“I’ll see you at the gym on Monday,” he says, kissing her cheek. “Well done, Amz. I’m so proud of you.” It’s then I notice the trophy she’s holding. Third place. Her disappointed gaze returns to me.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as horror stabs at my chest. Of course I’ve ruined it. I can’t even show up for her without wrecking something. All I can think of is how small I must look right now.
“Let’s go home,” she mutters as she swings her bag over her shoulder, walking off in the direction of the exit. I follow behind her, far enough away that she won’t speak to me, but close enough not to lose sight of her.
Arriving at the car, she pulls the key from her coat pocket and climbs into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her. Momentarily, I consider making a run for the train station, but decide it will be less painful having an ear bashing from my wife now rather than later. Slowly, I get into the passenger seat.
Surprisingly, the drive home is made in silence. Amy keeps her focus on the road with her dark shades pulled tight over her eyes. Every few minutes, she swallows as if holding back a sob. My fingers flex against my thigh. I want to reach for her hand, saysomething, anything to fix this. But the words jam somewhere between my throat and my pride; no apology could wipe the slate clean.
On reaching our apartment, she parks the car on the street, climbs out, and walks up our path away from me without a word. The front door slams, echoing all the way to the curb. Unsure what to do, I shove my hands in my pockets and walk around the block. The cold air bites at my face until my self-hatred returns to survivable levels.
Resigning myself to the fact that I need to go home tonight, I climb our stairs at a snail’s pace. The door is ajar, but all the lights are off. Soft music is floating from our bedroom.
Upon entering our apartment, I close and lock the door behind me, then go to the fridge and drink milk straight from the carton. It dribbles down the side of my mouth as the sour taste coats my tongue. After wasting time in the bathroom, I head to bed.
She’s already asleep, her blonde hair splayed over her pillow. Dark tracks where her mascara has run cover her cheeks. My stomach turns, guilt clawing its way higher. She’s on her side, curled into a ball, holding a pillow in her arms for comfort. A single tartan pajama leg sticks out from beneath the covers.
Once, I could read every look she gave me; now it feels like a foreign language. But tonight, the message is clear—don’t touch me.
I wander over to her bedside and crouch down beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for being an absolute dickhead. But I don’t know who you are anymore. My wife isn’t who I remember.” Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away before heading to the spare room. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, each step the sound of the last threads of our marriage snapping.
Chapter eight
Amy
“So, how did the appointment at the fertility clinic go?” my friend, Katie, asks. She was my sister’s friend before she was mine. They met during their cancer treatment. Katie’s disease is now in remission. Thank goodness.
I sigh. “The same as all the rest of them. They don’t know why I can’t get pregnant. And me being ancient means that our chances are below zero naturally.” The wrinkles beside her eyes crease sympathetically. “They offered IVF.”
“And you don’t want IVF?”
I shake my head.
“You’ve had it before?”
“No,” I say. “We didn’t start treatment because of Bex being ill. But the odds are so small of a successful pregnancy, I’m not sure I could handle it.”
She nods once, slowly. Unable to have children herself, she understands.
“Terry wants to try,” I tell her.
“Have you told him how you feel?”
I shrug, my napkin twisted like a wire between my fingers. The paper grates against my skin. I welcome the discomfort. It’s a relief from telling the truth.
“That will be a no then,” she mutters.
“Katie, I didn’t realize he still held out hope of becoming a father. He’s fifty-three, for fuck’s sake. With everything that’s happened, having a child became less of a focus and more of anif it happens, it happens.” The familiar burn pulses behind my eyes. I will the tears not to fall. “For me, anyway.”
She leans over to the wine bucket beside her and pulls out the open bottle, then fills both our glasses. I wave her off, but she ignores me.
“I think today you can have a day off from training regimes and fertility diets, don’t you?” Pearlescent teeth appear behind ruby red lips in a false display of happiness. “Let’s have some fun.”
Today’s our girls’ Christmas lunch, just the two of us. Last year, we were three. Bex’s chair sits empty in my head. That familiar ache, which appears anytime I think of my sister, beats in my chest.
“Anyway,” Katie says, recognizing the nosedive my mood is taking. “The competition, third place. That was incredible. You should be so proud of yourself.”
