front door in a haze, kicking off my Jimmy Choos. On the way to the kitchen, I stop, turning toward a noise coming from the hall.
Camden’s moving down the corridor, his dog Bella close behind, probably on their way from his office since every other room in that corridor is vacant. I don’t focus my gaze on him, though. I’m too distracted by the door across from our vast den—leading to the room with light yellow walls and a collection of onesies, cute animal prints, and various things that I once thought we couldn’t live without.
But what I really can’t live without is a baby. A family of my own.
“You pick up dinner?” Camden asks, suddenly in front of me.
My face scrunches as I try to work out what he means. Bella groans as she lays on the massive area rug in our main living room.
“I asked you to pick up dumplings…”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, pulling my hands behind my back to scrape my thumbs along my nails.
“Camden, I … I want to try IVF,” I mumble the request.
“We’re taking a break from fertility treatments,” he says, shaking his head.
We weren’t, but he doesn’t know that. I moved forward with two more rounds of medicated cycles and trigger injections with him thinking I’d been initiating sex for enjoyment, not managing well-timed and efficient intercourse.
“But I—”
“Babe, we agreed we’d focus on just us for now,” he says, his tone too sharp for his soft smile.
Unable to resist his gravitational pull, I choose to trust the smile and get lost in his pale blue eyes for a moment.
“You okay?” he asks, grazing his thumb along my chin.
I can’t tell him that I’m crushed from my period arriving and marking the loss of hope. This was the last round of a more simplistic approach. A good stopping point to reevaluate and consider other options, as Dr. Foltz put it.
Instinctively, I bring my hands together in front of me. My thumb catches on a piece of rough acrylic on the middle finger of the opposite hand.
Camden reaches for me, stopping the destruction of my nails. I relax, knowing he’s on my side, but he stiffens, tightening his grasp on my right wrist.
“Where did you get that bracelet?” he asks, staring at the gold cuff decorated with rubies.
His question pierces through me, hitting the sore space in my chest that’s been beaten by failure—mixing disappointment with my carelessness.
I have a rule—the jewelry I’ve taken from the basement is fair game if I take it off before I see Camden. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve been pilfering—no, borrowing—from the things that he and his Uncle Jared leave down there. Besides the box I found this bracelet—and the other items—in have been down there for years, untouched and unloved. Their sparkle is fading with dust and neglect.
Camden’s reaction is disconcerting and I question whether the jewelry is something more than a forgotten collection from Jared’s storage unit purchases.
“I—” The single syllable trails because I’m at a loss and suddenly terrified I was wrong. Maybe the box doesn’t hold someone’s menial possessions—maybe they’re his.
As fast as the thought comes, the pressure of his hand on my wrist has me dismissing it. My brain only went there because I’m still reeling from the repercussions of taking something of his from the basement a year ago. It was for the nursery, as a surprise. The surprise was all mine, though, because I met a new side of Camden. He didn’t hit me. He never would. He would grab my wrist, sure, but he’d never leave a bruise. He doesn’t have to—there are things far worse.
Panic rises in my throat when I’m unable to break from his grasp. I glance toward the front door, looking for an escape. Instead, I find an answer with my Jimmy Choos discarded haphazardly in front of it.
“I picked it up at an estate sale,” I explain, as I imagine one of the mansions I’ve recently been to, filled with high-profile artwork and an extensive wardrobe of designer clothing. “I think it was the one in the Montressor neighborhood a few months back. I went there to check out the furniture. For the den.”
“Hmm …” Camden nods, his forehead still wrinkled. He doesn’t get why I go to estate sales in extravagant neighborhoods outside our own community. He only knows I return with second-hand items … like my Jimmy Choos.
“I found this bracelet there, with other pieces,” I say, continuing my charade. “I got them for a great bundled price. They all looked so fancy and expensive that I couldn’t pass up the deal.”
Annoyed by my own rambling, I press my lips together to keep from spewing nonsense or revealing something that I shouldn’t.
My heart thumps as the wrinkles fade from his expression.
“It’s nice,” he says, dropping his gaze and my wrist. “It looks real. Familiar, even. Must be a great fake.” The cadence when he says fake is a slap to my ego. I had never said it wasn’t real, not that I’d know—but neither would he. When he proposed, he had needed my help shopping for an engagement ring since he’d never stepped foot in a jewelry store before.
“Would you order something?” he asks, changing the subject too quickly and causing a lag in my comprehension. “For dinner …”
“Dumplings?” I ask as he takes a step back and looks down the hall.
“Whatever, I just need to get back to work,” he says.
“Camden?” I say quietly, rubbing my wrist and wishing his hand was still there. At least we’d be together.
I swallow to ease my sore throat and stamp away the doubts of the speech I’d prepared. “About IVF—”
“Babe, I don’t want to try anymore.” His words are quiet but firm.
“I want to give it a shot,” I croak.
“We don’t have the money,” he says, his shoulders stiffening.
We don’t have the money. Translation: I don’t have the money. I never will.
His money is elusive; his paydays come in waves. Even when his tech contracts bring large influxes in his earnings, he keeps tabs on it. When we got married, my personal checking became our joint account. We never did add his name, but he watches it with hawk eyes as if it’s his credit—his reputation.
