2. “Foreverthe End” - Skillet
“Forever or the End” - Skillet
The lights blink on when I flip the switch, illuminating the white closet with its rows of gleaming cabinetry and glass, all bright and reflective surfaces. Even my shoes are hidden from view behind ornately carved doors.
I walk over to the drawers containing my jewelry and unlock the one holding my gemstone earrings.
When I slide it out, glittering stones wink at me as they catch the light from the chandelier overhead.
I remove the studs I’m wearing and nestle them into the empty spot Daphne pulled them from this morning.
A creak in the floorboards makes me stiffen. The scent of pine wafts through the room. I don’t turn as he comes closer.
“I didn’t know you were up here already,” Henry says quietly.
I slide both my feet out of the heels I’ve been wearing all day and walk to the wall holding my shoe collection. Four hundred and seventy-six pairs, the last time anyone counted, and who knows how many have been added since.
“I’m tired,” I say as I put the Bottega Veneta mules into their spot on the shelf and close the doors.
He doesn’t respond right away. His gaze tickles the back of my neck, but rather than facing him, I work on the clasp of my necklace. It’s stuck, but it’s also 150 years old, so I have to be gentle.
Warm fingers meet mine, and I swallow the involuntary gasp that rises in me. He undoes the clasp and releases the ruby necklace into my hands. I take it, doing my best to avoid touching him.
His hands remain on my shoulders, squeezing the tension from them. “You’re tight.”
I remain silent as he kneads the knots from my muscles.
“How are you holding up?” His voice is soft.
“I’m fine.”
“I saw the news.”
I carefully lay the necklace back into the appropriate drawer. “It was a good turnout. The crowds were livelier than usual, but in a good way. I think the media got some good shots. Preston seemed satisfied.” Now this I can talk about.
“It must have been hard.”
I finally turn and meet his eyes. “What was?”
“The questions.”
I drop my gaze to the rings on my fingers, then tug them off one by one. My throat hurts when I swallow. “They got that too?”
“Yeah.” His voice is a brush of pine needles against my skin. “And the little boy. You were great with him. You held your composure perfectly.”
“He was a sweet kid,” I say, turning my back so Henry can undo the zipper on my dress.
He tugs it down, then slides his hands around my waist. His touch is hot, a branding iron searing my bare skin.
His fingers linger over the small H I have tattooed near my hip bone as though he can feel it.
I’m afraid his hands will wander, that he has plans for us tonight, but he simply rests them on my stomach, one on top of the other, and pulls me back until I’m resting against his solid chest.
His warmth seeps through the open back of my dress. I want to sink into it so badly. He’s a tower of strength during the roughest of storms, both comforter and protector.
“It will happen for us,” he whispers into my hair. “I promise.”
I only nod in agreement. I don’t trust my voice right now.
We stay like this for a few moments, caught in the silence of grief and guilt. He slackens his hold enough to caress my stomach. It’s like the touch of a feather, all gentle warmth and strong tenderness.
“We could always get another dog,” he says.
We’ve been down this road. Tundra is getting older, and it’s starting to show.
He no longer has the boundless energy he did when he first came to me.
Henry thinks we should get him a companion so that when he crosses the rainbow bridge, it won’t be quite as difficult for us, but it feels like a betrayal.
“I’m not ready for another dog.”
“Okay,” he murmurs into my hair. His tone matches his hands—soft and tentative. He waits a few beats.
Don’t say it.
“Have you considered slowing down?”
I do my best to stop them, but my muscles stiffen anyway. I try coaxing them to relax. This is only a conversation. “You know I can’t do that.”
His fingers trace circles around my belly button, over and over. I shiver.
“We could hire another assistant. There’s room in the budget for it.”
“This is my job, Henry.”
The muscles in his arms contract ever so slightly, a small hint of movement. “I know. But we both know stress can hinder—”
I spin out of his arms and face him. “I can’t hand my duties off to someone else so I can put my feet up and hope I get pregnant!”
And like that, the fuse reaches the gunpowder, and the sweet scene we were acting out explodes into a million tiny pieces.
