“I called for a reason.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not a good time. Please don’t call again.”
I hung up as Bill spoke behind me. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
I knew what he wanted to hear, but I couldn’t lie. “The house across the street is interesting,” I said as I slid my cell into my handbag’s side pocket.
After a moment of quiet, he said, “And if you were on that side of the street, you’d be saying the same thing about this one. Conveniently, that place isn’t for sale.”
I turned. “I didn’t say I wanted it. Just that it’s interesting.”
“Which is more than you’ve said about any other property we’ve seen. This is the best one yet. Good neighborhood, in our price range, and more square footage than we’d hoped. And you have no comment at all?”
“It’s nice,” I conceded. “It is. I’m just not sure it’sright. I can’t see myself here.”
“You’re not even trying.”
I looked at my heels as they sank into the beige carpet. I liked beige. Non-committal, unassuming, nothing-to-see-here-folks beige. Bland walls, maybe with some staged family photos, would offer our neighbors little insight into who I was, and I liked it that way. I liked my privacy, the little cage I’d built—not to lock myself in but to keep others out. Could I live in this beige house with Bill? Maybe. But with David’s phone call fresh in my mind, I wondered—what would I be giving up? What kind of life could I live toiling on the passion project across the street, and did I even want that? Unlike safe beige, white-hot passion seared anything in its path.
There was a reason I chose chardonnay.
“This isn’t just about you,” Bill said. “We have ourfutureto think about.”
“I understand that,” I said, annoyed by the suggestion that I hadn’t considered ourfuture. “But buying a house is a huge decision, and I want it to be perfect.”
He threw his arms in the air. “There’s always going to be something, Livs. How many times do I have to tell you—perfect doesn’t exist. It’ll feel like home, you just have to give it time. You think that shithole across the street is perfect?”
“I have to apologize for that,” Jeanine said, appearing in the doorway. She looked past me out the window. “It’s appalling. The owners live in California and stopped taking care of it a while back. I think a couple neighbors have tried to report housing code violations, so perhaps one day they’ll sell or tear it down. I can find out for you.”
I readjusted my purse strap on my shoulder. “It’s kind of charming.”
“Even if it was for sale, it would need a complete overhaul,” Jeanine said. “I wouldn’t describe it as family-friendly, either. This room, on the other hand, would make a great nursery.”
I frowned. WasIfamily-friendly? I’d asked myself some version of that countless times since meeting Bill. Here was my chance to give in to the fantasy he had for us. Standing here at the window of my would-be nursery, I imagined a tiny human in my arms. Bill’s son or daughter. Before I could even complete the picture, the skin at the base of my neck began to burn, and my throat closed. “We’re not looking for that yet.”
“Oh, I . . .” Jeanine said. “Sorry for assuming. Most couples who move from the city—”
“Wearelooking for that,” Bill said.
I forced myself to try again. I pictured myself downstairs, chicken parmesan baking in the oven. That sight came easier. Cooking soothed me. I’d wipe my hands on my apron and call “dinner’s ready!” up the stairs to Bill. From the kitchen, I could see the living room and TV—all moms wanted that in a floorplan, Jeanine had said. My family within sight on Thanksgiving, watching the parade as I prepared a feast. To call out help with homework as I steamed vegetables for my growing child. To watch the Food Network or the news in the mornings as I made lunches for those who were leaving the house for the day.
And leaving me by myself.
I had to get out of the house, too. I couldn’t spend my life between the kitchen and the nursery, regardless of whether I had the privilege of seeing the TV or the kids or the house across the street that had actual character.
“Not right now.” The words tumbled out, and I didn’t try to stop them. Voicing them was the only thing that calmed the increasingly unbearable itch under my collar. “Maybe one day we’ll need all this space, but not now.”
He scoffed. “What do you think we’re doing here then?”
I had no answer for that. I worried if we got the nursery now, I’d be consenting to things I wasn’t sure I wanted. And then, Bill’s desire for children would grow, pushing and pushing until I gave in.
When I didn’t respond, Bill’s brows furrowed. “You think a fixer-upper is the answer?” he asked. “Do you understand the commitment that takes? You wouldn’t even get in the car to come to the suburbs if I didn’t push you at every turn—now you’re going to take on a gut renovation?”
I bristled at the sarcasm dripping from his tone. “I want tochoosethe home I live in, and have some kind of gut feeling about it. Not settle because it’s good on paper.”
“Then we’d never move out of our apartment, and you know it.”
Just like I never would’ve gotten married, I almost said, then froze, taken aback by the thought. I’d never considered Bill as someone I’d settled for. I’d chosen him and this life for many reasons. But none of them had been based on my gut—they were all good-on-paper reasons. Why, suddenly, after all these years, did it feel as if the walls were closing in and it was my last chance to inject some . . . some desire and ownership—somepassion—into my choices?
