2. Bree
Bree
I was sleeping on the couch when I heard someone say my name, real soft, like they didn’t want to scare me.
I opened my eyes. Gavin’s face was right there, way too close, wearing this guilty little smile, like a kid who got caught eating cake before dinner.
For one whole second I had no idea why I was on the couch and not in bed.
Then it all came back. I’d come downstairs at five in the morning.
I’d made myself a cup of hot ginger tea.
I’d turned on an old rerun of Friends. And somewhere around the one where Ross yells about the sandwich, I’d passed out.
I looked at the clock on the wall. Six Fifteen.
“Bree, we’re leaving,” Gavin whispered. His voice was gentle, but there was something stiff underneath it too, like he was reading off a card. “You can go upstairs and sleep.”
We.
Who was this we he was talking about?
“You’re leaving?” I asked, still half asleep and confused.
“Gav, do you have soy milk?”
WREN. IN MY KITCHEN.
“Yeah,” Gavin called back, easy as anything, like this was totally normal. “Soy milk’s behind the vitamin water.”
I grabbed his arm. “Why is she in the kitchen?” I whispered.
“She’s filming the walkthrough today,” he whispered back.
“She’s filming the walkthrough in my kitchen?”
Before Gavin could answer that one, Wren came strolling out of the kitchen and rolled her eyes at both of us like we were the cutest thing she’d ever seen.
“Oh, please, you two, get a room!” she said, all playful.
“We already have a room,” I said. “Several rooms, actually. In our house. This house.”
I looked at Gavin. “How long is the shoot today?”
“Oh, I’ll be shadowing him the whole day today,” Wren said, before Gavin could even open his mouth.
She pulled out her phone and started reading off a list like a flight attendant.
“So we’ve got breakfast with the team at six-thirty, body assessment at seven, hot tub and massage at seven-thirty, film study and position meeting at eight-thirty?—“
Gavin cut in. “Game starts next week, so this week’s going to be intense.”
“Very intense,” Wren agreed. “We need a big chunk of footage today.”
“Do you want to come, Bree?” Gavin asked.
“Oh, come on, Gavin,” Wren said before I could answer. “Let the poor girl rest. She looks so tired. Somebody’s keeping her up late.” She glanced at my face. “Look at those eye bags.”
“Her eyes look fine to me,” Gavin said. He looked at me with those lovely, guilt-ridden eyes again. “You can come if you want. I’ll have James pick you up in an hour, once you’re dressed.”
I knew exactly why he was saying that. It was because of the fight we had last night. He wanted to look like the good guy. He wanted me there so I’d stop complaining about all the time he spent with Wren.
“No, I’m good,” I said. “I have to finish my illustrations today.”
“So what’s your new book about?” Wren asked.
“It’s about a dragon who doesn’t want to wear his training pants to bed,” I said.
She laughed, the sweet kind of laugh that isn’t actually sweet at all. “That’s so cute. Must be so relaxing, coloring in dragons all day. Nothing like the crazy schedules we documentary people deal with. I honestly wish I had a hobby job like that.”
“It’s not a hobby job,” Gavin said, jumping in like he was catching a ball. “It’s something Wren likes a lot, and it brings her financial freedom and keeps her happy.”
I watched Wren’s mouth curl into this tight little smile. “Yeah. You’re right.”
And I sat there thinking, Gavin, buddy, you just described a hobby job word for word. How did you not hear yourself?
Wren must have been thinking the exact same thing, because she looked pretty pleased with herself for a woman who’d just won the point.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m really happy doing this. I love kids, I love illustrating, so I get the best of both worlds.”
“Your kids will have such a great time having you as a mom,” Wren said.
There it was again.
“Thanks,” I said, with a smile so tight it hurt my face. I looked over at Gavin.
Gavin was staring at his watch, not taking this one.
Wren knew exactly where it hurt. She knew how badly I wanted kids, and she kept pressing on it, right in front of me, right in front of him, like it was nothing.
Just three nights before, the three of us had gone out to dinner to celebrate Gavin getting named MVP last season, along with a nice fat bonus to go with it.
And like most dinners with Wren these days, it turned into Gavin and Wren talking about the documentary, or Wren bringing up some old memory I wasn’t part of, and then Gavin having to explain the whole thing to me until it wasn’t funny anymore.
Like the time he told me about how he and Wren and their friends told their parents they were sleeping over at each other’s houses, and instead drove to New York City, stayed out all night drinking on the street, and came home the next morning like nothing happened.
After enough of those stories, and after I’d asked enough questions just trying to keep up with two people who had an entire shared childhood I wasn’t invited to, I happened to notice a little girl staring at me from the booth across the room, the kind of stare only a toddler can really pull off without it being creepy.
She looked to be about four years old, with these big serious eyes like she was deciding something important about me.
After a minute of staring, she hopped down off her seat, toddled straight over to our table, planted herself in front of me, and asked if I was Anna.
She meant Anna from Frozen, obviously, and I looked down at myself to check the evidence — I was wearing a lavender dress that night, and I’d braided my hair earlier that evening without even thinking about it, so as far as a four year old was concerned, the case was basically closed.
I figured, sure, why not, I’ll be Anna for five minutes, it’s not going to hurt anybody.
So I told her yes, I was Anna, and her whole face lit up like I’d just handed her a puppy wrapped in a bow.
She informed me, very seriously, that she wanted to sit with me for the rest of the night.
Since Gavin and Wren were deep in their own little world anyway, off reminiscing about some inside joke I wasn’t going to get no matter how many questions I asked, I leaned over and asked the girl’s mom if it was okay if her daughter hung out at our table for a bit.