There is a distinct set to Henry’s jaw that wasn’t there minutes ago. “Delegating some of your duties to someone else would be in everybody’s best interest.”
I yank the dress from my shoulders and let it pool onto the floor. He doesn’t let his eyes wander from mine. I guess there’s nothing down there he hasn’t seen a thousand times before.
“I like my job,” I say. “You may have despised the idea of ruling Wesbourne your entire life, but this is the perfect fit for me.”
“I never said it wasn’t. I just think if you cut back a little—”
“I can’t afford to cut back. Think of everything that would fall through the cracks.”
He reaches for me, but I step away. “Victoria and Elizabeth had thirteen children between them, and they both did fantastic jobs as queen,” he says as if it’s the answer to everything.
I undo my bra and toss it aside. “Things are different now. Queen Elizabeth had something like four hundred engagements a year. I have over eight hundred.”
“Most of those were added by you.”
I open the drawer holding my pajamas and pull out a T-shirt and flannel pants. No need for anything sexy tonight. “And they’ve been successful in winning over the people. You saw the news coverage.” I turn back to him. “They adore me, Henry.”
He loosens his tie and pulls it out of his collar. “Of course they do. And they would adore you just as much if you cut back to raise a family.”
“Maybe the universe doesn’t want me to be a mum.”
A sigh accompanies his tie as he flings it onto a nearby ottoman. “You know that’s not true. You’re great with kids.”
“You’ve never seen me with kids.”
He laughs as if I’ve said something ridiculous, rather than the truth. “Sure I have. I saw you with that little boy today. I saw you after Beatrice was born. You’ll be a smashing mum.”
“Then I’m sure it will happen when it’s supposed to.” I tug the T-shirt over my head.
He snags a handful of fabric and pulls me toward him. “Maybe that’s tonight.”
I slip my arms into the sleeves as he slides his hands over my jawline. “I’m not ovulating.” I try to scoot backward and put some distance between us.
“Baby, I don’t care about that. I miss you.”
My muscles refuse to relax no matter how much I berate them. “I’m not in the mood tonight. Sorry.”
“Okay.” He drops his hands.
I instantly feel regret pooling in my stomach. How did we get here?
“Maybe tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” He runs his fingers through his hair in that gesture I used to love. “I’m going to get ready for bed.” He turns away from me and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I should be putting on my pajama pants, but I can’t help but watch as he slips it off, revealing that muscled back I used to relish running my hands over.
It would be such a little thing to approach him and touch him, but it would need to bridge the huge chasm between us, one that’s so big I have no idea how to reach the other side.
Henry starts to turn around, and I quickly drop my gaze to the rug, tracing the design with my toe.
“Babe, do you want to talk to anyone about it?”
“About what?” I say, looking up without thinking.
“The infertility? I’m willing to go get tested.”
“I’m not ready for that yet.”
“It’s been over a year.” The sadness in his voice matches that in his eyes.
“I know, but admitting it to someone else makes it feel so much more real.” I choke the last words out.
He gathers me into his arms, into that solid wall of muscle he calls a chest. I breathe in his scent the way I hardly ever do anymore, all piney and masculine.
He rubs his hands over my back in long, soothing strokes, imparting his strength to me.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble, snaking my arms around his waist. “I just get emotional about it sometimes.”
“I know,” he says, still rubbing my back. “Perfectly understandable.”
We stand here for a few more minutes, each lost in our own fantasies of the future. Finally, he releases me.
I slip on my pajama bottoms while he strips off his dress pants.
After putting on the shorts he sleeps in, he heads out of the closet we share.
I’m carefully folding my dress over the ottoman for Daphne to take care of tomorrow when a chime sounds from my phone.
It’s still in my bag on the table near the door, but I know without looking at it that it’s my ten o’clock alarm.
I silence it, then fish out the small round compact from the inner pocket of my handbag. I double-check the date—day twenty-five—then pop one of the small pink pills out of the foil. I swallow it without water, a trick I mastered a long time ago.
I snap the compact shut again and stick it back into the purse, where Henry will never find it.