“I’m ready now.”
I whirled from the sink to face him. “Now?”
He went silent again and stopped chopping. His knuckles whitened from gripping the knife. “I have been for a while—you know that.”
“Bill, you can’t expect me to just drop everything and get pregnant.” Having a baby meant devoting my life to something bigger, putting my own dreams and aspirations second—or third, even. I’d be promising away a life I sometimes worried hadn’t evenbegun. “I have things I still want to do. I’m not in the place I want to be yet.”
“Everything you just said was ‘me’ or ‘I,’” he said. “Youhave thingsyouwant to do. What about me?”
“I meant us,” I said. “We’ve hardly even traveled.”
“Our life doesn’t end with a baby.”
“It will for a while. How are we going to see the world with a newborn if we can’t even afford to do it now?”
“Why do you think I sold out for this shiny new job?” he asked. “I was happier working for the State. Justice above all. But I moved to this firm for the money—so we could buy the bigger home and start a college savings account.”
None of that was news to me, except that he’d never laid it out quite so honestly. When he’d come home a while back and expressed interest in leaving the public sector, we’d both wanted the money that came with joining a private practice. I’d encouraged him to look into it, and maybe I’d even pushed him when it’d come time to make the leap. Did that mean I’d also committed to life in the suburbs and all that came with it?
“You’re not the only one with a career.” I picked up the salad bowl and held it to my stomach like a shield. “I want this promotion. I’m not ready to give it up. I’m not ready for a baby.”
“I heard you the first time, but you are. We are. I want you to stop birth control.”
My heart dropped. “Don’t push me on this. It’s too big of a decision.”
“You need me to push you, Liv—you always have. To start a relationship. To move in together. To get married. You know deep down, that’s what you need from me—that’s why you chose me as a partner. You need me to tell you that youareready—”
“Stop saying that,” I said, slamming the bowl on the island between us. “You don’t know what I am. What if you’re wrong—what happens if we’re not ready? I don’t want to end up like—”
“Like your parents,” he said, his expression softening. “I know that scares you.” He briefly glanced at my hand, clamped on my throat, which felt tight and hot. “Why do you think I’m pushing you?” he asked. “If I don’t, you’ll never get past that fear.”
It was true. It was all true. I was scared. I wouldn’t ever put a child through a divorce, and that couldn’t happen if I never had one—a child or a divorce. As things stood with Bill, we were fine. Having a baby changedeverything. My hands shook as I picked up the pieces of romaine that’d flown out of the bowl when I’d slammed it. “You’re right. I don’t want to end up like them. I won’t.”
“Liv,” he said gently. “They didn’t split up because of you. They changed. They fell out of love.”
No, they hadn’t. They’d loved each othertoomuch. Couples didn’t fight as hard as they did, especially toward the end, without love. I wasn’t sure my father ever would’ve left my mom without a catalyst. He would’ve stayed if he hadn’t been forced to protect me.
The year leading up to the split had been the worst of it, a painful downward spiral. Bill and I were happy now, but were we solid enough to bring a child into the world? I wasn’t sure, but one thing Ididknow was that fear was not the only factor at play here. I hadn’t felt anything but dread since standing in that future nursery, holding an imaginary baby I’d agreed to out of obligation.
“Well?” he asked.
I stared into the undressed salad. Some of the lettuce browned at the edges, wilting under the weight of the things Bill and I had said—and what we hadn’t.
After some time had passed without my response, Bill said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not ready.” The knife clattered on the cutting board. “We’ve been married for almost five years, and you still won’t let me in. I don’t know how else to get you to commit, Liv. I’ve been patient, but I want this, and that’s not going to change. Promise me you’ll give this some serious thought.”
He left the kitchen. I pressed my hand to my side, over the small raised scar under my blouse, trying to hold off the dread rising in me. I had already given this topic serious thought, and nothing had changed. What more did he want?
What could I give him without taking everything from myself?
My cold fingers stung the warm skin around my scar. The kitchen closed in around me. I couldn’t stay. I neededout. I dumped the salad into the trash and called the one person who was sure to have plans on a Saturday night.
9
As always, Gretchen had come through in a social emergency and procured us a table at the grand opening of what she’d called “the hottest new restaurant in Chicago.” Invitations had been extended only to the who’s who of the city’s social scene—plus Lucy and me. We’d only made the cut as friends of Gretchen, who happened to be the current love interest of the head chef.
Lucy and I gave our names at the door, and a hostess led us to a table in the center of the restaurant where Gretchen sat with her roommates, Ava and Bethany. A bottle of expensive Bordeaux had already been opened, and two empty glasses waited at two empty seats for Lucy and me.
“You’re here!” Gretchen jumped up and came around the table. “I was worried you were playing a prank on me,” she said, hugging Lucy. “It’s no small feat to get you both out husband-free on a Saturday night.”
