“Where you going?” he asks, his voice calmer now.
“I need space,” I snap.
And he doesn’t follow.
I sit on the edge of our bed, eyes closed but still shedding tears, and I breathe, slowly, in and out.
Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Mason moving around—opening the fridge, closing a cabinet, turning on the TV.
Normal sounds. Like we didn’t just have the biggest fight in our marriage so far.
I press my palms into my eyes. His words play over and over in my head, about adopting before anything else, and each time they sting a little more.
And I don’t know how to come back from that.
Chapter 26
Megan
It’s been a week since the fight about IVF.
One week of careful conversations and forced normalcy. We haven’t brought it up again. Not because we resolved anything, but because neither of us knows how to without it turning into another argument.
Mason goes to work. I go to school. We come home and talk about safe things: what’s for dinner, whether we need to run to the store, what to watch on TV. We’re functioning and we’re okay.
But there’s a heaviness between us that wasn’t there before. An unspoken awareness that we’re not on the same page about something that matters. A lot.
Still, when I hear his truck pull into the driveway earlier than expected today, I let myself smile. Because today’s my birthday, and maybe, just for today, we can set the weight aside and just beusagain.
I glance out the window above the sink, smiling before I can stop it. Through the windshield I see the silhouette of flowers.
The engine cuts, and the driver’s door opens. Mason steps out, still in uniform, vest on, sleeves rolled up. In one hand, a small bouquet of wildflowers. In the other, a white box with the bakery’s logo stamped across the top.
I wipe my hands on a towel and go to the door to greet him. The screen creaks open, and his eyes find mine instantly, that boyish grin spreading slowly across his face, the one that still makes my stomach flip.
“Happy birthday,” he says softly, leaning down to press a kiss to my lips.
I melt right into him, the smell of Pepsi and a hoagie of some kind clinging to his uniform. “You weren’t supposed to get me anything,” I murmur.
“Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug, “guess I’m a bad listener.” He hands me the flowers first, then the box. “Your favorite.”
“You’re too sweet.”
“I called last week, placed the order.” He steps past me into the kitchen, unbuttoning his vest as he talks. “Every time I stopped by in the past they were almost out of them.”
I look down at the box, my heart swelling at the small details—him remembering, him caring enough to call ahead.
“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping closer.
He looks down at me with that soft, steady gaze that always undoes me. “You deserve more than flowers and cupcakes, but I—”
“This is perfect.”
He wraps his arms around me, kissing me softly.
“And if cupcakes don’t earn me Husband of the Year, I’ve got backup plans.” He grins, kissing me again, slower this time.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m not opposed to seeing those.”
