He still worked a lot, often leaving bed while she slept. On the nights when she did something without him, he worked, and if she fell asleep watching a movie on a Sunday afternoon, she’d wake up to see him with his laptop, working on a design that would save humanity from whatever problem he had in his sights.
One night after they’d made love and lay tangled in the bed, heart rates returning to normal, she said, “Do you remember the first time we met? You told me I was too pretty and shallow. You could barely deign to look at me.”
He looked at her with a half smile. “I do remember.”
“Was I so bad?”
He shrugged. “You were so . . . different from me. So confident and popular and . . . socially graceful. But I think even then, I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Knew you’d be trouble.” His hand grazed her ribs, tickling her.
Oh, God, she loved him. She loved them. His hermit days were over, thanks to her, and he learned to live more like a human and less like a feral raccoon. He emptied the trash before it was overflowing and tried (though failed) to wipe down the counters so they were spotless. He said he loved her daily, and he still blushed over the words sometimes. He made small talk with her mother and hugged Jen awkwardly when she came over. And when he looked at her with those dark-flame eyes, she felt him in every cell in her body.
Life, as they say, was perfect. Every day was so full, so peaceful, so bright with joy and warm with contentment. When she thought of the future, Lauren felt a palpable thrill zing through her blood. Babies. (They would be so cute! Maybe Josh would do that DNA test so they’d know his ethnic background on his paternal side a little more, since Steph claimed not to know.) They’d take vacations. Buy a house. Raise a family and grow old together.
More than anything, she loved thinking about that . . . the endless unfolding of days.
There were little irritants, of course. When Josh was immersed in a project, he’d apparently lose his sense of hearing and she’d have to wave her hand in front of his face to get him to say hello to his mom. He relied on her to do everything social in their lives, whether it was going to a movie on a Friday night or deciding how to spend Christmas. He didn’t have friends of his own—not really, not like she did, and sometimes she wished he had a monthly poker game so she could have a night alone in the apartment.
But those things were so small.
She still missed her dad, still wanted to show him everything, every project she worked on, whether it was a new bus stop or a tiny park along the river. She missed him on her birthday, shocked that she was turning twenty-six without her dear old dad.
Most of all, she ached with the loss of a grandfather for Sebastian . . . and her own future children. Darius’s father was still alive, but Josh had never met his. There’d be no grandpa for their kids, except for sweet Ben Kim, who had already offered to stand in when the time came. There were moments when, walking home from work, she’d look at the sky and think, Can you see me, Daddy? Are you still here? Writing those letters to him . . . they helped her feel like he was still there.
When she started feeling seriously tired, she thought she might be pregnant, birth control or not. She practically skipped to the drugstore to buy a test. She didn’t tell Josh—she’d show him the stick if it was positive—and peed on it at work.
Negative.
Drat. Not yet. Well, that was okay. They were young, they still wanted to take a few big trips before kids. But the tired feeling didn’t lift.
She started eating better—spinach a few times a week, more protein—and it helped a little. But when the fatigue hit, it wasn’t like being sleepy . . . it was like her whole body was leaden. Her cough was still there, though sporadic, and she noticed she needed to clear her throat more often. Her GP told her she had bronchitis and acid reflux, chronic allergies. She took Claritin and Pepcid, and occasionally steroids if her asthma flared. She tried a new type of inhaler. It sort of helped. She started doing weight training in addition to yoga and power walks. Running tended to exacerbate her asthma.
When they had been married for seven months and autumn was bursting into color all around them, Lauren fainted again, this time at a work site, banging her head on a concrete post. Bruce the Mighty and Beneficent freaked out at all the blood, and he fainted, too—not exactly Pearl Churchwell Harris’s finest moment as a company. They were both taken to the hospital and put in side-by-side stalls in the ER.
“You always say to make an impression,” Lauren offered, holding a wad of gauze to her head.
“I was picturing something slightly less gory,” he said.
“How bad is my cut?” she asked, taking the gauze off. Eesh. Lots of blood.
“Don’t show me! Jesus! Do you want me to fire you?”
“You’re such a wuss,” she said. Josh was already on his way. She texted Jen, filling her in on the melodrama. Heads bleed a LOT, she typed.
“If we lose this account, it’s your fault,” Bruce said. “Eat breakfast, for the love of God.”
“I do eat breakfast. I have protein and carbs and fresh fruit every damn day. I just have low blood pressure.” She glanced at the monitor over her bed. Her blood pressure was low—94/52. O2 sat 93, heart rate 88, all fine. “Be nice to me, or I’m throwing this gauze your way.”
“Nurse? Can you sedate her or something?” He covered his eyes with his hand.
The resident came in and drew the curtain between her and Bruce. “Time to staple that closed,” she said cheerfully.
“Can we make my boss watch?” Lauren asked.
“Of course,” the woman said, smiling.
“Stop it!” Bruce ordered. “I’m very fragile.”
The doctor explained what she was about to do—clean the wound, lidocaine and staples—but Lauren was abruptly sleepy. How much blood had she lost? The staples went in without fanfare, tugging at her scalp a little.
Then Josh burst in. “Honey! Oh, my God, sweetheart, what happened?”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Hi, babe. Sorry to worry you.”
“Your wife bleeds like a Romanov,” Bruce called.
“Hi, Bruce,” Josh said. “Lauren, what happened?”
“I fainted and hit my head on a pole.”
He sat on the edge of her bed and kissed her hand. “Poor thing.” It was so good to see his face, warm with concern and love. Maybe he could lie down next to her for a cuddle and a nap.
“What about me?” Bruce asked. “I had to watch her blood spurt out of her head like a frickin’ faucet.”
“You’re also a poor thing,” Josh said.