Chapter 1
Eight-Year Itch?
My twenty-ninth birthday fast approached, and with every birthday since I turned twenty-one, the year my sister Danielle and I called "the year of the mess," I would disappear into myself. I'd long since lost the joy of my birthday, and it'd become a reminder of how my actions had left me stuck in a love triangle between my best friend and the neighbor who eventually became my husband.
Although Carter had long forgiven me for loving another man besides him and had been a good husband and doting father to our twins, the ghost of Grey lingered between us over our eight years of marriage. No matter how I reassured Carter that Grey, my former best friend and short-lived lover, didn't want marriage or a family and that I willingly chose him, he fretted that one day I would realize I still wanted Grey. And he would lose me.
Lately, however, I don’t think he cared anymore if I still wanted Grey, or at least that's how I felt when I noticed lipstick stains that were not mine on his shirt, or that he smelled of a different soap than his usual clean scent when he returned home from a late practice one night.
Veteran wives had warned me in the league that we were lucky to be married to football players, not basketball players. Those men were gone most of the year, while ours were usually home. That to expect some cheating and hope that our men were responsible enough to use protection and not flaunt anyextracurricular activities. Of course, some wives held no such lowly expectations and swore their men would never cheat and that there were football players who honored their commitments and marriages. I used to think Carter was one of those men until the last few weeks when he started arriving home late with weak explanations, or that our very active sex life had diminished from several times a week to once or twice if I was lucky.
I sat in my vanity room before my mirror as I brushed my hair into a ponytail, staring at myself. I'd become more than plain Darren Brown from Beaumont, who wore glasses and clumsiness as a badge. I'd become the star quarterback of the Los Angeles Rams' Carter St. Patrick's wife. I'd become one of the luckiest women in the world, especially in the black world. I secured the bag with a handsome, educated, rich black man who only seemed to have eyes for his babies and me. I should be ecstatic every single fucking day.
I slowly smiled, trying to see if the smile I reserved for the media and football events seemed genuine or reached my eyes. As I stared at myself, my husband, wearing a fitted Tom Ford gray suit, walked in behind me with a warm smile, even more handsome and finer with age. A full mustache and beard graced his face. His wavy hair was still thick on top, though trimmed on the sides. His muscles were more defined with the best personal trainers at his beck and call.
The light in my eyes that shone from his unexpected appearance surprised me. Even if my thoughts were unsure, my soul still loved him dearly. We'd been a team ever since he showed up at my doctor's appointment, ready to be involved with our unexpected pregnancy. He'd been there through it all. From the morning sickness, the oh-so-gross need to spit every other second, my uncontrollable gas, and the crazy fifty-pound weight gain. I was a hot mess during my pregnancy, and he loved me through it all.
We decided everything together. Where we would live once we moved to Los Angeles, the cars, the house, how we spent our money, and what was best for our babies. Neither of us decided without the other. Once a decision had been made, we fully supported it, even if one of us wanted something different. My brother and sister often teased that they needed to take relationship advice from Carter and me, and that our marriage was just as strong as my parents', who had been married for thirty-seven years and counting.
Until the last few weeks, I agreed.
"You didn't hear me calling you?" He asked as we locked eyes through the mirror.
"If I did, I would've answered,” I wryly replied.
"Where is the baby? E has no clue where she is."
I warned, "Please don't let Elle hear you. She's the same age as her brother, and you never call E a baby."
"She's the youngest, so she's the baby." He shrugged. "Where is she, and why doesn't E know?"
"Asking E anything is a waste of time. He never knows anything outside of his video games. Elle is at Missy's on a playdate, and I told her you would pick her up in about an hour." I pursed my lips, expecting some protest.
"Could you have told me first?" He complained. "I need to re-watch our last two games tonight."
"If you were home more, I would, or if you check your messages." My eyes flashed, and he lowered his gaze. I debated whether to confront him about his recent suspicious behavior. Then I heard the other wives' voices, reminding me that all would be well as long as my husband came home. "You know how she loves it when it's just you and her, anyway. Yourbabymisses you."
Carter beamed. "I miss my baby too...well, she's the baby until we have another one."
“Don't you think eight years is a huge gap between children?” I argued as I fluffed out my ponytail.
“Then we have two back-to-back, or see if we can have twins again.”
“Says the man who doesn’t have to share a body with two babies,” I sighed. We had a recurring argument since our twins turned three, and Carter told me he wanted more. I was willing to adopt, but he wanted more of his own blood. Pregnancy had been tough on my body, and delivery was a nightmare. We didn’t have a nanny, and he had been a rookie. I couldn’t get my two babies on the same schedule until they were almost one. And now that our children could do everything independently, I didn’t relish the thought of starting over. I wanted to begin opening my pharmacy and started taking business courses.
Carter loosened his tie and leaned against the door jamb, still watching me. “You really don’t want any more children. You stay with excuses.”
“I would love more children. Just not from my body.” I bit down my irritation that we have continued to have this discussion for the last four years.
“Then let’s get a surrogate.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. “That’s always been weird to me, and I thought you felt the same. Another woman experiencing the life of our child growing inside of her, only to give it up to us, feels like a psycho movie waiting to happen. I’d rather give a parentless child a home and a family.”
Carter reminded me, “Half the players’ wives had surrogates.”
“Most to keep their figure,” I added, and then apologetically said, “Look, I’m not judging those who choose surrogacy. I would just rather adopt if we don’t get pregnant.”
“Aww...you said ‘if.’ I still have a chance to see you pregnant again without all the drama from the first time.” He grinned andswooped down to kiss the top of my head. “I love your hair like this.”