She said it was fine, so I spent the rest of that dinner entertaining a very enthusiastic preschooler while Wren flirted with my husband from three feet away, and my husband flirted right back like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He only stopped once or twice to glance over and ask if I was doing okay over there.
I said yes both times, because what else was I supposed to say with a little girl on my lap.
Later, after the girl went home — not before she kissed my cheek and told me I was the prettiest girl in the world, which, for the record, was the best compliment I got all year — Gavin got up to use the bathroom.
The second he was out of earshot, Wren turned to me, completely out of nowhere, and said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said, because I’m an idiot who still says yes to that question.
“Why don’t you and Gavin have kids yet?”
I almost choked on my water. Of all the things she could’ve asked me, out of nowhere, at dinner, that was not one I expected to be fielding solo.
“We’re just not ready yet,” I said, which was a lie, and not even a good one, but it was the fastest thing my brain could produce.
“Oh, good, I’m glad you told me that,” she said. “Because looking at you, I would’ve guessed you wanted kids and Gavin didn’t. You know, since you draw children’s books and you’re so good with them.”
That was bait. I knew it was bait. I took it anyway.
“Did Gavin say something to you?” I asked.
And she gave me the most not-answer answer I’ve ever heard.
“He mentioned once that as soon as he retires next year, the first thing he wants to give you is kids. I’m so sorry you two aren’t on the same page.
My ex was exactly like that too. Kept pushing it off.
After the contract. After the new house.
After the promotion. Turns out he never wanted to be a dad at all.
That was a dealbreaker for me. When two people aren’t on the same page about kids, it just doesn’t last.”
And ever since that dinner, Wren had been finding a way to mention what a great mom I’d be at least once every time we saw her.
And Gavin did absolutely nothing to stop it.
And now, Wren looked at Gavin, all fluttery-eyed. “Do you want something to eat?”
“There’s breakfast at practice,” Gavin said.
“I already made toast for you,” Wren said.
“I’m not hungry right now.”
Wren got all sweet and fussy. “You can’t drink coffee on an empty stomach, that’s not good for you,” she said, and took him by the arm, leading him into the kitchen like he was a toddler who needed help crossing the street.
I followed them in, feeling like the extra character in a dinosaur movie, the one who always gets eaten first.
There was toast. And scrambled eggs. Made exactly, and I mean exactly, the way I made them, because Wren had filmed me making that same breakfast the Saturday before.
It had been Gavin’s idea for Wren to get some footage of our normal life together.
She’d shown up early that Saturday to film me cooking.
I was wearing my robe, because I figured, hey, this is supposed to be real, this is what Saturday mornings actually look like at our house.
Meanwhile Wren showed up fully dressed, hair done, boots on, looking like she’d stepped out of a magazine.
She gave me this slow once-over and smiled.
“I love that you’re so comfortable just being you in the morning,” she’d said. “Honestly, I wish I could let myself go like that on a shoot day.”
And then Gavin, right there, right in front of her, had asked me if I wanted to go change.
When I brought it up with him later, he genuinely didn’t get why I was upset.
“What?” he said. “It’s for the documentary, Bree. Wren actually had a point. She’s the professional here. She knows what looks good on camera better than we do.”
And earlier that same morning, before Wren even showed up, he’d told me I looked gorgeous in that robe. That I looked like a million bucks in anything I wore. So I asked him about that too. Why the sudden change of heart?
“I don’t know, I just didn’t think about how it would look on camera,” he had said.
Because Wren, professional documentary maker that she is, would know better than either of us.
Now, standing in my own kitchen, I watched Wren plate up the toast and eggs on the exact dishes Gavin likes best. She knew where we kept the plates. She knew where we kept the spoons.
She turned to me then, holding the spatula like a little wand, all sugar and honey. “Bree, do you want anything? There’s plenty.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Okay.” She scraped the last of the eggs onto Gavin’s plate. “You’ll be home all day anyway. I’m sure you’ll whip yourself up something later, just the way you like it.”
I smiled at her. “I usually do.”
Gavin took a couple quick bites of the toast before he even fully sat down.
“This is so delicious,” he said, mouth half full. “Seriously, Wren, you didn’t have to.”
She made him toast. What was so special about it that required such high praises?
“Of course I did.” Wren leaned a hip against the counter, watching him eat like it was a small personal triumph. “Can’t have you running around all day on an empty stomach.”
Her cheeks turned the shade of unripe strawberries.
Was she blushing?
I stood there in my own kitchen, in my own house, watching the two of them, and I felt like I’d wandered onto the set of somebody else’s documentary. About somebody else’s marriage.
Gavin finally looked up, wiped his mouth, and came over to me. He put a hand on my waist and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” he asked. “James can grab you in an hour.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Go. You’ll be late.”
“Okay.” He grabbed his gym bag off the floor and his helmet off the counter, slung one over his shoulder, tucked the other under his arm. “Love you. See you tonight.”
“Bye, Bree!” Wren called out, all cheer, already heading for the door behind him, camera bag bouncing against her hip.
I didn’t answer that one. I just watched them go.
I walked over to the front window and stood there with my arms crossed, watching them come down the porch steps. Wren caught her heel on the last one and stumbled, just slightly, and Gavin’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm before she could go down.
I couldn’t hear what he said to her. I didn’t need to. I could read it off the back of his head — the little tilt, the concern.
They walked the rest of the way to his SUV like that, her arm still loosely in his hand, him opening her door for her before he opened his own. She handed him her tripod and her camera bag, piece by piece, and he loaded it all into the back seat like the world’s most well-trained assistant.
Then he got in. He didn’t look over to see if I was at the window. Gavin always looked back to wave me a last goodbye.
They pulled out of the driveway, and I stood at that window a lot longer than I needed to.