First Comes Love (23 page)

I picture Leslie's uppity little nose, then ask if I get a veto in his life, too.

“And you know what the biggest problem here is?” he asks, ignoring my question. “In a sea of really big problems?”

“What?” I ask at my own peril.

“Dude
likes
you.”

I stare at him, confused, and he clarifies.
“Pete.”

“I know who ‘dude' is,” I say. “But I don't get your point. Of course he likes me. He wouldn't do this for me if he didn't like me.”

Gabe shakes his head. “No. He
likes
you. As more than a friend. As more than a ‘hey, let me loan you some sperm.' He wants to sleep with you. Date you. Maybe marry you.”

“You're nuts!” I say, laughing and throwing a pillow at his face. “No, he does
not
.”

He lofts the pillow into the air, and we both watch as it falls neatly in place. “I'm a guy,” he says with calm certainty. “I can tell. I know. And I promise you—this would be an absolute
fucking
disaster. As in…the biggest disaster you've ever put in motion. And that's saying a lot.”

His face falls as soon as the words are out. “You know what I mean,” he says, looking guilty.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling crushed, knowing that we both know that there will always be a far worse and much darker disaster in my past.

I
n true Nolan ignore-the-issue style, he returns from his run several hours later (after I've cried and showered and dressed and cried some more) and tells me he thinks we should just enjoy the weekend. The coward in me is relieved, but at the same time, I am incredulous, frustrated, and worried that nothing is going to change—in my heart, our marriage, my life.

And that feeling grows larger when, that evening, we exchange anniversary cards, have another long, romantic dinner, and then return to our room, where I reluctantly initiate guilt-driven but resentment-filled sex.

While it's actually happening, I make my mind as blank as possible, which in turn makes me realize just how much of sex is mental. In other words, it's virtually impossible to make it a purely physical act. It is always more than that.

Afterward, Nolan curls his body around mine and says, “Did you…?”

“You couldn't tell?” I murmur.

“Just confirming,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

“Good,” he says, tightening his embrace. His arms are strong, warm, comforting—and the feeling that washes over me is a complete contradiction to everything I told him this morning.

I kiss the side of his elbow, the only thing I can reach, and say, “I'm sorry, Nolan. For earlier.”

Then, as I get ready to backpedal, he shushes me and says, “Let's just go to sleep, Mere.”

I close my eyes, deciding that for now, I'd rather doubt myself than doubt my marriage.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
right after breakfast, we drive back to Atlanta, heading straight to my mother's house to collect Harper. It's been less than forty-eight hours since we dropped her off, but it feels like much longer, and I can tell Nolan misses her as much as I do, both of us practically running into the house. He gets to her first, picking her up out of her chair to give her a big hug. I hover beside them, waiting for my turn as I inhale her strawberry Lip Smacker scent. But before I can hug her, she scrambles back down to the table, returning to her elaborate art project incorporating crayons; rubber cement, tape,
and
paste (because you can never have too many adhesives); and copious amounts of purple glitter.

“I want a hug and kiss, too,” I say, stooping down to her eye level.

She turns her head a few degrees and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

“How about a hug?”

She shakes her head and says, “Later, Mommy. I'm very busy now.”

They are clearly words she's heard many times before, and I feel a stab of guilt knowing she is quoting me.

“What are you making?” I ask, sitting at the table beside her, and wondering why my mother didn't put down a drop cloth or newspaper, glitter already working its way into the crevices of her rustic wooden table. I resist the urge to clean, waiting for her answer.

“A castle. And that's you,” she says, pointing to an oval-faced brunette peering out of a half-moon third-floor window. I'm not quite frowning, but certainly not smiling, my mouth a straight, smudged line of red crayon.

“What's Mommy doing up there?” Nolan asks, sitting on the other side of Harper.

“Just looking out,” Harper says. “At this tree. And this blue bird.” She points to each as I notice that her fingers are beginning to lose their chubbiness, becoming little-girl slender.

Nolan and I exchange a glance, as I wonder if he's trying to psychoanalyze her art project as much as I am.

“And where are you?” I ask, even though it is clearly her standing in the front yard, wearing a pink A-line frock. Beside her is a strapping, smiling man that has to be Nolan.

“Right here,” she says, pointing to herself. “With Daddy.”

“That's a mighty happy pair,” I say under my breath, but Harper hears me and quotes me back.

“A happy pair,” she says, smiling, nodding.

“So did you and Nana have fun?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” she says.

“You mean ‘yes'?” I say, gently correcting her.

“Yes,” she says, shaking more purple glitter into the flower bed in front of the castle.

“We had a marvelous time,” Mom says, gazing at Harper adoringly. “And how was your anniversary weekend?”

“It was great,” I say, forcing a cheerful tone. “Very relaxing…It's such a beautiful place.”

Nolan quickly echoes my comments.

Mom looks pleased. “I'm so glad you had a good time,” she says.

“So what else did you two do?” I ask, glancing from Mom to Harper.

“Let's see. We watched movies….Right, Harper?”

Harper nods and says, “
Lady and the Tramp
…and
101 Dalmatians
. And
Lassie Come Home
.”

“Oh, a little dog theme, I see,” Nolan says pointedly, glancing my way.

In addition to a second child, he has been trying to get Harper a puppy for months now, but I have held out, knowing that I will be the one taking it out every morning, feeding it, and scooping up its poop from the yard.

“And speaking of dogs,” Mom says. “Aunt Josie came over with Revis for a late breakfast. You actually just missed her.”

“Drats,” I say, my voice completely flat.

