He seems unwilling to even answer this one small question. “Yes,” he says, his jaw grinding. “Kate was still holding her. She wouldn’t…I was the only person who could convince her to let go.”
My heart squeezes tight. How can he possibly believe that didn’t affect him?
“Who did she look like?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales heavily. “Why the fuck are we discussing this?”
Because it was harder on you than you’re willing to admit. Because you need to discuss it with someone and you won’t, and I think it’s just going to fester. Because I’m scared we’ll never become what we could be, what we were meant to be, until you come to terms with it.
“Sorry,” I tell him, giving his hand a quick squeeze.
He’s quiet for a long moment before he sighs. “She looked like me.”
30
LUCIE
He’s gone a day later. I try to let him take the space he needs, and when he calls, I don’t tell him about the cute thing Sophie said or the way I heard Henry laughing in his sleep. I don’t tell him that Henry stared at his house tonight, looking for signs of life, or that I was watching Henry do it and wondering if I’m setting my kids up to be rejected by all the adult men in their lives like I was.
He talks about work, about his trip, about the boat—as he should, because these are things he cares about. But I don’t love the fact that it now feels as if I can’t talk about the thing I care about the most.
The next afternoon I take the twins to the toy store—a rare indulgence. It’s less about offering them a moment of joy than it is offering one to myself. It was always hard, having Caleb take off for some distant city or continent, even before we were together. But it’s a lot harder now.
Sophie vigorously debates the merits of Legos versus a board game with me, but Henry wanders off. I find him standing in the science section, staring intently at all the models and projects for much older children.
“I want this,” he says quietly, holding one of them to his chest.
I squat down to examine the box, which holds some kind of robotic arm you build yourself. He won’t even be able to read the directions. “Honey, this is for adults.”
“I want to build it with Caleb. For the show.”
My heart sinks. He’s referring to the kindergarten’s end-of-year program, which all the parents attend. Most of the kids plan to do something for it—Sophie is hell-bent on performing a fairly inappropriate pop song—but I assumed Henry would refuse to participate, and here he is, willing—asking to do it.
I blow out a breath. “I’ll check with Caleb, okay?”
“He’ll say yes,” Henry says with utter faith.
I wish I believed that as much as Henry does.
Caleb calls me on the house phone from Boston after the twins are in bed. “I’m in my hotel room without a single nude photo of you,” he says. “It’s troubling.”
“I’m not a detective, but if Jeremy is monitoring my texts, sending you nude photos might provide him a subtle clue that you are not merely my boss.”
“You could have taken a photo with my phone as a surprise. The more I think about it, the more it hurts my feelings that you didn’t.”
I wind the phone cord around my hand. “I’ll do my best to mend your hurt feelings when you get home.”
“Why,” he says, his voice guttural with longing, “does every word out of your mouth sound filthy to me now?”
I hop onto the counter. “I’m currently researching ways to spend more of your company’s money. How filthy does that sound?”
He laughs weakly. “The filthiest. Do I even want to know?”
“Nap pods. Just like Google has.”
“Are we hiring toddlers? What grown fucking adult needs a nap during work hours?”
“Grown fucking adults who work really long hours and need to recharge. You want employees who feel as if they’re there by choice, not as some form of indentured servitude.”
He groans. “I pay way too much for anyone to call it indentured servitude.”
I miss that crabbiness of his that never quite extends to me. “When are you home?” I ask softly.
“Not til Tuesday. Someone scheduled a grand opening for the break room on Wednesday that I theoretically have to get back for.”
“Maybe someone will make it up to you.”
“Yes,” he says, his tone deliciously bossy, “she absolutely fucking will.”