CHAPTER EIGHT
TRISTEN
The specialist appointment had been a disaster.
Not medically. The baby was fine, growing exactly on schedule, heartbeat strong and steady. The placenta positioning had even improved slightly, which the doctor called encouraging news.
No, the disaster was everything else.
Aubree had come, just like she'd insisted.
She'd sat in the corner of the examination room with her arms crossed over her chest and her jaw tight, watching everything with eyes that gave nothing away.
When Oakleigh reached for my hand during the ultrasound, I saw Aubree's gaze track the movement.
When I squeezed Oakleigh's fingers reassuringly, I saw my wife's expression shutter closed like a window slamming shut.
We'd driven home in separate cars. Aubree had claimed she needed to stop by a client's house to check on a delivery. I knew she was lying. I knew she just couldn't stand to be in an enclosed space with me.
That had been three days ago, and things between us had been coldly polite ever since.
We moved around each other like strangers sharing a house, exchanging necessary information about schedules and meals but nothing deeper.
She slept on the far edge of the bed, her back to me, a canyon of cold sheets stretching between us.
I missed her. God, I missed her so much it felt like a bruise pressing against my ribs every time I breathed.
But I didn't know how to fix it. Every time I tried to talk to her, she shut me down with that same tight smile and those same carefully neutral words. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Don't worry about it.
She wasn't fine. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that. But pushing her felt dangerous, like prodding at a wound that might tear open completely if I pressed too hard.
So I gave her space. I told myself she just needed time to adjust. I told myself everything would be better once the pregnancy progressed and she could feel more connected to the baby.
I told myself a lot of things.
"Tristen, can I talk to you about something?"
I looked up from my laptop to find Oakleigh hovering in the doorway of my home office. She was wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that draped over her growing belly, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked tired, which made the guilt in my chest twist a little tighter.
"Of course. What's up?"
She stepped into the office and perched on the edge of the chair across from my desk, her hands folded nervously in her lap. "So I got a call yesterday from this journalist at Metropolitan Life magazine. She's doing a feature on modern surrogacy, and she wants to include us."
"Us?"
"All three of us. You, me, and Aubree. She said it would be a really positive piece about how intended parents and surrogates can form beautiful partnerships. She wants to photograph us together and do interviews about the journey."
My first instinct was to say no. Aubree would hate it. After the last few days of cold silence, the last thing she'd want was to perform happiness for a magazine photographer.
But then Oakleigh kept talking.
"She mentioned that the article would highlight the Wickham Foundation and all the work you're doing for fertility awareness. She said the exposure could really help other couples who are struggling, you know? Normalize surrogacy, make it feel less scary and shameful for people who need it."
That caught my attention. The foundation was Aubree's baby, in a way.
She'd been the one to push for it after our third miscarriage, insisting that something good had to come from all our pain.
She'd designed the programs, selected the grant recipients, built relationships with clinics and counselors across the country.
If this article could bring more visibility to that work, wouldn't she want to be part of it?
"When would they need an answer?" I asked.
"She said this week if possible. They want to shoot next month, before I get too big." Oakleigh smiled and touched her stomach. "I mean, more big. I'm already feeling huge."
"You look great."
"You're sweet." She ducked her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Anyway, I told her I'd check with you first. I didn't want to assume anything."
I appreciated that she'd asked. After the tension at the specialist appointment, I'd been worried that things with Oakleigh would become awkward too. But she seemed to understand that boundaries were important, that we needed to be more careful about how things looked.
"Let me think about it," I said. "I'll talk to Aubree tonight."
Oakleigh's face fell slightly. "Oh. Yeah, of course. I just thought, you know, since you handle most of the foundation's media stuff anyway, you might be able to make the call yourself. I don't want to stress Aubree out with one more thing to decide."
The reasoning made sense. Aubree had been so tense lately, so fragile beneath her carefully constructed composure. Every conversation we had seemed to drain her. Every decision felt like a potential landmine.
Maybe it would actually be kinder to handle this myself. Present it to her as a done deal rather than another source of stress and negotiation.
"You know what, you're right," I heard myself say. "Tell the journalist we're in. I'll coordinate the details with my assistant."
Oakleigh's face lit up. "Really? Oh, that's amazing. Thank you, Tristen. This is going to be so good for the foundation."
"That's what I'm hoping."
She stood up and came around the desk, and before I could react, she'd wrapped her arms around me in a quick hug. Her body pressed against mine, soft and warm, and I caught the scent of her shampoo. Something floral and expensive.
I patted her back awkwardly and stepped away. "Let me know when you hear back about scheduling."
"I will. You're the best."
