And when he’s closed off from our history, it’s a sign that something’s bothering him. Or someone.
Gritting my teeth, I wonder if he’s communicating with Lauren again.
I cross my arms when he comes downstairs. “How long this time?” I try to sound upbeat, but my voice betrays me. It quivers as I reach out to touch his cheek.
“You really want to know?” He presses his car keys in my hand, holding on to my wrist for a minute. “This is what I want to talk to you about.”
“No, I don’t want to know.”
“The promotion came through.” He rubs his hand over his eyes, and I see the angst. “I hate that I won’t be there as much for you as I’d like, and I feel like a deadbeat.” Sighing, he adds, “Until it closes, I’ll have a few days here and there, but when that’s finalized, it’s a three-to-six-month assignment.” He straightens his tie in the hall mirror, mumbling, “At least.”
“What?” The color drains from my face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“This is a huge conglomerate, a lot of moving pieces. I might end up back in New York during the transition, but that’s it.” Noah adjusts his leather laptop bag on top of his suitcase.
Gently, he touches my arm. “Before you told me you were pregnant, I was going to ask you to come with, Char . . . and it’s such great news, but the timing . . . it’s never been our thing. I don’t expect you to travel to Japan when you’re pregnant.”
“You were?” I’m surprised.
He nods. “I just feel like something is going on with you. Like something you’re not telling me. I don’t want there to be anyone else.”
My eyes fill with tears. “Don’t you dare make this about me.” Then I whisper, “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“You pulling away again.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He clasps my hand in his. “Please don’t pick a fight with me before I go. I hate that.”
“Did you tell anyone the news?”
“Which part?” He grins, kissing my hand.
“Why do I put up with you?” I groan.
Noah pulls me in close, holding the nape of my neck against his chest. “I will be there for you, Char. It just won’t be as much face-to-face as we’d both like. I’m sorry.”
“You love your job, and that’s why I admire you.”
“I’m tired of being pulled in opposite directions all the time.” His phone chirps in response. “It’s exhausting.”
“They’ll let you have some time off soon, right?”
“When this is over.”
“That’s when it counts.” I try to sound strong, independent, but the tears are starting to caress my cheeks. “We’ll need you soon.”
“I know.”
“Let me take you to the airport.”
“No, it’s okay. I know you have stuff to do today, Char. I’ve got an Uber coming. It’s on the way.”
“But it’s more time we get to spend . . .”
His phone beeps, as if impatient to get his attention. It’s my biggest competition besides her, I think. All of us trying to be number one and hold the position.
“I’ve got to answer these work emails that never stop piling up.” His voice softens as he adds, “It’s okay, Char. We can Skype this weekend.”
He embraces me, giving me a sturdy hug as a black Lincoln Town Car pulls up. He whispers “Love you” in my ear before I watch him walk out the front door.
The driver pops the trunk, loads Noah’s bags into the car, and opens the back door for him. He disappears behind the tinted windows as I stand there, looking after him, my body tense, a hand automatically reaching for my belly. A pained expression crosses my face as I remember a day not unlike this.
It was cloudy, overcast, the same time of year—late spring.
I was scared of the future, just as I am today, except it was a decade ago.
Sinking into the couch, I shut my eyes, the timeline seared into my memory. Instead of being at the start of my pregnancy, as I am now, I am nearing the finish line, about six months along. Noah and I have fallen out of touch for a few months. His broken engagement still isn’t enough to bring us together, except for a couple of nights of passion, and I am still living in hell with my ex, Jonathan.
I hold the phone in my grip as if it’s a lifeline, which I suppose it is. My heart pounds out of my chest as it rings twice before a male voice answers.
I whisper, “It’s me.”
“Me who?”
Relieved he isn’t too mad to play our same silly phone game, I bite my lip. “You know, me.”
“Oh yeah, you. I remember you. Of course I know.” His voice becomes husky. “How are you, stranger?”
“Pregnant.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m due in a few months.”
“Oh my God, congratulations.” Noah’s voice goes up an octave too high, and he adds, “We’re still in the same boat, unable to conceive.”
“Thanks.” I shut my eyes. “And I’m sorry to hear that. I know how badly you both want children.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know, me too,” I sigh. “How’s everything else with the two of you?”
“We actually, Charlotte—” There is a pause. “We eloped.”
It’s then I feel the earth open up and swallow me whole. Speechless, I sag against the wall in our kitchen, the phone dropping from my hand as if it, too, can’t stomach the news.
I hear Noah repeat my name a few times.
As I replace the receiver at my ear, I hear him say, “Charlotte, are you there? Are you okay?”
“I . . . I’m . . . I have no words.”
“Shit. I should’ve told you before we eloped. Not like this.”
A loud gurgle escapes my mouth.
“Oh my God, Char, what is it?”
I press my eyes shut as I murmur, “I need your help.”
And just like that, the trajectory of my life changed.
But that was then, and this is now.
I have to let the memory slide back into its rightful place in the past.
Uneasy about history repeating itself, I settle into bed for the rest of the afternoon, nausea overcoming me. I manage a small cup of broth and some caffeine-free tea and nibble on some toast points.
Before I can focus on my work emails, I have to know. I go to Noah’s office.
In Noah’s email account, another email appears, this one already read, sent last night from Lauren. My hands grip the edge of the screen, wanting to toss it across the room.
Did he respond to her?
Holding my breath, I check the sent box and am relieved to see he hasn’t answered.
At least not yet.
I’m going to have to be more diligent about checking his email, I decide.
CHAPTER 25
Elle
As soon as I get home from school and launch myself through our fourth-floor apartment door, I’m on my knees hunched over the cracked porcelain toilet bowl. Diane’s seated on the couch, smoking like a chimney.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she hollers from her spot. I didn’t bother to shut the bathroom door when I ran in, and the door is ajar as her cigarette smoke permeates the hall. My body trembles as I lose the contents of my lunch into the toilet bowl.