“You can always go into private practice, use that psychology degree you spent all that time, money and effort on,” he says signifying he’s done with his emails and that he was paying more attention than I gave him credit for a minute ago. I turn to look at him. His face holds a tentative expression and his words are gentle. “If this charity project doesn’t work out long-term, I mean. You’ll still be doing a good thing. And you can set your own hours and I can see you more. We can finally talk about the future because we’ll have time to plan it.”
I can’t believe he’s saying this. Just the thought of closing Daphne’s House makes me sick to my stomach. Literally. I can feel it churning. I put a hand on my belly and take a deep breath. “The House can’t and won’t fail. And your job is a big part of why we’re not spending as much time together too.”
“Okay relax, I’m not trying to play the blame game here.” He frowns, his wide mouth turning down, and loosens his tie a little. “I’m just saying…right now you help, about what? Twelve kids a year? If you had your own private psychology practice you’d be helping that many a day and making money at it.”
“But I want to help the ones who can’t afford to pay,” I reply, my voice hard. Victor was so supportive and interested when I told him about what I did for a living when we first met. And he knows about my past, and why this is so important to me.
He calmly pats my knee again. “You could do free work with these kids—at shelters. You don’t have to take it all on yourself. The charity is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, But I honestly don’t know how you’re going to keep it going and move forward with your own life. It’s too all consuming.”
I clench my jaw to keep from saying something about that last comment. Victor wants to get married. He’s been dropping that hint for about a month as subtly as you’d drop a boulder on a pinkie toe. But he hasn’t come out and asked me, officially, because he thinks I’m not ready. He’s right. I’m not. If this was two months ago, I would have probably said yes but the last few weeks Victor has made it clear that he either isn’t listening to the things I tell him about who I am and what I want or else he doesn’t believe I’m serious.
“Victor, your work is all consuming too,” I argue back in a resolute tone and shift so his hand falls onto the seat between us. “Remember, I could have easily turned into one of those kids. If my parents hadn’t seen my story on the news, I would have spent my life in foster care.”
“You said yourself you don’t remember much about foster care. You were four,” he says as the cab slows to a stop in the gridlock just a block from my house. If it hadn’t started raining I would’ve gotten out and walked the rest of the way but I don’t have an umbrella.
“I remember crying. A lot. And I remember being scared and I remember the paramedics and police when they came to take us away from that horrible house.” I remind him of everything I’ve shared with him already. “I’m never going to stop fighting for kids so they don’t end up in places like that.”
He moves his hand to pat my knee but I cover it with my own to prevent him from doing that again. He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the back of my knuckles. “We don’t have to talk about this. The charity is your job right now. And if nothing else it shows what a wonderful, protective heart you have for kids, which means you’ll be a great mom one day.”
The cab finally turns onto my street and stops outside my door. As Victor pays the cabbie, I jump out and run up my front stairs . By the time I get the door open he’s right behind me and we scurry into the front hall. I love my townhouse. It’s huge in New York terms—two stories with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and archways, crown moldings, and big lead glass windows. I adore it. Both the townhouse and the building where Daphne’s House is located were willed to me by my grandmother when she passed away. I don’t need a place this big to live, but I’m clinging to it because it reminds me of my grandmother. Eventually, if I have to, I’ll sell it, get something smaller and put the profit toward Daphne’s House.
Victor closes the door behind us and helps me out of my coat.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
“You,” Victor says and kisses my shoulder.
I smile and turn in his arms to face him, but I pull back when he tries to kiss me. “I’m not on the menu tonight, honey.”
He looks confused for a minute and then he groans. “We haven’t had time alone in weeks and now you’re on your period?!”
“It’s not like I planned it,” I remind him because it somehow feels like he’s accusing me.
“But you could have told me,” he replies, clearly annoyed. “There’s a mixer for my alma mater tonight I am skipping for this.”
“Not to spend time with me, just to have sex with me?”
His mouth opens, but closes without a debate. He sighs. “Why are you constantly trying to twists my words lately?”
“I’m not. You’re being an ass,” I tell him bluntly.
He takes several deep breaths and steps back, his long, lean frame blocking the small light I leave on that sits on the hall table. The narrow hall gets as dark as my mood. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
I don’t want to fight with him either, but it’s all we’ve been doing for a couple of weeks now. I’ve been ignoring it and trying to tell myself it’s not big deal, because I don’t want confront him, or honestly even myself, with what might be the cold hard truth—this isn’t working out. “I’m not going to be a mother one day.” It’s a whisper but it’s stern and resolute. “I’ve told you that. I am not risking passing on my bum genes to someone else.”
“Sweetheart, you also told me you don’t know if you carry the same gene your birth mother did,” Victor replies calmly and then he steps closer and pulls me to his chest. He has always known the right time to hug me. I have to give him that. “And even if you do carry it, it doesn’t mean you’ll pass it on.”
“But I could,” I reply. “And if I have it I could die of ovarian cancer as young as my mom did and leave my kids motherless.”
“Or you could not have it, or have it and not get cancer and not pass it on,” Victor replies and runs a hand over the back of my hair. “You know what my endgame is, Brie, honey. Marriage and a family. If you’re going to let this gene dictate what you do with your life, then you need to get tested and find out if you have it so I know what I’m dealing with.”
“Whatyou’redealing with?” I repeat. And this is exactly why I never told him I got the test done last year but never picked up the results. Because he would pester me relentlessly to find out and I’m not ready to face the news.
“I want a family, Brie. That does not make me a monster.”
I stare into his hazel eyes. “There are other ways to have a family. I’m living proof of that. I’m not against adoption or fostering, you know that. In fact I feel very strongly that I want to do that one day.”
He lets go of me.
