Skye, 9:46 a.m.: I think if it was just the three of us she wouldn’t care either way, but Belle wants to go so Alis is currently capable of giving a straight ‘yes’ to her participation.
Tori, 9:47 a.m.:
Tori, 9:47 a.m.: K cool. I’m almost to my meeting so just let me know what I oweyou.
Skye, 9:47 a.m.: Can do. Is this the test results appointment?
Tori, 9:47 a.m.: Naw. That’s next week.
I just lied to my best friend. Again.
And the worst part? It didn’t even make me flinch. Lying about my life has become so habitual I barely notice the sting anymore.
I turn off my phone screen and drop it into my handbag before reaching over to stroke the top of Chase’s hand on the gear shifter. He tolerates it for two seconds before pulling his hand away and swapping his grip on the steering wheel.
The cold distance between us grows in the tiny space of the car, but I swallow it down like I always do.
“You ok?” I ask, knowing he’s not, but also trying to reach out and connect with him.
My attempt at helping him not to feel so alone backfires, as usual, and he ignores me. His jaw tightens, the tendon flickering as he stares out at the road like it might give him the answers he’s looking for.
“Who were you texting?” Chase asks, changing the subject so he doesn’t have to acknowledge his own stress and worry.
“Skye. Tickets go on sale today for the tour, and we’re hoping for floor seats. She’s coming to Denver so hopefully we’ll get that show, otherwise who knows where we’ll have to fly to see her.”
“That’s stupid.”
“What is?” I ask, my voice already laced with exhaustion because I know exactly where this is going.
“That you’d fly somewhere for a fucking concert. She’s an old teeny bopper. Not worth the trip.” His condescension is nothing new, but I know from experience that fighting back won’t help.
Never mind that he was willing to drop two thousand dollarson one bowl game ticket that required him to fly to California. I thought that was a waste of money, but it wasn’t to him.
How someone can be so lacking in self-awareness is beyond me.
Not responding works its magic, and Chase goes back to driving in silence to our doctor appointment. The quiet feels oppressive, filling the car with a suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.
When I went in to figure out why my body refuses to get pregnant, the tests found a perfectly functioning uterus, free of endometriosis, PCOS, and all the other reasons why a woman’s body would revolt against conception.
The doctor even made a comment about the perfect thickness of my uterine lining.
“Your womb is a Rolls Royce, Mrs. Martin.”
As if a luxury uterus matters when the passenger can’t drive.
I didn’t tell Chase about the praise my womb received because I didn’t want to see his eyeroll or hear his backhanded comments.
Don’t take up too much space. Don’t outshine. Don’t rejoice in your clean bill of health. Keep the peace.
It was another eight months of negative pregnancy tests and biting my tongue against his continued passive-aggressive—and sometimes not-so-passive—behavior concerning our lack of conception before I finally built up enough courage to ask him to get testing of his own. He wasn’t thrilled, but he also couldn’t argue that I’d exhausted all my options for figuring out why my body wasn’t doing its job, so, he reluctantly agreed.
I had to make the appointment. I had to remind him about it. I had to take the lead like I always do when it comes to any non-preferred task. But he went. He had the tests run. Came in a cup and also had bloodwork done.
And now we’re on our way to discuss the results with the doctor.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Skye the truth about where I’m headed—probably because I didn’t want to get my hopes up that everything will be alright.
If I go into this prepared for the worst, then I can’t be decimated when the floor falls out from under us.
