1. Natalie
Natalie
Inever expected my world to shift, to tilt so fully on its axis that I completely toppled off. My world evolved around one thing, one person, I believed would keep me sane—keep my heart beating.
But I’ve been wrong before.
As I scramble through my room grabbing brightly colored articles of clothing from the drawers, I do my best to keep my eyes from his side of the bed.
I try not to remember the way his soft blond hair flops across his pillow in the morning light or how his piercing blue eyes watched me intently as we used to dream of our future together.
I certainly don’t pause at the closet door, remembering the night we tumbled in there and made love on the floor.
Every year for my birthday I’ve asked for the same thing: for us to expand our family. For us to become parents.
And every year his answer is the same: some form of a soft NO that lands heavy in my chest.
After the first few birthdays following our wedding, I should have known the answer wouldn’t change.
A drawer slams shut after I empty it of all my T-shirts and tank tops. A lacy beach cover-up drops to the floor. I step over it.
His excuses look different each time I mention children. One year it was “I don’t think right now is the right timing.” Another year he said, “Kids aren’t conducive to the jobs we have.” And my personal favorite: “The world is a bad place. We can’t bring kids into something so unstable.”
My shoulders slump and heat builds behind my eyes.
I grab a pink dress and a tan coat from the hangers, stuffing them into the large suitcase sitting open on the plush carpet at the foot of the bed.
I don’t bother folding anything neatly. I don’t take time to organize any of it.
If it doesn’t fit in this case, I’ll toss it into a trash bag and throw it in my car.
I really don’t care. I just have to get out of here.
My phone rings … again. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is.
And even if I didn’t have a special ringtone just for him—the song we danced to at our wedding—I’d still know who was calling.
The ringing makes me slow my pace, and my hand reaches out to the musical tone as it plays our song, but I don’t let it pull me in. Not again.
My husband can call a hundred times, and a hundred times I’ll ignore it. I have the last seven calls to prove it.
By now he’ll know where I am and that I’m probably packing, so I pick up the pace and grab every pair of underwear, jewelry, and piece of clothing I can find. The suitcase is already full to the brim. I close it and zip it up, sitting on its edge to get the last few inches zipped shut.
I don’t have much time before he’s here. It’s not that I’m scared of him. No, it’s quite the opposite. The only thing I’m afraid of is that seeing him again—even just once, even for a second—will make me fall madly in love with him all over again.
That’s how it always goes. He has a spell over me, one that’s been growing in strength ever since I first laid eyes on him.
We were eighteen. He was a tourist in my hometown on a camping trip with his parents. As I stopped at a local bait store near the river to get an ice cream bar, he caught my eye from across the street.
He was handsome with shaggy blond hair and those icy blue eyes that I can’t seem to ever escape.
We texted for the few weeks he was in town, and we spent time together almost every day.
I fell in love with him quickly, so fast that I got addicted to the feeling, and losing him seemed like it would be the end of me.
It sounds crazy now, but it was the start of something beautiful.
My parents didn’t know about him—no one did.
Everyone shared the town, the tourists, the backwoods life there.
But I wanted something for myself. I wanted him to be mine, and only mine.
My chest ached and fear riddled my mind at the thought of my parents keeping me from him.
So of course, I ran. His parents took me back to Florida with them, and my family had no idea.
Sometimes I imagine escaping the hold he has on me now. But then I chase the opposite dream, the one of him holding me close, and I fall back into his arms the very same night.
He loves me—I know he does—and I love him.
But it isn’t enough. Not anymore.
We want different things, and I know for certain I’ll never get what I truly want when I’m with him.
And it’s not just a phase. I don’t have baby fever once a month or when things are going really well between us.
I want a kid every second of every day. Any time I see a toddler laughing with their mother, my heart aches.
What would it be like to have someone love you unconditionally like a child loves their mom?
There’s no worse form of torture than watching others have the life you want while you’re held back from ever pursuing it—your purpose. The thing that drives you.
Mine is to be a mom. I feel it in my bones.
The closing of the front door echoes from the bottom of the staircase, and my heart leaps at the sound.
The knowledge that he’s returned home would normally cause me to crash down the stairs like a madwoman and hug him so fiercely he’d ask, “was I gone that long?” I’d laugh and kiss him, and he’d kiss me back.
But today the thundering of my heart in my chest means I didn’t pack quickly enough.
“Natalie?” Luke’s deep voice bounces off the walls as his feet hit the stairs and quickly start to climb. My hands ball into fists, and I step away from the suitcase, grabbing my purse and my camera bag from the bed. “Natalie, are you here? Nat?”
Luke runs into the bedroom, his eyes scanning the space frantically before they land on me across the room. I stand guard in front of the tall wooden dresser, clutching my belongings.
He looks like a mess. His blond hair hangs over his eyebrows, tousled like he’s been pulling at it during the drive here.
He’s dressed nicely in a light blue button-down dress shirt and tan slacks, and—in his rush to find me—he didn’t kick off his expensive navy suede shoes at the door.
I know he came right from a meeting at the office, but it was shorter than I expected.
Luke takes a slow step toward me around the suitcase, his hands gently reaching out. “Natalie,” he says again. “I’ve been calling your phone.”
I lift my chin, gripping my purse—an expensive gift from Luke I couldn’t care less about—and my sentimental leather camera bag—which I would sell the whole damn house for if it came to a hostage situation—between both hands.