Mom says my name as a warning.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Be nice,” she says. And then—“Have you still not talked to her?”

“No,” I say, positive that this fact was discussed, and knowing how adept Josie is at making me out to be the bad guy.

“You really need to talk to her.”

“And why's that?”

I know her answer before she says it:
Because she's your sister
. She clears her throat, then adds, “
And
because she's going to have this baby, and we need to support her decision.”

“Do you think she'll really go through with it?” Nolan asks.

Mom nods and says, “Yes. In fact, she picked her donor.”

I flinch, but remain silent, determined not to ask any questions and indirectly validate what Josie's doing. Of course Nolan doesn't get this nuance and eagerly asks for the scoop.

Mom takes a deep breath, then starts rattling off the detailed bio of a complete stranger. “His name is Peter. He's from the Midwest—Wisconsin, I think she said…but he currently lives in Atlanta. He's forty-one. I think she said he's five-ten or five-eleven….He has brown hair and hazel eyes.”

She takes a deep breath, Nolan looking rapt while I pretend to be completely disinterested. “And let's see….He's Irish and German by descent….He was raised Catholic, but isn't very religious. He is spiritual, though. He believes in God. He likes outdoorsy things—camping and biking and skiing. He's very fit. Very healthy. He went to college, then got a graduate degree in physical therapy, which he practices now. He's very smart, especially in math and science….”

“If he does say so himself?” I say.

Mom ignores my snide comment and says, “Oh—and she says he has a cleft in his chin. Which Josie has always liked.”

“Well,
super,
” I say.

“Meredith,” she says sternly. “You really need to change your attitude.”

“Why? She never changes
her
attitude,” I say, knowing how immature I sound. “She never resists a single impulse.”

“Actually,” Mom says, her voice gentle. “That's not true. She's really trying lately.”

I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, for one—she has agreed to go to New York with us. In December.”

“We'll see about that. I bet you a hundred bucks she backs out,” I say, thinking that's one of Josie's signature tactics—bow to pressure, then come up with an excuse later.

Mom shakes her head. “No. She's really come around on the idea,” she says so earnestly that it breaks my heart. “And I think it will be good for her. For all of us, but maybe especially for her.”

“Why's that?”

“She needs to face her grief,” Mom says. “She never really has. I think seeing Sophie might help with that….So anyway, we should all probably book our tickets and hotel soon….New York is so busy around the holidays….” Her voice trails off and her eyes grow glassy, as she is obviously thinking about Daniel, that time of the year, trees and decorations and Christmas carols, all completely synonymous with death in our family.

I look away, watching Harper add another large tree to the castle grounds, this one an evergreen. Nobody speaks for a long stretch, the only sounds those of Harper's crayon pressing against the paper and Nolan tapping the table with his thumbs. Annoyed by the monotonous rhythm, I reach over and put my hand on his, silencing him.

He glares at me, then clears his throat. “Speaking of New York,” he says. “Meredith might go up there sooner than December….”

I look at him, confused. Ellen and I have recently discussed going to the city for a girls' weekend, but I don't recall mentioning this to him, probably because I knew it was a long shot given my workload at the firm.

“Oh?” Mom says, glancing at me. “For work?”

“No,” Nolan quickly replies. “She just needs a break. A little getaway.”

“Wasn't that the point of this weekend?” Mom asks, clearly as confused as I am.

“Oh, she needs a longer break than
that,
” he says. “A
real
break. From her job. And Harper. And me.” He flashes a fake smile, then forces a chuckle. “Don't you think that would be good for her?”

Mom nods, but remains pensive. “Well, I guess time away can be good for all of us….How long of a break do you need, sweetie?”

“I don't
need
a break,” I say, feeling both agitated and defensive.

Nolan musses my hair, feigning lightheartedness, and says, “Oh, yeah you do. A couple weeks will do you good.”

“A couple of
weeks
?” Mom and I reply in unison.

“What about Harper?” she asks as I glare at my husband.

“Oh, I have that covered. Hell. Josie's going to be a single parent. Surely I can handle a couple of weeks on my own,” he says, as I stare at him, wondering when all of this came to him. On his run yesterday? Last night after we had sex? On the virtually silent drive back this morning?

He whistles a few bars of an unrecognizable song, then says, “Maybe I'll take some time off, too. Do a little father-daughter bonding. Wouldn't that be fun, Harper?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, without looking up.

“And I'm sure Nana can help a little…and Gran and Pop,” he says, referring to his parents. “And Josie, of course. Good ol' Aunt Josie.”

Mom frowns, looking confused by the contradiction between his maniacal mood and the undertones of his message. Deep lines appear on her forehead as she asks her standard question. “Should I be worried here?”

“No,” I say.

“Oh,
no,
” Nolan says. “Not one bit. Meredith just needs to do some thinking. Right, Mere?”

I bite my lip and mumble a noncommittal
yeah,
as Mom asks what sort of thinking.

“Deep thinking,” he chirps. “
Soullll
searching.”

“About?” Mom asks.

At this point, I'm in damage control mode, so I simply say, “About my job.”

“So you're seriously thinking about leaving?” she asks, her frown lines easing a bit.

I start to reply with a watered-down statement about feeling burned out, but Nolan once again answers for me. “Yes,” he says decisively, a word he almost never uses, which is why Harper continues to say
yeah
and
uh-huh
. Then he turns and looks into my eyes. “She's
seriously
thinking about leaving.”

“
W
HAT THE
HELL
was that about?” I ask Nolan as soon as we're back at the house and alone—as alone as you can be with Harper in the next room. My voice is measured and low, but inside I'm enraged.