If he had, I might have never known. We’d be snuggled together in our bed right now, maybe limp and sticky from making love, watching TV, my head resting on his chest as I listened to his heartbeat like I always did, reassuring myself that he’s real.
A wave of nausea crashes over me, followed immediately by panic. It doesn’t feel like pregnant nausea. I don’t taste metal, and my lower belly doesn’t feel all weirdly bloated. God, was it less than two weeks ago that I was sending up prayers for a baby every time I found a penny or a fallen eyelash?
A baby would make this more than a disaster. It’d be a tragedy.
My shoulders curve forward, and I tuck my chin behind my knees. I don’t want to do this anymore. Talking to Adrian is like arguing with an evil robot.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” he repeats, clearly thrown for a loop.
“Set up the couples counseling. I’ll go.”
“Good.” He stops his pacing in place and squares himself back up. “I’ll have Michelle look into it and send you the date.”
“Fine.” I’m not going to go, but it’ll get him out of my hair for now. “Are we done here?”
He hesitates as if there’s something else he wants to say, or something he wants to hear, but eventually, he gives me a curt nod and strides out like the king of the world. He probably figures he should quit while he’s ahead.
I sit for a minute before I collapse into the back cushion and let my heels slide down the slick leather until I’m slumped like a limp-noodle starfish. Idly, I glance around the room at the Durand, the Bierstadt, and the Wyeth. When we were first married, I asked Adrian why he liked these particular paintings so much. He told me they were investments.
I bet he wishes he could hang me on a wall.
I hate him. The rage smolders in my guts. My gaze catches on the fire, still crackling merrily, and rises to the Eakin above the mantel. Four old-timey fellows in white T-shirts are rowing across a river under puffy clouds. The guy in front has mutton chops. This is the painting that made me assume Adrian picked his art for a reason, since rowing is his thing.
The painting actually hides the safe where we store my jewelry, a little cash, and some documents. I know thecombination. Logan’s security guys told me to give it up if I don’t make it to the safe room in time in case of a home invasion. They said nothing in the safe is irreplaceable.
I hike myself off the sofa and wander over, stepping up on the hearth and opening the painting like a cabinet on hinges. The fire warms my shins.
The combination is mine and Pearl’s birthdays, backward. They intentionally made it easy for me to remember. I don’t go into it often, pretty much only to get jewelry for special occasions. I open it now and take out one of the dark blue boxes.
Most of the jewelry is new, but there are a few pieces that belonged to Adrian’s grandmother. Gideon, his oldest brother, gave it to me at our rehearsal dinner. He made a very nice speech, too, for a man who comes across like he’s got a stick up his ass.
I pop the box open and admire Grandma Maddox’s pearls. She had taste. They’re the most understated piece in the safe. Next, I take the lid off a square box in much better condition. Adrian’s present from last Christmas glitters at me—a drop necklace with 28.01 carats of cushion-cut sapphire and nineteen carats of bezel-set marquise diamonds.
Adrian recited its stats while he draped the necklace across my chest and clasped it behind my neck. I thought it was so cute that he was bragging on it down to the second decimal place, that he wanted me to like it so bad. I guess he was just making sure I understood the finer points of the payment being made to me.
I pluck the necklace from the box and shove it in my pocket, and then methodically go through every one of the other boxes—except Grandma’s heirlooms—and cram them in, too, until it looks like I’m wearing those old horseback riding pants that bulge at the thigh. I’m going to have to finda rich-person pawnshop. I can’t imagine the Goldfather has the funds to buy any of these pieces.
Out of morbid curiosity, before I close the safe, I take out the water and fireproof case and flip through the documents. Our passports are on top. Even Winnie has one, although we haven’t taken her out of the country yet. Adrian and I both agree that we don’t want to take her overseas until she’s had her second dose of DTaP.
Under the passports are the folders with Winnie and Pearl’s baptismal certificates, their birth certificates, social security cards, and the birth record from the hospital with their footprints in ink. Their toes were so tiny.
My hand sneaks to my belly. I press hard with my fingertips, testing the small swell I got after Pearl that I’ve never been able to work off despite the personal trainer and Pilates. It’s too soon to feel any changes, let alone pee on a stick. I breastfeed, so it’s not likely there’s a little guy in there, but it’s possible.
I’m so used to hoping to be pregnant, it’s strange to feel dread mixed with the longing. If I’m in the clear, I’m going back on the pill. I’ll be damned before that man gets any more leverage over me.
I flip through a fat stack of legal-size documents that I don’t even bother to read, and I’m almost about to shove everything back when I come to a fancy white embossed folder. It’s our marriage certificate. I had a vague plan to frame it and hang it somewhere, but Pearl came along so quickly, and I got so busy that the idea went straight out of my head.
I take the certificate from the envelope. Adrian’s signature is a bold, illegible slash. Mine looks like it belongs to a middle school girl.
How was I so naïve? I went through hell as a kid. How was there any part of me still capable of being suckered?
The fire spits, and I startle. The glass safety door is mostly closed, so I don’t get hit by the sparks, but my nerves still switch to high alert. I sink down to my knees on the stone hearth. It’s a small fire, crackling like the static when you first set a needle on a record player. I watch for a minute as it throws off tiny shooting embers. Something inside me lets go and begins to float, but not in the bad way. I’m not scared.
I should be. This is trouble, too. The worst kind.
My breathing has slowed, though, and for the first time in days, I’m outside the terrible pain that’s burrowed into every cell of my body.
