"But sweetheart, how can I not? You are fucking hot in those vintage dresses." Sam laughed, but his expression quickly turned stern. "Is it possible that you swung a little too hard on the stable job side?"
I nodded. "I guess so."
"Fuck stable. Do what you love, and it will work out. Maybe then, when you aren't up to your elbows in whiny undergrads and college politics, your body will be happier about my lumberjack sperm."
"You know what they say about lumberjacks: theyareloners." I nestled my head against Sam's chest for a moment, pausing to breathe in and out, and forcing all the hollow jealousy, abandonment, and stress from my mind. "They're probably wondering what happened to us," I said.
"Unlikely. They probably think we're having sex in here."
Glancing up at him, I asked, "That's not something you'd want, right? We're not great at the stand-up sex thing, and I know for a fact that if you touch my panties, you'll rip them off, and afterward, I'm a walking wet spot and that isn't fun."
"You know how I feel about public restrooms," he said. "I'm not sure how I survived this conversation, but now that you have me thinking about your panties, I would like to take you home and fuck you for the next three hours. I have to make up for this week."
18
Tiel
September
The last summerydays of the year were surrendering to autumn, and the life Sam and I had defined for ourselves was shifting.
I'd resigned from the college at the end of the spring semester, and now I was splitting my time between starting up the early elementary orchestra program at Lauren's school and private music therapy sessions, plus the occasional guest lecture at the college. Breaking away from the hamster wheel of higher education was an immediate relief, and spending my time with young children who craved music as much as I did filled me with a joy I hadn't known I was missing.
I hadn't heard from my family in months, and that was okay. Distance was healthy, and I saw no reason to reduce that distance.
Sam and Matt decided to coach Riley through his first major project now that his star was rising and his consultation request list was nearly as long as Sam's. Despite their differing approaches, Sam and Matt found their groove in this collaboration, and for me, it translated to more time with Lauren. We met for dinner or drinks at least once a week while the boys put in extra time with Riley, and over the spring and summer, we'd slipped into a routine of Sunday dinners at the firehouse or their loft.
Sam and I didn't talk much about the baby we'd lost.
Growing our family wasn't our primary topic of conversation anymore. We stopped predicting whether our babies would get Sam's hair or my eyes, or how dark or light their skin would be, or whether they'd be musical like me or artistic like him. I didn't offer status reports on my cycle, and we abandoned the practice of "saving" sex for my most fertile days. I put away the holistic conception and pregnancy books, the supplements and vitamins, the herbal teas and essential oils, and stopped worrying about every tiny twitch and tingle.
In a way, it was fantastic that our lives were congested with family events and hectic work commitments, as it reduced the quiet moments where we wandered into the dark forest of hoping and dreaming and wanting.
But we were still happy. Overwhelmingly happy. We had gained more in the past year than I could have ever imagined possible, and in the process, we surrendered everything we needed to leave behind.
We were happy, and the only necessity was each other.
19
Sam
October
Ipickedat a half demolished veggie tray, sneering at the untouched section of cauliflower and opting for a stubby carrot. I was a big fan of vegetables, but I'd never understand why anyone ate raw cauliflower, let alone enjoyed it.
"There are sandwiches," Matt said, gesturing to the island in Shannon's bright, beachfront kitchen. He'd been kicked back across from me at the farmhouse table, beer in hand, since we'd returned from golfing at the Myopia Hunt Club in South Hamilton.
"Nah," I said. "I'm good with carrots and beer."
"That's outstanding news but I could use a sandwich and my knee hurts like a motherfucker," he said, pointing his bottle at the bag of frozen peas molded to his leg.
Nick reached for the tray on the island, and slid them down the table to Matt. "It's probably time to get that checked out," he said. "It's only gonna get worse."
"It's not like it's hindering your game," Will quipped from the other end of the table. "That course was a fuckin' beast. How'd you nail the back nine so hard?"
Matt offered a vague murmur of acknowledgement and kept his eyes fixed on his sandwich. He didn't advertise that he'd been getting golf lessons since the spring. It has something to do with his father-in-law telling him to work on his short game, and I didn't envy him. The Commodore wasn't a man whose opinion I'd take lightly.
"William!William!"
