“About our schedules. Or the kids. Not about us. Not about our feelings.”
“Honey, I’m a guy. We don’t sit around discussing our feelings.”
“We used to,” I reminded him. “We used to talk for hours.” About everything and nothing at all. About our hopes and fears, our plans and our dreams, about where to go out for dinner or what was on TV. Or we could sit in silence and be perfectly in tune.
He sighed and rolled away, punching his pillow to stuff it under his head. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I didn’t want to sound as if I was complaining. “Tell me something important,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Tell me what you want out of life.”
“Besides sex?”
I sputtered with laughter. “John!”
He turned on his side to face me, his warm, brown eyes on mine. His thumb traced the shape of my smile. “There it is,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy, Meg.”
My heart melted. “Oh, John.” That was so lovely. How could I be anything but grateful? “That’s it?”
“That’s not enough for you?”
I grabbed his hand. “Of course it’s enough. It would be enough for anybody. But what about you? What doyouwant, John?”
“I want to take care of you. You and the kids.”
“You do. You work so hard. I love you, John.”
His face was sober. “Love you, too, honey.”
“But I want you to be happy, too.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” I searched his face, unconvinced. “Let it go, Meg,” he said in his Coach voice.
I could push. But I didn’t want to fight. And maybe there was a chance we could get this night back on track. I squeezed his hand again.
John raised on one elbow to kiss my forehead. “Good night, honey.”
“Are you tired?”
“Kids will be up before you know it,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”
“You’re right.” I kissed him back softly. “Good night, John.”
But it was a long, long time before I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
Jo
Hot, hot!”
“Knife.”
“Behind!”
All around me, manic cooks stirred, seared, and sautéed, clanking pans and scraping spoons like the rhythm section of a dysfunctional orchestra. Fat sizzled. Pots bubbled. Intake hoods roared. Two hours into service, the bar was buzzing and the dining room packed. The printers spat orders nonstop into the kitchen.
