Chapter 12
Now
Somehow I end up at the kids’ table. Not literally, but it certainly feels like it when I’m at the very end, wedged beside Henleigh, Jackson, and Riley, who are happily coloring, while Chris, Ben, Jonah, Gramps, and Bella discuss (fawn over) Liam’s research and I’m rendered invisible.
“What are you drawing?” I ask Jackson, sneaking a peek at what is either a fish or a penis. It’s very hard to tell which.
“It’s a torpedo,” he says, giving me a duh look.
“Really?” I twist my head, trying to get a better view.
“Yeah, see, that’s the head.” He points to what must be the tip of the torpedo, which bears a startling resemblance to the head of a penis. Either that or the past year of celibacy must finally be catching up with me.
For the millionth time, I wish my mom were here. If she were here, I’d have someone other than a six-year-old to talk to. But she’s not, so I do the next best thing: I reach for the bottle of wine.
I’m pouring a glass when I hear my name.
“Roslyn? Did you hear me?”
My gaze jerks up to see that the entire table is looking at me like they expect an answer.
“I asked how the writing’s going, dear?” Grammy asks.
I swallow hard. Right. The writing.
“Fine,” I say, hoping that will be the end of it and they’ll go back to talking about how great Liam is. But it’s not.
“The other day I read an article about AI taking jobs from writers,” Jonah says. “Are you worried about that?”
My insides contract. Of course Jonah read one article and thinks he knows all about publishing.
“I—”
“Maybe you should write something sad where someone has cancer. Like Nicholas Sparks,” Bella suggests. “Those seem to do well.”
“Well, the thing is—”
“How many copies have sold this year?” Gramps asks.
Maybe everyone else’s questions are born out of polite interest, an effort to be insightful or helpful—even if they’re not—but I know that’s not Gramps’s intent. He wants to hear me admit that I fucked up. That I’m wasting my potential writing romance novels instead of becoming a doctor.
It’s the same thing he used to do with my mom.
Growing up, Gramps would take any chance he could to remind my mom that she’d thrown her life away by getting pregnant at sixteen.
They’d go back and forth, fighting about how she couldn’t hold down a job, money problems, the shitty boyfriends she was always bringing home, and lost potential until my mom would storm out, telling my siblings it was time to go and that we were never coming back.
Of course, we always did, usually because Grammy would call and smooth things over, or my mom needed money.
Over time, things mellowed out and screaming matches turned into snide comments and disappointed looks, but residual tension lingered. A tension that is apparently now being redistributed to me.
My eyes skate to Liam, wondering if perhaps our pretend marriage is where he’ll finally stand up for me. But alas, he’s looking at his phone under the table, not even paying attention.
“It’s a good thing Liam makes enough to support you both, Roslyn,” Grammy says, the corners of her mouth rising in a hopeful smile. “So you’re not under pressure to earn a living from writing.”
“Right. Good thing,” I say, taking another sip of wine.
Grammy probably thinks she’s said something helpful, a nice little reminder that it’s totally okay to fail at publishing because I have a rich doctor husband who can take care of me. Yay! But the words fall over me like acid on skin.
While I’m lucky enough to receive royalty checks from my writing, they aren’t enough to sustain me financially.
More like cute little reminders that, Hey, you published a book!
Which means that after the divorce is finalized, I’ll have to get a “real” job.
Maybe even two. Something with health care and benefits.
But I have no idea what I’ll do, or what my BS in biochem even qualifies me for.
Anxiety rises up the back of my throat, and I once again reach for my wine; however, when I lift the glass to my lips, I realize it’s empty. Hmm. That was fast.
But as I reach for the bottle to pour myself another, a hand appears atop mine.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, babe?” Liam whispers, his breath hot on my earlobe.
A shiver climbs the length of my spine, but it’s undetermined if that’s from the closeness, or irritation that my drinking is the thing that’s finally captured Liam’s attention.
“Dear, Liam’s right,” Grammy says, catching my eye from across the table. “You shouldn’t drink so much.” Her attention shifts from side to side before she finally whispers, “It’s not good for the baby.”
“What ba—” But I catch myself just in time. “I mean, it’s just a glass,” I lie. “And I’m not even pregnant.”
I look to Liam, waiting to see if he’ll defend me—after all, it’s his fault that they think we’re trying in the first place—but his eyebrows knit together, jaw torqued with frustration.
