I knew what she meant. And I felt it too. Fisher and Angie would be home later, and I needed to not be home. Not be available to him and his anger or pathetic excuses. Not put myself in the position to explode and say things that would make everything exponentially worse.
“Yes.” I scrounged a smile for her. “It really would be.” I shut the door behind me.
Elliott’s mom did, in fact, labor for almost twenty-four hours, during which time, I received one text from Fisher.
I’m home if you want to talk.
If I wanted to talk. Not “I’m home, we need to talk.”
I replied as soon as I had a quick chance.
I’m at a birth.
He didn’t reply.
It was almost seven o’clock Monday night before I made it home.
Rose and Rory were decorating the house for Christmas.
“Hey, sweetie. How’d it go?”
On a sigh, I smiled—a tiny one. “Good. A boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Mom cried. Dad cried.”
“Did you?” Rose asked.
I shrugged. “I might have got a little teary eyed because I just …” On another sigh, I frowned.
“You’re tired. Emotionally drained.” Rory said.
I nodded. “So drained. I’m going to crash. I’ll see you in a hundred years.”
“Love you.”
“You too,” I mumbled, dragging my feet and slumped body to bed.
The next morning, I woke a little before five and couldn’t get back to sleep. It also didn’t help that it sounded like someone was mowing our lawn. I peeked out the window. It had snowed overnight. A lot. And Fisher was snow blowing our drive and sidewalk.
Of course he was …
Rory and Rose’s room was tucked in the back corner of the house, so they likely didn’t hear him. Lucky them.
Ten hours of sleep was enough for me, so I showered and dried my hair. By then it was five-thirty, and I no longer heard the snowblower. When I peeked out the front window, Fisher was loading the snowblower and his shovel into the back of his truck.
Without a real goal in mind, I slipped on my jacket, hat, and boots and went out the back door, opening the garage door which turned on a light. Fisher glanced in my direction for a second before closing his tailgate. He made his way up the driveway as I stood in the garage between the two cars with my hands in the pockets of my jacket.
“Thanks for doing that,” I said with reserved emotion. My heart hurt too much. There was so much to say. And I didn’t know where to begin or if it was even the right time to have the conversation. Did he have other driveways to clear? Work to do?
“It’s no big deal.” He dusted snow off his jacket and coveralls. His scruffy face was wet from the snow.
“Do you have time to grab coffee?” He pulled up his coat sleeve to look at his watch. “Starbucks opens in fifteen minutes.”
Starbucks. He could have invited me to his house for coffee so we’d have total privacy, but he invited me to Starbucks. I didn’t know how to interpret it. But I also knew I needed something from him. And maybe that was his goal too. Maybe he needed something from me. Were we going to Starbucks to break up? Were we even still together? Were we ever really together?
I nodded once. “Okay. Let me grab my purse.”
“Okay.”
After I grabbed my purse, we headed down the driveway, Fisher’s gloved hand held mine, but it wasn’t an intimate gesture. It was a friendly gesture, just making sure I didn’t slip and fall.