She practically bounced out of my office, her tiredness apparently forgotten. I watched her go and tried to ignore the uncomfortable churning in my stomach.
I should have talked to Aubree first.
The thought surfaced and I pushed it down. This was a good opportunity. Aubree would see that once I explained it to her. She cared about the foundation more than anything. She'd want the exposure, the chance to help other couples like us.
I went back to my laptop and tried to focus on work.
The churning didn't stop.
Aubree came home at six, her arms full of fabric samples and her face tight with exhaustion. The Katz project was apparently still causing problems, something about specialty hardware that was backordered from Italy.
I waited until she'd put her things down and poured herself a glass of wine before I brought it up.
"So I have some news," I said, leaning against the kitchen island. "Metropolitan Life wants to do a feature on us. On the surrogacy journey and the foundation."
Aubree paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips. "A feature?"
"Yeah. A journalist reached out to Oakleigh yesterday. They want to photograph all three of us, do interviews about the process. She said it would be great visibility for the fertility awareness work."
"And you said yes."
It wasn't a question. Her voice was flat, completely devoid of inflection, and that was somehow worse than if she'd yelled.
"I thought it was a good opportunity. The foundation could really benefit from the exposure."
"You thought." Aubree set down her wine glass with a sharp click against the marble. "You thought it was a good opportunity, so you made the decision without asking me."
"I was going to tell you tonight."
"Telling me isn't the same as asking me, Tristen. We've had this conversation."
I felt my shoulders tense defensively. "It's just a magazine article. I didn't think it would be a big deal."
"Of course you didn't." She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
The sound was brittle and sharp, like glass breaking.
"You never think it's a big deal when you make decisions that affect our lives without consulting me.
Oakleigh moving in wasn't a big deal. Attending appointments without me wasn't a big deal.
And now putting our private journey on display for the entire country to read about isn't a big deal either. "
"The foundation is your project, Aubree. I thought you'd want the visibility."
"Then you should have asked me what I wanted instead of assuming you already knew."
She was right. I knew she was right. But something about her tone, the accusation buried underneath the exhaustion, made me bristle.
"I'm trying to help," I said. "Everything I do is trying to help. But somehow it's never enough. Somehow I'm always doing something wrong."
"You're not doing something wrong by trying to help. You're doing something wrong by excluding me from decisions about my own life."
"I'm not excluding you. I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?" Aubree stepped closer, her blue eyes blazing with an anger I rarely saw from her. "From what, Tristen? From being involved in my own surrogacy? From having a say in how our story gets told to the public? From being treated like an equal partner in this marriage?"
The words hit me like punches to the gut, each one landing harder than the last. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but nothing came out.
"I didn't ask for protection," she continued, her voice cracking slightly.
"I asked for partnership. I asked to be included.
But every time I turn around, you and Oakleigh have already made another decision without me.
You've already had another conversation, another phone call, another moment that I wasn't part of. "
"That's not fair. Oakleigh needs support, and you've made it clear that her presence stresses you out."
"So your solution is to cut me out entirely? To build a separate relationship with her that I have no access to?"
"It's not a relationship. For fuck's sake, Aubree, she's carrying our baby. Of course I talk to her. Of course I support her. That doesn't mean I'm replacing you."
"Then why does it feel like you are?"
The question hung between us, raw and bleeding. I watched Aubree's face crumple for just a second before she pulled herself back together, wrapping her arms around herself like armor.
"The article will be good publicity for the foundation," I said quietly. "That's all I was thinking about. I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"But you did hurt me. And the fact that you didn't even realize you would hurt me is the whole problem."
I didn't know what to say to that. She was right, and we both knew it.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Cancel the interview?"
Aubree was silent for a long moment. I watched her wrestle with something internal, her jaw tight and her eyes distant.
"No," she finally said. "Don't cancel it. You're right that the foundation could use the exposure." She picked up her wine glass and took a long sip. "But from now on, you ask me before you commit us to anything. Not tell me. Ask me. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear."
"Good." She turned and walked toward the hallway. "I'm going to take a bath. I have a headache."
"Aubree, wait."
She paused but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I really am. I'll do better."
"You keep saying that." Her voice was tired, so tired it made my chest ache. "But nothing changes."
She walked away, and I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the silence of a house that used to feel like home.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Oakleigh.
The journalist is so excited! She said we're going to make a beautiful spread. Thank you again for saying yes. You always know exactly what to do.
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I deleted it without responding.
But even as I put my phone away, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made another mistake. Another crack in a foundation that was already starting to crumble.
I told myself I could fix it. I told myself everything would be fine once the article came out and Aubree saw how much good it did for the foundation.
I told myself a lot of things.
None of them made the sick feeling in my stomach go away.