I wasn't going to cry in the middle of this amazing party, and I wasn't going to ruin it by forcing the most painful, ill-timed conversation in the world. Things we had to discuss, they weren't small issues. I didn't ruin her favorite sweater and she didn't break my iPad. No, not even close.
Was there an appropriate venue to talk through the time when the teenage version of you seduced your sister's boyfriend? Or what about the time when she came home to find that same twenty-seven–year-old boyfriend nailing you on her bed, and she told you to stop being a sad little cliché while she had him arrested for statutory rape? And then there was the time when you popped some pills and slit your wrist, and then your sister refused to bring you home after a month in the psychiatric hospital because she didn't believe you wouldn't do it again? How about the time when you accused her of letting your father abuse you so he'd stop abusing her, and then suggested no one would ever want someone as cold, miserable, and used-up as her?
It wasn't as though a simple "Sorry about all that shit" would cut it.
"Skip," Nick said, the hand on my back pushing me forward. I took a step, but it wasn't willingly.
The band kicked off a new song, and I threw my hands in the air, bouncing with the tune. "Come on. Let's dance."
I dragged him away, needing some freedom from Shannon's watchful gaze. I wasn't foreclosing the possibility of apologizing to her. I just couldn't find the entry point.
"I have to know why," he said, pulling me into his arms. "Explain to me why you didn't want to take that very obvious opening from Shannon, and I won't push you on it again this weekend."
I pressed my forehead to his chest, hoping I could hide here for the rest of the night. The month. The year. Finally, after blowing out all the sighs in the world, I said, "When Mount St. Helens erupted, it sterilized everything in its path. The blast flattened an entire seven-mile radius. There were mudslides, and the largest debris avalanche in recorded history. Hardly anything survived that eruption."
"Please tell me there's an upshot to this story," Nick murmured.
"When you look at volcanic ash under a microscope," I continued, "it's sharp and it's loaded with soil-enhancing nutrients. That ash doesn't just settle, it slices into the soil and forces it to recover. The process is known as plant succession, and it occurs in stages. First, there are lichen, and then wildflowers. Later, saplings and wild grasses. It takes time for an environment to come back from devastation."
"But it comes back," he said. It was somewhere between statement and question.
"It comes back," I confirmed. "It took a year, but the elk returned to Mount St. Helens. It took another seven years for the mountain goats. Some environments take longer than others, but they all come back. Naples recovered from Vesuvius and now it has San Marzano tomatoes. The soil of the north island of New Zealand is a direct result of its volcanic history, and every one of Krakatau's explosions have resulted in major species regeneration. It always comes back."
"When you're ready for that," he said, "I'll be here."
I knew he would. I didn't think it was possible for Nick to evernotbe there.
"Tell me about your day," I said as we swayed with the music. "You sounded frazzled earlier."
He dropped his chin on the top of my head, sighing. "Any measurable quantity of snow or ice on the ground, and there are concussions, cracked skulls, and brain bleeds as far as the eye can see."
"Ooh," I murmured. "No bueno."
"None," he agreed. "I'm telling you right now, Skip, we're putting helmets on our kids when they go sledding or ice skating. They might have some social issues, but it's better than having traumatic brain injury issues."
My hands moved to his chest, and I pushed him back a bit to catch his eyes. "Ourkids?"
"Yeah," Nick said, nodding as if he hadn't taken our sorta-kinda marriage and accelerated it many years into the future. "My kids getting concussions from skating without a helmet would be like the dentist's kids getting cavities from not brushing their teeth. Not an option."
"Our…kids," I repeated. I waved my hands at my body, trying and failing to indicate that I wasn't prepared for that. Did he not realize that we didn't have a plan for getting through next month, let alone the next year? We were barely holding on to each other right now, and adding children—plural—to that equation was crazier than getting married on a lobster boat only to spend two years on opposite sides of an ocean. "You want me to sustain and nurture human baby children? Did you forget that I can barely take care of myself, Nick?"
Shaking his head, he tugged me back into his arms. "You're so much better than you think you are."
"No, that's where you're wrong," I yelled into his chest. "I know exactly who I am and where my fault lines are most unstable, and I know for a fucking fact that I'm not supposed to be anyone's mother. I'm the fun, cool, crazy aunt. The one who can tell stories about seeing every continent and going on unadvisable adventures. I'm not the settle-down mom who cuts the crust off sandwiches, or remembers to put helmets on the kids."
"That's fine because I'll be putting the helmets on the kids. They'll just have to learn how to live with the crusts," he replied. "You just need to bring yourself home to me, and then we'll sort out the rest."
"But I'm not even sure I should be anyone's wife," I whisper-cried.I am not throwing a tantrum at my brother's wedding. I am not throwing a tantrum at my brother's wedding."This is all make-believe with us, and I'm not even doing a passable job at pretend-marriage."
"Oh, would you stop with that?" he asked, edging back to hold up his hands and point an unimpressed frown in my direction. "I know the trouble here is that you actually believe the shit you're spouting right now. Somewhere along the way, you got it in your head—the same head that told you that you could be a badass scientist, explore the fucking world on your own, and earn two doctorates before turning thirty—that you weren't allowed the good things in life. You're free to wring the marrow from every minute so long as that doesn't include having a family, a place to call home, a husband who worships the damn ground you walk on."
I crossed my arms over my torso, incensed but unable to zero in on a single point to refute.
We stood there, our gazes winging between each other and the polished cement floor. The band ended one song and then started another, something folksy and steeped in love's ideals.
"Do Matt and Lauren know you're not going back to their loft tonight?" he asked. His words snapped with tension, the Texas drawl heavier than ever.
"Yeah, I told Lauren not to worry about me tonight, and she said she'd handle it," I replied softly. "They're leaving for that trip to the mountains tomorrow afternoon, with Patrick and Andy, so we're good. She invited me to come along, but seemed to understand when I declined."
