IT WAS THERE, THOUGH neither of them knew how to face it. Through the assembly, the casual chatter that followed, the drive home. Through saying good night to Nanna, discussing the schedule for the next week, locking up, hanging keys and coats. Through the climb up the stairs to Annie’s room, where they took turns saying good night, kissing her and tucking her in though she hardly needed it after Nanna’s close supervision.
It was there, right where they’d left it hours before, sitting in their bedroom waiting for one of them to acknowledge it. At the very least, it was screaming out for that.
Nick hesitated at the door, looking at his wife. But she turned away and he shook his head and carried on toward his closet on the other side of the room.
It had been building inside her all night, listening to Dr. Wright talk about mistakes that could change a life forever. Yes, the hallway blow jobs were red flags that something was wrong, but they were also, in and of themselves, events that would live on—transgressions against one’s own self that would remain like little scars. She had thought then not of Caitlin Barlow, but of her own little scars and how they had resulted in that little girl who was asleep in the next room. God, how she loved Annie, but it was not what she had planned for her life. And the truth was, had it not been for Annie, Nick Livingston would have left that bar alone four years ago.
She went to her closet and began to undress. It felt evil to think what she was now thinking—had she used him? Was that why she resented this life so much, this wonderful fairy-tale life? There was no doubt in her mind that she would have found another man like the one who’d left her alone and pregnant in the rain. Then another, and another. Annie was a godsend that way, changing her insides so she would want a man that could love her, really love her the way Nick did. Still, she had not asked to be changed that way. It had all been the result of a mistake, a misstep, and knowing this left her floating in a whirlwind of chaos. What was left to hold on to if you didn’t even know your own mind?
She stopped undressing and walked across the room. Nick was hanging up his jacket. His back was to her and as she waited for him to turn around, she chased from her thoughts everything but this moment, this man, this feeling. When he finally saw her in front of him, searching his face for answers, he knew he couldn’t give them to her. He only knew what he felt.
“I love you,” he said.
Sara walked to him and slid her arms around his waist.
“I know,” she said. “I love you back.” It was the truth. It was what she was feeling, and yet there was so much else. It had been so easy to stop loving him, those little hiccups when she saw his eyes light up at the Barlows’ estate, on that golf course in Florida. How could love survive a lifetime when it could be chased away so easily by another man simply because he made her laugh?
Still, it was here now and it was real—Nick’s arms around her back, his body pressed to hers and the way the smell of him made her feel safe and good. She wanted to create a wall around it, an invisible shield that would keep it inside. How could love be something that had to be constantly recreated, reinvented? Why had no one told her?
“We can move. We can change. Whatever it takes.” Nick was making promises now, and she was grateful. But she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if he would stop loving her somewhere along the way if he gave up his dream just to keep her.
“We’ll figure it out. Somehow, we’ll figure it out.”
She made this promise to her husband, and to herself. Because, at the end of a day like this one, what else was there to do?