“Babe, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks.
But Liam doesn’t give me a chance to answer before his hand folds around my wrist, pulling me to my feet and away from the table.
His grip is gentle enough to probably not raise suspicion, but firm enough to let me know he’s serious. Which only makes me madder.
“What the fuck? Let go of me!” I hiss.
Liam waits until we’re around the corner, by the restrooms and safely out of earshot, before he turns to me. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me? You’re the one frog-marching me away from the table!”
“You can’t be getting drunk at dinner with your family, Roslyn.”
“It was one glass,” I protest.
“It was four.”
“Since when do you care how much I drink? Or is that new?” I challenge. “Like the beard?”
His mouth parts, eyes widening, and I think I might have tapped a nerve, but he blinks and his features slide purposefully back into place. “I care when your family thinks we’re trying to have a baby.”
“And whose fault is that?”
He pushes out a labored breath. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said we were trying to get pregnant, but if we’re going to pull off this lie, we have to be careful.”
He’s right. Logically I know that. But because, as he correctly pointed out, I did in fact have four glasses and not much else, hot, frustrated tears spring to my eyes.
Liam’s gaze widens, clearly flummoxed. “Are you crying?”
“No, I just…” I wipe furiously at my eyes, trying to banish the tears, when Liam looks past me, muttering a hasty shit.
I follow his gaze to where Bella is walking right toward us. Which means she’s about to see me, crying. Which means she’s going to ask questions we don’t want to answer.
Liam must realize this, too, because he grips my shoulders, shoving me backward.
“Whatthefuck!” I cry as a door opens and shuts, plunging us both into darkness.
“Shhh! Calm down!”
“You can’t tell me to calm down when you’ve just shoved me into a…” I look around the darkness, trying to figure out where exactly we are.
“A supply closet,” he finishes for me.
He pulls his hand away and my vision adjusts to the darkness, taking in the rows of cleaners and toilet paper.
“Great. And why exactly are we in our second enclosed space of the day?” I ask.
“Because I didn’t want Bella to see you…” He frowns, gesturing vaguely to me as though trying to figure how to kindly phrase the words looking like a hot mess.
“And you don’t think shoving me into a closet looks even more suspicious?”
“She didn’t see. And I didn’t shove you. You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m the one being dramatic right now?”
His eyes flare, catching the slice of light filtering through the slit in the door, and I realize just how close we are. Close enough that the heat pouring off his body in waves feels like phantom hands, reminders of everywhere they’ve been.
I try to step aside, out of his vortex.
“Ouch, that was my foot,” he hisses.
“Well, can you move?”
“I can’t. There’s a maximum of three centimeters behind me.”
“Maybe you should consider that the next time you want to pick a meeting spot!”
“Ow! That’s my foot! Again!”
I groan. “This isn’t working. Can we please get out of here?” I reach for the door, but he grabs my wrist.
“Wait,” he says, his voice softening. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?” I ask, my eyes flicking down to the hand curled around my wrist.
He sighs and lets go. “Sorry. I just…” He swallows, flexing his hand like the contact burned him. “You normally don’t drink so much, and you look like you’ve lost weight and…” His voice trails off before starting again. “I just wanted to check that you’re okay.”
“You shoved me into this tiny closet because you’re worried about me?”
His weight shifts, his hip grazing mine. I want to beg him not to stand so close.
“I just…” He pushes out a breath. “Just tell me, is everything all right with you?”
When his gaze rises to mine, his eyes are wide with worry. He looks genuinely concerned, and for a beat I wonder if behind all the clenched jaws and stoic eyes, he’s not as apathetic as he seems. If this is more than just a routine wellness check.
But the thought is almost instantly swallowed by memories of all the nights he spent working late or sleeping on the couch.
All the nights he didn’t try to understand my pain.
I’m not good at talking about that kind of stuff, he’d say before finding an excuse to leave, like my grief was some kind of communicable disease he didn’t want to get too close to catch.
Maybe he is worried about me. Maybe past all my thin walls and flimsy defenses he can see how broken and hurting I am.
But he didn’t want my grief then, and I don’t plan on burdening him with it now.
So I pull myself up to my full height, my head still spinning from the wine, and tell him what he wants to hear.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Totally fine.”