“I know,” I say through my teeth, folding my arms across my chest, hugging my bags like they’re armor. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Luke’s eyes turn down, growing dark below the crease of his brow. When he speaks, the usual assuredness of his voice is doused in what might be regret. Despair?
“Why can’t we just get past this?”
“Get past this? I can’t just get past this, Luke.” My voice rises with frustration and desperation, hurt and anger all mingled into one phrase. “This is something that I want, and you won’t even consider it. Not even for a second.”
“And I wish”—he brings his fist to his lips and bites on his white knuckles—“I wish I could give you everything you want. I know how much this means to you, but I just can’t commit to it. Not right now.”
“Then when?” I practically shout. “When can you commit to having a family with me? When can you tell me that it’s the best time to have children? Creating a family isn’t like scheduling a work dinner on the calendar, Luke.” I spit his name.
“I know that.” He shakes his head, his eyes sorrowful, and somehow he’s standing only mere feet from me. Already I can feel the heat of him, sense his skin sliding across mine before he even lifts a finger to my bare arm. The love I have for my husband is intoxicating.
And yet, I want more.
Luke will never want to have children. He told me early on in our relationship—before we were married—that he didn’t want to start a family.
Unfortunately, I thought he’d change his mind.
I thought our love was strong enough to do that.
I thought he’d want to make a beautiful little person with me—someone who was equally both me and him.
I’ve loved creating a life with Luke, but I want to create more.
Seven years of marriage later and I have yet to persuade him. The only problem, besides the fact that he doesn’t want kids and I so desperately do, is that now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have that life. At least not with him.
He takes another step, and I lower my eyes to the floor.
His eyes get me every time. If I don’t look at them maybe I’ll be able to remain strong in my resolve to leave.
Luke’s fancy shoes, a darker blue than the eyes I’m escaping, step into view, and his warm hands gently caress my arms, just like I knew they would. Shivers run down my spine and I tense.
“Don’t do this, Nat,” he whispers. He wraps a warm hand around my waist and pulls me close, resting his other hand on the back of my neck under my shoulder-length hair, tugging me softly until I rest my cheek against his chest. I’m going to miss this.
“Don’t leave me. We have everything here except that one thing.
Please don’t throw it all away. I love you. ” His firm voice breaks at the end.
I grip the side of his shirt in my fist and feel the solid form of his body underneath. A thick, warm tear escapes my eye, rolling down my cheek and onto his shirt. I imagine him having to change before going back to work now that my mascara has left its inky mark.
“I have to,” I reply. He holds me tighter and takes a deep breath. Luke isn’t one to get mad or express his emotions, so I ready myself for anything, whatever he might say next.
He releases a silent exhale, his chest sinking against my cheek.
“Then you should go. If you want time or space … then, those I can give you.” His hand absentmindedly rubs at the knot that’s formed in the back of my neck.
His breath on my hair is soft as he speaks over my head, his mouth resting against my hair.
I begin to sob quietly, failing to hold all the emotions in.
“I don’t want to leave, but I don’t know what else to do.
I can’t stop this desire. This want to be a mother.
I want to take what I feel is the next step in our marriage, and you don’t.
I can’t … I can’t live like this anymore.
Always wanting something more. Always feeling empty. ”
His shoulders slump as he pulls away from me, holding me at arm’s length. His eyes have turned three shades darker. “You should go, then. I want you to be happy, even if it kills me to see you leave.”
His words shock me, and I stumble back to look up at him.
Pain swirls in the blue of his eyes like a whirlpool, and tears brim on the edge of his lower lids.
I swipe at the tears that have fallen down my own cheeks and chin, using the back of my hand and wiping it dry on the hem of my tennis skirt.
I still grip my bags tightly at my side.
“I can’t keep you here,” he says. His gaze makes contact with every part of my face, almost as if he’s memorizing it. “But I can let you go, if that’s what you want.”
I watch him with a pleading gaze. “What I want is a family. I want you to start that with me.” I can’t make him change his mind, but I can give him one last chance to change it himself before I step out that door.
He bites the inside of his cheek, contemplating as he searches my eyes. Then he gives one small, almost unnoticeable shake of his head. “I can’t do that.”
My bottom lip trembles. I stand tall, sling my shiny designer purse over my shoulder, and nod. “Okay then.”
I step around him, watching his hand flex at his side as I go. The bond we share is strong, like a physical force pulling us toward one another. I know the feeling he’s experiencing—the desire to reach out and touch his warm skin one more time. But I don’t.
With trembling hands, I stand the large suitcase on its wheels and roll it over the carpet and out of the bedroom. Luke doesn’t move. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing as I glance one last time at his back.
By the time I make it out to my car, my tears have silently gushed like waterfalls down my face. My vision blurs as I struggle with the suitcase, but I manage to lift it into the trunk. I climb into the car and reverse out of the massive driveway.
I always loved this house with its white stucco exterior framed by tall palm trees, and I loved the life I had here, until I came to see it for what it was: a placeholder.
Luke can buy me pretty things, and we can pass our time in expensive beachfront homes, but I’ve finally realized it will never fill the empty space in my heart.
And now I’m leaving for possibly the last time.
Luke doesn’t chase me out the door. He doesn’t follow my car down the driveway like they do in the movies, calling my name and running barefoot on the street until he’s out of breath.
I drive away with an ache in my heart, unsure if he even bothered to watch me go from the window.