“I could take out a loan …”
“No loans,” he says, his voice growing louder.
“The fertility clinic has finance options—I could pick up a part-time job to pay for it.”
“No.” He doesn’t have to yell for his response to be deafening. “Let me know when the food arrives,” he says with a nonchalance that has me questioning whether I’ve imagined our entire interaction.
He’s already halfway down the hall when I compose a response. “Okay,” I whisper, but I’m the only one to hear it as Bella trots past me to catch up to him.
I move into the kitchen as I unlock my phone to order food. I lean on the marble countertop and mindlessly scroll through Instagram instead. The immaculate women doting over their children are too much, so I open Messenger.
From Sadie: Hey Hun! I’m so excited to reconnect with you after all these years! I’ve been catching up on your profile and have an opportunity I think you would be perfect for …
My shoulders tighten. I can’t afford another friend.
I switch to the Facebook app and look through the notifications. Carly posted in her group about a promotion her direct sales company is having and how she’s working toward the next goal. And Erin has added me to three—no, four—interest groups because she thinks I’d be a great fit on her team.
The pressure compounds on my chest, and I lock my phone, needing relief. I quickly unlock it when I realize that I’ve forgotten the food. I navigate to the Uber Eats app and find a place with dumplings that doesn’t have an exponential delivery charge for prime delivery time.
When the order is placed, I stare at the tracking screen, wishing this day was over. I strum my nails across the white marble, the thud-thud-thud-thud of my acrylics becoming background noise as I try to come up with a solution. One where I get pregnant. One where I can proceed with IVF. One where I can make the house a home and stop feeling so alone.
A notification populates across the top of my screen. Another post has been made in Carly’s Facebook group—she’s closer to her goal, but not there yet.
These women who surround me, who constantly reach out, have been there for me when Camden couldn’t. They give me hope and positivity and a distraction from the void I’ve created in my marriage. It’s unfair of me to feel dread when seeing their persistent messaging or irritation when they blindly add me to another Facebook group. The least I can do is support them after all they’ve done for me.
I follow the link on Facebook to Carly’s rank-up promotion and scroll through the products. All with hefty price tags.
My chest tightens with a fresh wave of grief. I set my phone down and then make fists. The pressure of the acrylic nails on my palms gives me clarity. Tonight, I went too far. I need to respect Camden’s right to choose. I messed up because I was focused on my own selfish desires.
Heading across the wide planks of the open living space to our bedroom, I don’t stop until the cool travertine of our ensuite chills my bare feet. I pull the light blue craft box out from under my sink, then collect everything I’ve been using for my conception journey and shove it inside.
Something borrowed, something blue … but in the years since our wedding, it’s become my True-Blue, storing various objects of importance. It’ll protect these things until Camden’s ready.
Before I can overthink, I tuck it under my arm and head across the house. I stop in front of the last two doors. To the left is Camden’s office, to the right, the door to the stairs leading to the basement.
Through his office wall, I hear Camden speaking. “Ninety thousand … yeah … you in?”
My curiosity is piqued. I wish that I could hear the person on the other end of his gaming headset. Whatever gaming tech he’s been working on has possessed almost all his time. Glancing at the box cradled under my arm, I remind myself that his job has deadlines, and our marriage does not.
I open the door to my right and descend the stairs to the finished basement, then step inside the vast room we use as storage space.
The only thing I can’t hide in True-Blue is my debt. I told Camden that the medicated fertility regimens would be covered by my lousy insurance and kept him from the details that he’d punish me for, like the cost of the continued treatments, and the way I’ve paid.
I weave through the locked, red-lidded black bins that safeguard proprietary gaming equipment, coming to a stop in front of the shelf on the back wall. It’s packed with Camden’s possessions and some of Jared’s valuable finds. I try to find space among them. I don’t bother looking at the far bottom corner where I’ve obtained the jewelry, not wanting to implicate myself. Now, I’ve lied and gotten away with it. And, because Camden encourages me to store things elsewhere—this space is his.
I finally find a spot next to a worn cardboard box where True-Blue might fit. Maybe it’ll even catch Camden’s attention—nudge him in my direction when he sees that I’ve stored everything with care. I use this as a reminder. Shelving this doesn’t mean that I lose hope. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and visualize two pink lines.
It’s only happened once, but the image is sharp in my mind. The grimy tan tiles of a drugstore bathroom. Nausea rising from my stomach to my throat faster than I could ease it.
My eyes sting beneath their lids, staying in the memory.
I’m jarred back to my surroundings by the doorbell chiming overhead.
I try to shove True-Blue into the questionable space next to the worn cardboard box. It doesn’t fit. I try shifting and pushing, but it’s no use. It must be a sign.
I yank True-Blue from its wedged spot. A binder slides from atop the worn cardboard box and topples to my feet, landing open on a page of baseball cards. Letters that were stashed inside scatter across the floor. I scramble to pick them up as the doorbell chimes again. Bella barks. I shove the letters into the binder and return it to the spot it came from. With True-Blue tucked under my arm, I dart from the room and up the stairs.
When I reach the landing, I call, “Food!” He can come and get it for himself. I’m too busy being selfish.