CHAPTER FOUR

JENN

January 21 Fourteen Months before Drowning

Life changed completely on Rick’s birthday. From then on, I thought of life as before and after the tattoo: BT and AT. Everything began to unravel that day. Slowly at first.

I’d done my best to patch things up since I wanted this marriage to work more than anything. And I had something else in the back of my mind that could add another wrench into things, so I had to tread lightly.

It was a cold snowy morning, far from spring in this valley of the Rockies. I made Rick’s favorite breakfast of bacon, eggs over medium—a tough order for someone like me, who didn’t know much about cooking—and bran muffins. I sat across the table from him and offered to pour some orange juice.

He made a face and moved his glass out of range. “That stuff is liquid sugar. Might as well mainline heroin.” And he returned to reading the news on his phone.

Strike one. I hoped the orange juice hadn’t dented his mood by much, that my efforts at breakfast would provide plenty of positive energy, and he’d be back to the adoring man I’d said I do to. Debating whether to wait to mention the topic on my mind, I got up and put the orange juice back in the fridge. When I closed it and turned back, I opted to be open and honest, lay all my chips on the table.

My heart picked up its pace as I took my seat again. “Hey, hon?”

“Mm?” Rick glanced up from his phone and back again.

“I’m curious—when do you picture us having kids?”

This time, his head came up and stayed there. “What?”

“No rush, I swear,” I said quickly. “I’m in no hurry, and I want time together as a couple.” I reached for his hand across the table and held it between both of mine. “How about, you know, maybe in a few years, after you make partner?”

I wanted a baby. At least one. Preferably two or three, but I’d take it one step at a time. Our courtship had been fast, and while I didn’t doubt for a second that we were meant to be together, we had a lot to learn about each other, things most couples know way before they reach the altar.

“Babe, I don’t want kids.” His voice sounded flat, but his expression was one of confusion as if us never having kids was a long-established fact.

It wasn’t. I’d always wanted to be a mom. I would have remembered a conversation where my boyfriend or fiancé had nixed that dream. That guy wouldn’t have become my husband. My face must have registered alarm because he sighed heavily and pulled his hand away. I wanted to grab it again; seeing him withdraw across the table felt like my hopes of having a baby were moving out of my reach.

“I do want kids.” I wrapped my arms around my waist. “You never said you didn’t.”

“And you never said you did.” Rick stood quickly, making the kitchen chair bump and scratch against the tile floor. He stepped to the side and shoved the chair back under the table as if that ended the discussion. His attention returned to his phone, still in one hand.

“But—” My voice cut off, along with my brain. Sure, there were a lot of things we hadn’t talked about, but I knew for a fact that we’d talked about this. We’d talked about how fun it would be with a little Rick or Jenn running around, whether a child would have his eyes or my freckles. “We talked about having kids.”

“If you say so, but I’ve never wanted any.”

“We talked about it last summer,” I said.

“No, we didn’t.”

“Yes, we did,” I insisted. “We went on a moonlight ride on the ski lift. For the solstice?”

“The only times I’ve been on a ski lift are to go skiing.” He returned to reading news on his phone, a clear message that the conversation was over.

I sat there, confused and frustrated. We did ride the ski lift last June. I’d worn my pink hoodie, and he’d worn an expensive pair of sunglasses that made him look even more handsome than usual. I’d never forget it. “But—”

“Stop it,” Rick said, looking up from his phone and nailing me with a glare. “You’re making it up.”

“No, I’m not.” What else could I say? I could hear a hint of surrender in my voice. I hated that.

Rick leaned against the back of his chair. “If we took that ride, then that’s where I told you I didn’t want kids.” Almost a concession.

“You said you didn’t want them right away,” I countered. The accusation in his voice made me tense up inside.

“Not ever.” His tone had shifted to one of hurt as if I were intentionally injuring him.

I sat there, listening to him lie. That was a blatant, outright, no-question-about-it lie. He’d said it with such serious intent—not angry, but wounded that I’d accuse him of not being honest with me.

Maybe I’d misheard him that night, but I knew we’d talked about having kids on the ski lift. Knew it. Maybe I misunderstood. Or maybe I wasn’t clear in what I meant and he misunderstood me. Somehow, our wires had crossed.

The truth remained: I wanted kids. Plural. I’d told him as much. Whether he remembered the ski lift conversation or not, he couldn’t deny this conversation. Now he knew that I wanted kids. More than anything, I needed to be a mom.

His phone vibrated with an incoming call. He answered it and talked for a few seconds, then looked over to me as if nothing were amiss. “Thanks for the breakfast, babe.” He leaned across the table and gave me a quick kiss. “This won’t be a quick call.”

He trotted down the hall and up the stairs to our bedroom as he resumed the conversation—a client or colleague at the law firm, probably—and a few minutes later, he reappeared, still on the call but now with his shoes on and a blazer draped over one arm. He grabbed his leather messenger bag and mouthed “Have a good day.”

“You too,” I said quietly to not interrupt.

He left through the door to the garage. When the door closed, I stood and began gathering dishes. Rick started up his Lexus, and I paused, holding a stack of plates. The car pulled out of the garage, but I didn’t quite manage a full breath until I heard the garage door lowering and then stopping. Then I carried the plates to the sink.

I had so much to learn about Rick and about being a wife, but throughout our brief marriage, I had learned that surprises upset Rick. He needed a gradual build-up of expectations. No springing things on him. Give plenty of lead time.

That’s what this morning’s breakfast conversation was supposed to be: a gradual build-up. He’d viewed it as the upsetting main event, a surprise I’d thrown at him.

What would he think when he learned what I’d planned to build toward? I suspected that I was already pregnant. My period was four days late, and I hadn’t been late in years. My body felt strange. My chest was tender, and my stomach was queasy.

And as of that morning, I’d learned that the smell of bacon wasn’t one I could stand. I wrapped the bacon-grease-soaked paper towels into a plastic bag, tied off the top, and put it in the garbage that way, hoping to trap the smell inside. Mechanically, I began loading the dishwasher, feeling even more nauseated. From the bacon, or from worry?

I’d hoped that over breakfast, we’d talk about the future, our hopes for our children, and get a little excited over the idea. That way, if I turned out to be pregnant, it would be an unplanned shock, sure, but a happy one.

Rick had a great job at a law firm, so we could easily afford a child. While I loved my job at the library, we didn’t need the income. I’d already daydreamed about quitting to be a full-time mom, of meeting the librarian who replaced me when I brought my own toddler to reading time.

I’d wanted a family—a real family—for as long as I could remember. Foster homes never counted, and aging out of the system had a way of making you feel that you lacked whatever it was that made a person lovable. The closest thing I’d ever had to family was Becca.

With a sigh, I started the dishwasher and dampened a dishcloth to wipe the table down. Everything would work out. I was married to a great guy, and there had been many times I’d been sure I’d never get married at all. If no one could love the child me, and the teenage me was vile and intolerable—or so my foster siblings and foster fathers had said—why would anyone love the grown me? Then Rick swept me off my feet, and I became a wife.

Married life hadn’t been a fairy tale, of course; real life goes on after the bride and groom ride off into the sunset on their gallant steeds. Those stories never show Cinderella or Snow White working on their relationships with their princes. We never learn that those steeds need oil changes and transmission repairs, and that even Prince Charming wakes up with morning breath.

Ours was a journey in progress, but I’d reached the trailhead for the path that led to the family and life I’d always yearned for. I headed along that path the day we exchanged vows. At least I thought I had.

Prince Charming seemed to have other plans. Now what?