Chapter 5—Christa #2
The attraction between us has become difficult to ignore, and neither of us is stupid. He knows I’m aware. I know he’s aware. The restraint isn’t accidental.
I appreciate it even while part of me resents needing it. I return to the drawer. “You’re succeeding.”
Simon doesn’t respond immediately. He shifts his grip when I direct him, helping me settle the piece back onto the padded supports before he steps away. “Good.”
The single word carries enough that I don’t look at him again for several minutes.
SATURDAY DINNER AT Tate’s parents’ house usually requires planning. Judith Meade gives every family gathering a dress code without calling it one, and Tate starts asking what I’m wearing several hours before we leave.
This time, he texts the question from the club. I send back a picture of a navy dress laid across the bed.
His response comes thirty seconds later.
Tate: Too plain. Wear the green one.
I stare at the message while standing in my closet. The green dress is beautiful. Tate bought it for my birthday two years ago after Judith mentioned I wore too much blue. I’ve worn it exactly three times, all to Meade family events.
I put on the navy.
Tate arrives at his parents’ house twelve minutes after I do. He kisses his mother’s cheek, greets his father, then looks me over before leaning close enough to keep the comment private. “I thought you were wearing green.”
“Yes, you did. I changed my mind.”
His mouth compresses briefly. “You could’ve told me.”
I arch a brow. “I didn’t think my dress required authorization.”
Tate studies me, perhaps deciding whether I’m joking. I’m not, though Celeste walks past us at that moment and catches enough to grin.
Dinner begins twenty minutes later. Twelve people sit around Judith’s table, including two of Tate’s sisters, their husbands, Celeste’s oldest daughter, an uncle, and one cousin who has spent the cocktail hour explaining cryptocurrency to Bernard despite nobody asking.
I make it through the soup before Judith turns her concern toward me. “Tate tells me you’re taking a break from the fertility process.”
My spoon stops halfway to the bowl. Across from me, Tate keeps eating. “We aren’t in treatment.”
Judith gives me the patient smile she uses when correcting grandchildren. “I meant the testing and appointments.”
“There aren’t any appointments scheduled.”
Tate finally looks over. “That’s what I told her.”
I set my spoon down. “You told her we’re taking a break.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Celeste glances between us, then reaches for her wine.
Judith smooths her napkin over her lap. “A break may help. Stress can make conception difficult, and you’ve both been under so much pressure.”
I’ve heard versions of that advice from women who became pregnant while changing jobs, moving houses, or planning weddings. “Dr. Levine doesn’t think stress is the issue.”
Tate takes a drink. “Dr. Levine hasn’t found an issue.”
His meaning is clear enough that Celeste stops lifting her glass.
I look directly at my husband. “Not with me.”
Tate’s mouth hardens. “Christa.”
Judith immediately tries to soften the exchange. “Nobody is blaming anyone. We’re all hoping the next round of testing gives you answers.”
I stare at her. “There is no next round planned for me.”
Bernard looks from Tate to me. “Why not?”
Tate shifts in his chair. He knows exactly where this conversation is going, and for once, I’m not going to rescue him from it.
“My preliminary workup is complete.”
Judith reaches for her water. “There must be additional tests.”
“There always are, but Dr. Levine suggested Tate get a basic semen analysis before putting me through anything more invasive.”
Celeste closes her eyes briefly.
Tate sets his fork down with more force than necessary. “This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation.”
I almost laugh. “You brought my fertility to dinner.”
“I told Mom we’re taking a break. You turned it into a medical argument.”
Judith looks trapped now. “Tate only mentioned that your testing hadn’t identified the problem yet.”
The wording catches me.
I turn toward her. “My testing?”
She glances at her son.
Celeste mutters, “Oh, Tate.”
He looks across the table. “Stay out of this.”
She leans back in her chair. “I would love to. Unfortunately, you’ve spent ten minutes letting Mom discuss Christa’s reproductive system while pretending yours isn’t involved.”
Tate’s face reddens. “You have four children. You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Celeste picks up her fork again. “That’s why I haven’t offered medical advice.”
Her husband looks down at his plate, shoulders shaking once.
Even I have to fight a smile.
Bernard clears his throat. “The trust puts unusual pressure on Tate. We all know that.”
Every scrap of humor disappears.
Judith gives him a warning look. “Bernard.”
“What?” He looks around the table. “We’re family.”
Celeste lowers her fork again. “Apparently, some of us more than others.”
Her father frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means you have seven grandchildren, but the trust behaves as if none of them count because your daughters had girls or changed their names when they married.”
“This isn’t about your children.”
Celeste gives Tate a flat stare. “The male-heir requirement is literally about our children.”
Tate turns toward me as though I’ve somehow caused his sister to understand basic English. “This is why I didn’t want this discussed here.”
The absurdity finally breaks through. “You told your mother.”
“I told her we’re taking a break. You turned it into a medical argument.”
“You let her believe the doctors are still looking for a problem with me.”
His eyes narrow. “They haven’t ruled everything out.”
Neither has he. He hasn’t ruled out anything at all because he refuses to take the easiest test on the list.
I stare at him until he looks away.
Judith reaches for the serving dish in front of her. “We should change the subject.”
Celeste gives a quiet laugh. “Excellent idea. Anybody want to discuss my uterus next?”
Her husband chokes on his wine.
Bernard scowls while Judith tells Celeste that’s enough, and the table dissolves into several smaller conversations. Tate doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the main course.
I prefer it.
Dessert arrives, and Tate finally leans toward me. “Can you try to act normal until we leave?”
I put my fork down. “What am I doing?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I ate dinner.”
“You contradicted me in front of my family.”
His anger is quiet, the version he uses when he wants everyone else to think we’re having an ordinary conversation.
I lean closer so he doesn’t have to worry about being overheard. “You discussed my private medical information with your mother.”
“She’s worried about us.”
“Then tell her you haven’t completed your testing.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not discussing this again.”
“You keep discussing it. You just prefer conversations where I’m not present.”
Tate looks toward the far end of the table before returning his attention to me. “Can you stop embarrassing me for one night?”
The words knock every possible answer out of my head.
He continues because my silence apparently looks like permission.
“My family is already dealing with enough uncertainty about the trust. Dad’s under pressure from the board.
Mom gets questions every time somebody announces another pregnancy.
You turning this into an argument about me isn’t helping. ”
I stare at the man I’ve been married to for years.
He looks irritated. That’s all.
No embarrassment over what he told Judith. No discomfort that his family has spent dinner discussing what my body hasn’t produced. He’s angry because I made his refusal visible.
I push my chair back and stand.
Tate looks up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
Judith turns toward me, alarm replacing the careful hostess smile. “Christa, please stay. We’ll drop the subject.”
“Thank you for dinner.” I pick up my purse from the back of the chair.
Tate rises halfway. “Sit down.”
The room goes quiet.
His face changes as soon as he hears himself.
Mine probably does too. I look at him across the corner of the table. “No.”
“Christa, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”