Chapter Twenty-Three #2
I didn’t want to remember how the baby weight had made her breasts fuller, and her hips a little wider, so that it was like making love to a third her.
I’d loved all of her, whatever weight or size; I looked at her sitting just on the other end of the couch, two feet from me, and for the first time I didn’t think just about Reggie.
I thought about Kate’s face, the feel of her hand on mine, the strength of her, the pain in her.
I thought about Hazel Prescott’s bravery and competence.
Was it unfair to compare their bravery in crisis to Reggie sitting there, arms crossed under the fullness of her breasts, a pout on her face and the anger turning her brown eyes black?
I’d thought the pout was cute once. The temper had never been charming.
“What’s wrong with you today, Zaniel?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked, didn’t I?” She crossed her legs, one knee beginning to jiggle. It was one of her signs that she was really pissed, and for once I didn’t seem to care. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“Fine, I had to leave a crime scene . . .”
“Oh, your job is more important than saving our marriage, is that it?” And just like that we were back to old arguments like the tracks on a roller coaster where the cars can’t get off the ride and just keep going round and round.
“You didn’t even let me answer the question,” I said.
“You answered, you’re all about the job.”
“Actually, Reggie, you didn’t let him answer you. Go ahead, Zaniel, finish your thought,” Dr. Martin said.
“It isn’t leaving work to come here that’s making it hard for me to concentrate, Reggie. It’s the kind of crime scene I had to leave to . . . experience. It was sort of awful and people got hurt, and now I’m supposed to sit here and talk about our marriage.”
“Because the people who got hurt are more important to you than our marriage,” she said, as if I’d made her point for her.
I was suddenly angry, and I let myself be angry at her for once.
“I didn’t save everyone today, Reggie. A young woman who begged me to save her is getting a rape kit done at the hospital, because I couldn’t get to her in time.
I couldn’t save her from that.” The anger in her eyes softened, and it wasn’t enough.
“Did you notice the bandages on me, or did you just not care that I got hurt today?”
“You could do other jobs, Zaniel.”
I shook my head and held my hands up. “So instead of asking me how hurt I am, or what happened, you go straight to the fact that you hate me being a cop, and why can’t I go sell insurance for your brother, or maybe go to college, as if that will guarantee me a better job.”
“Do you want Reggie to ask about your injuries?” Dr. Martin asked.
“I think I need to know that she cares that I got hurt.”
“Do you care about that, Reggie?” the doctor asked, and looked at my wife.
“Of course I do.” She sounded more angry than concerned.
“Then ask Zaniel about his day. How he got hurt.”
“He didn’t ask me about mine.”
I stood up and looked down at her. “If you had come in here with your arm wrapped up in a medical dressing, I’d have asked you what happened.”
Her eyes narrowed and she looked at my stomach.
“Are those more bandages under your shirt?” She reached out toward me; it was the first time she’d reached for me in months.
I thought about stepping out of reach, but I thought about it too long and her fingers found the rips in my shirt and the bandages underneath.
When she pushed her fingers through the rips and brushed some bare skin between bandages I had to step back or shudder from just that light touch.
My body reacted to her being that close, and I hoped she didn’t notice.
I didn’t want her to know that her fingers barely brushing my stomach had that much effect on me.
Heaven help me, I still wanted her, but I wasn’t sure about being in love anymore, and that helped more than a cold shower.
“I’ve seen your shirt after a knife went through; that wasn’t knives, was it?”
“No,” I said.
“Claws, Jesus, Zaniel, what clawed you up like that?”
I shook my head. “Demon.”
“Demons aren’t that solid.”
“It’s been a hell of a day,” I said.
She looked up at me with fear raw on her face, fear for my safety. She’d started using her anger to mask how scared she was every time I left for work.
“You could die.”
“Everyone can die,” I said.
She stood up and in the high-heeled boots, which she knew I loved to see her in, she was six feet at least, not that much shorter than me. I’d liked that she was tall and still loved wearing heels, liked that she hadn’t tried to hide her height like so many tall women do.
“You’d leave Connery without a father.”
“We’ve had this fight before, Reggie. Now I say that statistically driving a car is more dangerous than my job, or working as an overnight clerk at a 7-Eleven, and you say—”
“The clerk doesn’t chase monsters or fight demons every day.”
“I go days without chasing anything, and demons are rare even on my job.”
“Damn it, Zaniel, stop doing that!”
“Doing what?”
“Missing my point.”
“Your point is that you hate my job, because it scares you, because you think I’m more at risk than on most other jobs.”
“Yes, yes, that is my point.”
“You’re a teacher in a public school, Reggie; you’ve taken knives off of students, and there was a gun scare two months ago.”
“There was a rumor two months ago that a student might bring a gun to school, but it was another student trying to get someone in trouble.”
“I’m just saying that your job is dangerous, too, but I don’t ask you to quit.”
“If you asked me to give it up, I would.”
“Really? And what would you do?”
“I’d stay home with Connery.”
I smiled, and it was a mistake.
“Why is that funny?” She half yelled it.
“You’d be climbing the walls in a month being a stay-at-home mom.”
“How do you know that? If you made more money maybe, we could have tried it.”
“I’m making pretty good money, especially for a cop.”
“Not enough for me to quit my job.”
“You don’t make enough for me to quit my job and stay at home with Connery either.”
“You’ve never said you wanted to do that before.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I would? I’d love to see him every day. I miss dropping him off at preschool. Maybe being a stay-at-home dad would be awesome.”
She studied my face, not angry anymore, but thinking, trying to decide if I was serious.
She wasn’t the only one, but suddenly the thought of tucking my kid in at night and being there when he woke up, taking him to preschool, even cooking meals for all of us while Reggie went to work sounded . . . possible.
“You never said that you wanted to do that before,” she said.
“I make more money than you do; if we can’t afford to make it on just my salary, there’s no way for us to make it on just yours.” I shrugged, and then wished I hadn’t because it hurt. “If something isn’t possible, what good does it do to talk about it?”
“I like knowing that you’d try to be the stay-at-home parent.
I love knowing that you’d want to spend all day with our son.
” She started to touch my bandaged arm and then switched her hand to my other arm.
I tried to put my hand over hers, but that hurt the scratched arm too much.
I had to stop the movement halfway and take a deep breath not to say ouch , or something even less manly.
She slid her hand down my arm and took my hand in hers for the first time in six months, maybe longer. Her hand was like the rest of her, bigger, still slender and feminine, but her hand held mine easily. She had never made me feel like I couldn’t shake her hand without overwhelming her.
She held my hand and smiled up at me. My heart did a flip-flop, and just like that I felt hopeful and realized that I still loved her, and that with a little encouragement I could be in love with her again. Part of me was happy and part of me thought I was a damn fool.