I walk into the kitchen as soon as I’m finished. I don’t even want to look at him right now. It’s the most honest I’ve ever been and I’m scared of what it did to him. I’m also scared that I don’t care what it did to him.
I don’t even know why I’m arguing issues that are irrelevant. I can’t get pregnant now no matter how much we fight about the past.
I pour myself a glass of water and sip from it while I calm down.
A few silent moments go by before Graham moves from the table. He walks into the kitchen and leans against the counter in front of me, crossing his feet at the ankles. When I work up the courage to look at his eyes, I’m surprised to see a calmness in them. Even after the harsh words that just left my mouth, he somehow still looks at me like he doesn’t absolutely hate me.
We stare at each other, both of us dry-eyed and full of years’ worth of things we should never have kept bottled up. Despite his calmness and his lack of animosity, he looks deflated by everything I just yelled at him—like my words were safety pins, poking holes in him, letting all the air out.
I can tell by the exhaustion in his expression that he’s given up again. I don’t blame him. Why keep fighting for someone who is no longer fighting for you?
Graham closes his eyes and grips the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He cycles through a calming breath before folding both arms over his chest. He shakes his head, like he’s finally come to a realization that he never wanted to come to. “No matter how hard I try . . . no matter how much I love you . . . I can’t be the one thing you’ve always wanted me to be, Quinn. I will never be a father.”
A tear immediately falls from my eye. And then another. But I remain stoic as he steps toward me.
“If this is what our marriage is . . . if this is all it will ever be . . . just me and you . . . will that be enough? Am I enough for you, Quinn?”
I’m confounded. Speechless.
I stare at him in utter disbelief, unable to answer him. Not because I can’t. I know the answer to his question. I’ve always known the answer. But I stay silent because I’m not sure I should answer him.
The silence that lingers between his question and my answer creates the biggest misunderstanding our marriage has ever seen. Graham’s jaw hardens. His eyes harden. Everything—even his heart—hardens. He looks away from me because my silence means something different to him than what it means to me.
He walks out of the kitchen, toward the guest room. Probably to get his suitcase and leave again. It takes everything in me not to run after him and beg him to stay. I want to fall to my knees and tell him that if on our wedding day, someone had forced me to choose between the possibility of having children or spending a life with Graham, I would have chosen life with him. Without a doubt, I would have chosen him.
I can’t believe our marriage has come to this point. The point where my behavior has convinced Graham that he’s not enough for me. He is enough for me.
The problem is . . . he could be so much more without me.
I blow out a shaky breath and turn around, pressing my palms into the counter. The agony of knowing what I’m doing to him makes my entire body tremble.
When he emerges from the hallway, he’s not holding his suitcase. He’s holding something else.
The box.
He brought our box with him?
He walks into the kitchen and sets it beside me on the counter. “If you don’t tell me to stop, we’re opening it.”
I lean forward and press my arms into the counter, my face against my arms. I don’t tell him to stop, though. All I can do is cry. It’s the kind of cry I’ve experienced in my dreams. The cries that hurt so much, you can’t even make a sound.
“Quinn,” he pleads with a shaky voice. I squeeze my eyes shut even harder. “Quinn.” He whispers my name like it’s his final plea. When I still refuse to ask him to stop, I hear him move the box closer to me. I hear him insert the key into the lock. I hear him pull the lock off, but instead of it clinking against the counter, it crashes against the kitchen wall.
He is so angry right now.
“Look at me.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to remember what it felt like when we closed that box together all those years ago.
He slides his hand through my hair and leans down, bringing his lips to my ear. “This box won’t open itself, and I sure as hell am not going to be the one to do it.”
His hand leaves my hair and his lips leave my ear. He slides the box over until it’s touching my arm.
There have only been a handful of times I’ve cried this hard in my life. Three of those times were when the IVF rounds didn’t take. One of those times was the night I found out Graham kissed another woman. One of those times was when I found out I had a hysterectomy. Out of all the times I’ve cried this hard, Graham has held me every single time. Even when the tears were because of him.
This time feels so much harder. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face this kind of devastation on my own.
As if he knows this, I feel his arms slide around me. His loving, caring, selfless arms pull me to him, and even though we’re on opposite sides of this war, he refuses to pick up his weapons. My face is now pressed against his chest and I am so broken.
So broken.
I try to still the war inside me, but all I hear are the same sentences that have been repeating over and over in my head since the moment I first heard them.
“You would make such a great father, Graham.”
“I know. It devastates me that it still hasn’t happened yet.”
I press a kiss to Graham’s chest and whisper a silent promise against his heart. Someday it’ll happen for you, Graham. Someday you’ll understand.
I pull away from his chest.
I open the box.
We finally end the dance.
Chapter Twenty-seven
* * *
Then
It’s been five hours since we said I do on a secluded beach in the presence of two strangers we met just minutes before our vows. And I don’t have a single regret.
Not one.
I don’t regret agreeing to spend the weekend with Graham at the beach house. I don’t regret getting married five months before we planned to. I don’t regret texting my mother when it was over, thanking her for her help, but letting her know it’s no longer needed because we’re already married. And I don’t regret that instead of a fancy dinner at the Douglas Whimberly Plaza, Graham and I grilled hot dogs over the fire pit and ate cookies for dessert.
I don’t think I’ll ever regret any of this. Something so perfect could never become a regret.
Graham opens the sliding glass door and walks onto the balcony. It was too cold to sit up here when we were here three months ago, but it’s perfect tonight. A cool breeze is coming off the water, blowing my hair just enough to keep it out of my face. Graham takes a seat next to me, tugging me toward him. I snuggle against him.
Graham leans forward slightly and places his phone next to mine on the railing in front of us. He’s been inside breaking the news to his mother that there won’t be a wedding.
“Is your mother upset?” I ask.
“She’s pretending to be happy for us but I can tell she would have liked to have been there.”