Connor is quiet as he patiently lets me vent. Usually, I wait until therapy to unleash my aggravation. But at the end of those sessions, I’m always prescribed anti-anxieties, whereas Connor usually ends our conversations by calming most of my worries.
I continue as I think about her texts. “And even though I’ve reminded her a hundred times that I have Lily’s wedding under control, she insists on butting in. You can’t have red velvet cake, Rose. Make the color scheme gold, like Fizzle, Rose. That venue is too small, Rose. Oh, but that one is too large.” I throw up my hands after imitating her. “I can’t do anything right.”
“Have you tried ignoring her?” Connor asks.
He knows I haven’t. I crumble at my mother’s persistence. And even if she becomes overbearing and a little too much to handle, there is a part of me that loves that she cares. That she’d rather spend her time thinking about her daughters than worrying about mindless matters.
“I love her even if I hate her,” I say, not entirely responding to his question.
“A paradox,” Connor muses. “I like those. They make life interesting.”
My eyes flit to his. We don’t have these heart-to-hearts often. It’s much more fun to debate over Freud’s misogynistic theories. But we’ve spoken about Connor’s relationship with his own mother a couple times. She’s not cold or maternal. She just is. At least that’s how he’s always described Katarina Cobalt. As if she’s nothing more than his boss.
I’d love to meet her, but Connor has lied to me about her being busy for over a year. He doesn’t want me to see her for whatever asinine reason, and even if he won’t tell me why, I respect his opinion. So when she called me a couple days ago, I brushed her off with the same excuse Connor has been using. I’m too busy for coffee and definitely too busy for brunch. It was rude, but if she listens to gossip and socialite mutterings, she’d know I’m a bit of a bitch.
“Mothers are all slightly insane,” Connor says with a small smile. He just quoted J.D. Salinger, and he waits for me to say so. But I keep my lips tight like I lost him somewhere. His smile fades. “J.D. Salinger.”
“Really? Most mothers are instinctive philosophers,” I shoot back.
He grins again. “Harriet Beecher Stowe. And I couldn’t agree more.”
“I wasn’t trying to stump you, so don’t gloat.” I want to hear the truth, not someone else’s words. “Tell me something real.”
And in one swift motion, he tugs my ankle, pulling me flat on the mattress. My nightgown rises to my belly, revealing my black cotton panties. Before I can fix it, he startles me by placing his hands on either side of my body, hovering above me. There’s challenge in his eyes. To stay still. To not be afraid of him.
I inhale, fire brewing inside of me. I don’t shift my nightgown, and my eyes narrow, finding my combative side. “You didn’t answer me.”
His eyes dance over my features. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“I don’t care. Just tell me anything.”
“As long as it’s real?”
“Yes.”
He smiles. “Where do I even start?” His hand skims the bareness of my knee, up towards my thigh. “Besides what I’d love to do to you right now and tomorrow and for the rest of my life, I hope that someday, I’ll watch you grow big and round…” He kisses my belly, and his mouth trails a line to my hipbone, dangerously close to my panties. “…and I’ll hold you in my arms…every…” He traces the skin above the fabric. “…single…night.”
I become so absorbed by his words, and I react how he probably predicted. I put two firm hands on his chest and push him to a sitting position.
His eyebrow arches. “Yes?”
“You want children?” I gape. I wasn’t sure what he really wanted. But the fact that he’s not onboard with me—that we have diverged somewhere has my heart rate at a hundred-and-five. I thought Connor was the male-version of me. But I realize I’m not dating myself. I’m dating someone much different. Whether that’s better is to be seen.
“I told you, you weren’t going to like my answer. You said you weren’t going to care. One of us lied.”
I glower. “You want children.”
“Does saying it twice make it more real?” he asks, his fingers touching his jaw. He’s smiling, loving this way too much.
“Why would you want children? You’re…you.”
“You’re right. I am me. And me wants eight screaming kids, who will bounce on our bed in the morning, who will beg you to braid their hair, who have your beautiful eyes and your brilliant mind. I want it all, Rose. And one day, our children will have it all too.”
“Eight kids?!” I fixate on this. “I can’t even stomach having one kid and you want me to birth a lineage? I’m not the Queen of England procreating to secure our empire with an heir.”
He grins into a bright laugh, his teeth almost too gorgeous to stare at. He wrestles me back to the mattress, and he kisses my cheek. “But don’t you want a son and daughter to succeed you,” he asks, “to raise them as your own, to know that your legacy will still remain long, long after you’re gone?”
“It’s still all about you,” I say, understanding completely now. “Could you even love your children?”
His smile fades again, and he becomes impassive, poker-faced. “I’d love them.”
I wish, more than anything, he wouldn’t try to lie to me. That angers me more than hearing the truth. “You only love yourself.”
“I love you.” He’s practically mocking me.
I push him up again, and I rise to my knees. My lips find his ear, my voice hot and cold all at once. “I don’t believe you.” I scoot to the edge of the bed, to climb off. He catches my arm again.
“I meant what I said,” he tells me seriously, “before you brought love into the equation.”
“That’s the thing, Connor.” I untangle from him. “Love should always be in the equation when children are involved. You’re just lucky I don’t hold that stipulation.” I step off the bed and straighten my nightgown.
“Where are you going?” he asks, worry creasing his brows. We fight often. And we make up even more. It’s not as though my storming off is out of the ordinary.
“To take a shower.”
“It’s five in the morning. Come back to bed.”
“No,” I say. “I want to shower before anyone comes into the bathroom.” I head towards the door.
“Rose…” He starts but he stops himself before he gets that far.
I feel like I’m eighteen again.
And Connor’s that nineteen-year-old boy who lent me his college blazer.
I wait for him to speak, but like back then, he just stares at me with those deep austere eyes, with shadows of the truth hidden behind pools of blue.
So I say, “I don’t mind that you don’t love me the way I do you.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thank you for at least trying.”