we had sex all because you had us change positions because ‘It’s better if we come like this.’ Then you have the nerve to want to talk about why I didn’t come?”

  My hands run roughly through my hair as I try to wade through her bullshit. “Let me make sure I understand this… you’re pissed because I changed to a position we’ve been using for months and I was concerned over the fact you didn’t come? So, I’m an asshole like your father for doing exactly what we’ve been doing and because I care about your pleasure? I don’t get it, Quinn. It’s not like you told me any of this was bothering you? I can’t read your mind, yet I’m the one who’s wrong?”

  Angry tears hang from her bottom lashes as she glares at me. “You’re an asshole because you’ve been ignoring everything I’ve said to you about how I feel. You didn’t for one second stop to think about how all these things make me feel? You act like I’m some kind of pet project for you to experiment with which is making me hate everything about trying to get pregnant. Every cell in my body is telling me this is wrong for me. I’ve tried to get you to understand this time and time again. But I’m the bad guy for calling it quits. Fuck you, Alex.”

  She grabs her glass, the bottle of wine, and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door before I can fully wrap my head around everything that just happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ALEX

  USUALLY, IN A TIME LIKE THIS, I WOULD GO FOLLOW QUINN and try to get her to explain her feelings better. This has been a recurring theme—her running and me chasing. Except this time, I’m not feeling that urge at all. Instead, I want to slam my fucking hand through the bedroom wall. Apparently, everything I’ve done to try and be her partner through this was wrong. I’m surprised she didn’t tell me my breathing or blinking was making her feel pressured.

  My mind plays back the last ten minutes. So many words whirl through my mind, I’m on overload. My brain can’t seem to focus on just one thought at a time for me to start processing what the hell just happened. Am I hurt? Angry? Sad? Guilty? I don’t know how I should feel right now.

  “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Prove what… I’m defective.”

  How did I miss all this? How has something that was supposed to bring us such joy led us here—Quinn off crying alone and me standing utterly shocked and so damn confused?

  Actually, fuck that. This isn’t about me missing anything. Quinn’s a grown woman who promised to be honest throughout this. She has a mouth. She chose to let this play out as such. She let everything bottle up inside until it exploded; that’s not my fault. She should have been transparent and straightforward with me weeks ago.

  Her cries are clear as day even through the closed door. Part of me aches to hold her, but the other is furious with her. Furious wins out as I grab my keys and walk out the door. I refuse to stay and listen to her cry. I need to clear my head and think.

  Rather than heading to the parking garage for my car, my feet have me going in the opposite direction. I walk a few blocks before winding up in front of one of the many bars in our little NYC suburb. It’s still early in the night, and the place isn’t crowded, so I grab a seat at the bar and ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer.

  The burn of the smooth amber liquid is barely noticeable as I toss it back, my mind too focused on all the things Quinn hit me with. Pulling my wallet from my back pocket, I grab my credit card and toss it down before pushing the shot glass back toward the bar and tapping my finger next to it, signaling for another shot.

  The older gentleman behind the bar fills the glass again and places the bottle back on the shelf. “The name’s Jim. Just give a shout when you need something.”

  I shoot off a quick text to Tanner with the name of the bar and ask him to meet me here. After setting my phone down, I toss back another shot and get back to the problem at hand.

  Despite what my wife may think, I wasn’t solely focused on her getting pregnant. She led, I followed. She ordered the books, I read them as well. She bought the nutrition books, I used them. We’d been having sex in the various recommended positions for months. How was I supposed to know all of a sudden all these things bothered her? I was only trying to help the situation… not make her feel worse.

  As devastated as I am about Quinn’s decisions, I’m also really fucking pissed. Everything I’ve done was to be there for her. To try and show my love and support in any way possible. But she didn’t do her part. She didn’t talk to me. She let it all build and build and I had no fucking clue it was this bad. She clearly thinks very little of me if she thought I’d leave her over this. That something like this could break us. Doesn’t she get the only thing that can break us is her fear?

  My anger builds stronger, and I suck back the rest of my beer quickly. Another beer and shot are placed on the bar in front of me without me having to ask.

  Gripping my fresh, cold beer, I try to figure out when everything went to shit. How could she think all those awful things about me? How could she think I would look at her with anything other than love? How many times must I tell her we’re in this together? All she has to do is talk to me?

  A steady hand grasps my shoulder, and I watch Tanner take the stool next to me. He gives me a once over before nodding at the bartender, asking for a beer of his own.

  Tanner doesn’t say anything. He watches Jim place his bottle in front of him and gives me the side-eye from under the hat he’s wearing, hoping to disguise himself somewhat.

  Friendships like mine and Tanner’s don’t come around often. Friends who know when to listen and when to talk are very rare. Friends who will come to a hole in the wall bar playing game seven of the Yankees divisional series on every TV in the place despite being famous around these parts. Although, Tanner’s never acted famous. He’s still the same guy I met at twelve. I’ve always appreciated that about him. We may not always see eye to eye, but we respect each other enough to listen and not pass judgment. We respect each other enough to be the voice of reason when the other can’t think straight.

  Fuck! My thoughts are starting to ramble, and I sound like I’ve grown a fucking vagina with all my sentimental friendship crap. I should’ve ordered food. Knocking back three shots and two beers in a half an hour probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had.

  Getting semi-drunk this fast only increases my anger with Quinn. “Why does she get to be the one who calls all the shots? How could she decide this all on her own without even considering my feelings and how all this was making me feel?”


  Tanner pauses with his beer midway to his lips, turns his head and quirks an eyebrow at me. It says because she has the pussy and pussy rules us like no other. It means because she’s your wife and you love her more than anything else in the world. It says because our women have us by the balls and they know it. That eyebrow speaks volumes as I’m sure he thinks this is just a simple spat between Quinn and me.

  As Tanner finishes the swig of his beer, I’d usually laugh at the irony of it all, but today it doesn’t elicit a laugh. Instead, it fuels the fire.

  Jim magically appears with a much-needed shot, and it’s gone the moment it hits the bar top.

  “Could we get a few appetizers?” Tanner asks. “Maybe some wings, nachos, whatever you got?”

  Jim gives him a nod and heads to the other end of the bar.

  The words start pouring from my mouth. My slightly drunken mind has reached the limit for holding them all in. “How can she give up? How could she want to quit because the road has gotten a little tough? Why does she get to be the one holding all the cards?”

  I’m not a complete douche bag, I understand it’s her body and her rights, but it doesn’t mean I feel it’s entirely fair. It doesn’t mean just because she says it’s over that I can turn it off as easy as she can.

  “Quinn wants to stop trying?” Tanner asks, presumably to make sure he got the correct gist of my mess of rambling.

  “Yup, without a second thought about how I feel about it all,” I answer, staring straight ahead at the rows of liquor on the shelves behind the bar. I can’t bring myself to look at my best friend, afraid to see pity looking back at me. He knows what it’s like to be a father and the joy it brings a man. He knew how much I was looking forward to it.

  His fingers tap on the bar in my peripheral vision, and Jim nods at him. “A couple of waters too, please.” I can feel Tanner’s stare as he waits for me to say something more, but I continue drinking my beer instead. No words seem to be good enough to explain my pain.