Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Hey,” Liam says when he answers. “Everything okay?”
“Hi and yes. Can’t a girl call her father-in-law?”
Liam chuckles. “No, but she can call her uncle. What’s up?”
When he refers to himself as my uncle, I smile. My memories from childhood are fuzzy, like everyone’s. The older you get the less you remember. I remember Liam and the day he walked up to the pew. At five, I knew he was going to change my life. Be someone I could count on no matter what. With him, I still got to be Mason’s little girl, his football loving daughter.
“I’m worried about Noah,” I tell him. “Between this baby stuff and the Pioneers dragging their feet, he’s stressed. I think he can use some dad time.”
“That can be arranged,” he says. “I’ll be there tomorrow. Does that work?”
“Yes. I’ll make sure your room is ready.”
Liam laughs again. “As if it isn’t immaculate already.”
“Hey, I can’t help it.”
“Sure, you can’t. Anything else? Are you okay?”
“I’m nervous,” I tell him. It’s not like any of our matriarchs have been through this and I’m not naïve enough to think Elle’s struggles will be like mine. I face an uphill battle without an ax, but with all the support in the world. The problem with the support is they can’t get me pregnant or make sure I stay pregnant. They can hold and care for me. Be there when I tell them I don’t need anyone. The hurdle is me and I can’t fix me. “And scared.”
“We have to believe everything is going to work out the way we want,” he says. “Is your mom going with you?”
“No, tomorrow is just an ultrasound. It won’t take long. Elle and I didn’t think she’d want to sit in the waiting room.”
“Makes sense. All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you, P.”
“Love you too, Uncle Liam.”
We hang up and I find my husband is still pacing. I wish there was something I could do, but his contract is out of the scope of my responsibilities. It’s my job to show him and the others where they need to attack, move better with and without the ball, and how to move ten steps ahead instead of waiting for the obvious.
When I walk into the house, Noah looks at me and sighs heavily.
“I gotta go,” he says into the receiver and then hangs up. Most people would slip their phone back into their pocket or set it down. Not Noah. Not today. His phone flies into the couch, bouncing off the cushion and tumbling to the floor. “Fuck!”
What do I do? I can’t offer help because there isn’t anything I can do on my end. This is the line we can’t cross. We may work for the same company, but we aren’t anywhere near the same. I can negotiate my own employment, he can’t.
Maybe it’s Allen.
Maybe Noah needs a new agent.
Because I’m at a loss, I stand there, waiting for my husband to say something. He doesn’t. He picks up his phone and walks down the hall toward our bedroom. I choose not to follow. He’s in a mood and sometimes we’re better off apart when he’s like this.
Instead, I sit down on the couch, pull my legs underneath me, and read the book about this one woman’s journey through IVF. For the most part, it’s inspiring. Except when she writes about miscarrying, and then losing her husband to an accident. What ensued was a battle over her eggs because she and his parents weren’t on speaking terms. I can’t imagine what she went through, but then again, my life situation is very different from others.
There was a time, back in elementary or middle school, where a group of classmates were convinced Noah and I were related and would tell anyone who cared to listen. It didn’t matter what I said, no one believed me. They never let up on their theory, no matter how many people disproved it. The fact that he went to prom with me really sent those kids into a tailspin. I wish I could’ve seen their faces when they found out we got married.
Well, maybe not.
Noah returns. He stands there, still somewhat in the hall and partially in the family room. He looks angry, pissed off at the world. I say nothing and go back to reading.
“What are you reading?”
I show him the cover and he makes a face of disgust.
“Why are you reading that shit?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says. “Why put yourself through that? Those issues she wrote about are hers. Not yours.”
“No, I certainly have my own, don’t I?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You literally just did.” I go back to reading, not wanting to engage with him when he’s like this.
“I’m going out.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just, okay?” He huffs.
This time, I set the book down and stare at my sour-faced husband. I love him with all my being but he’s a pain in my ass. “Yes, just okay. Okay, you’re going out. Okay, you’re being a pissant. Okay, you’re throwing an adult size temper tantrum.”