The Year We Turned Forty (27 page)

“It's far from rock solid. But it's also not broken. I made a mistake. I was an idiot to sleep with you,” Jessie said, remembering her boldness as she'd held the pool cue.

Peter shot her a look as if to say,
Gee, thanks
, which Jessie ignored.

“I didn't leave that bar with you because I didn't love my husband. It's just that you made me feel wanted. It had been a long time since I'd felt that way with Grant.” She avoided eye contact as she started shaking the sand out of the buckets and stacking them. “And so I convinced myself that something was wrong with him, and with us. But I was the one who was wrong.”

“I don't think it's asking too much to want to feel wanted by your spouse
after
the honeymoon period is over,” Peter said as he handed her a yellow shovel that was hanging over the edge of the sandbox. “Even after having kids,” Peter added, and Jessie wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself.

“You're right, but the reality is that couples get lazy, putting all their energy into children and careers and then blaming the disconnect on each other when, in reality, they're choosing—
you and I were choosing—
the easy way out. We turned to each other when we should've turned to our spouses. I wasn't choosing Grant. You weren't choosing Cathy. And we have to take ownership of that.” Jessie stretched out a mesh bag and placed the buckets inside. “I'm choosing to fight for my marriage. And I think you should too.”

“Maybe.” Peter reached for Lucas' hands as he pulled himself up, letting go as soon as he balanced himself. Lucas flashed a grin and tentatively took three steps before toppling over.

“Oh my God.” Jessie's hand flew over her mouth. “He just walked. Those were his first steps!” Jessie ran over and picked him up. “Good job, buddy! Walking at nine months, that's a new record!”

“I'd like to think that dexterity comes from my side of the family. I walked very early too.” Peter came over and rubbed Lucas' back. “Great work, son!”

Jessie half smiled, not sure how she felt that Peter was the father who got to witness Lucas' milestone. But there was one thing she now knew for certain as she beamed at Lucas. Peter wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon.

•  •  •

“What's that?” Colin asked as Gabriela heaved a box into the house, pushing it through the doorway with her foot when she couldn't carry it any longer. “My anniversary gift?” he joked tersely. It was March 12 and neither of them had mentioned the upcoming date.

“No.” Gabriela offered him a partial smile. “The drugs for the next cycle.”

Colin frowned as he grabbed the box off the floor. “Last time I checked, you needed
my
sperm and
my
approval for another round.” Colin's voice bristled with anger. The morning after she'd returned from New York two months ago, she'd gone to see Dr. Larson without Colin, working out the details of the third cycle, nodding mildly when the doctor inquired if Colin was still on board, then coming home and announcing matter-of-factly that
she
was starting again. Colin had flashed her a look of pity and muttered,
What happened to
we? before heading out for a run.

“What are you saying?” Gabriela's voice shook and she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.

“This will be round four in less than a year. Shouldn't
we
take a break?”

Gabriela clenched her jaw, ignoring his dig. When she'd found out she wasn't pregnant
again
, for the third time, she hadn't gotten out of bed for five days, sobbing into her pillow so much that she'd given herself a rash on the side of her face.

“Taking some time off from this will help you—
us
—relax a bit and give your body a chance to rest.”

“You're acting like I should take a vacation. Maybe go somewhere warm and tropical and frolic on the beach. How about Bora Bora or Turks and Caicos? Like that would make everything okay, Colin. I could
never
do that right now.
That
would stress me out. Not being here. Not trying to make this happen. Don't you get that?”

“Not a vacation. I was thinking maybe more like focusing your energy on something else, like your writing.”

The truth was, she had only turned on her computer once in the last two months. And when she had, she'd written just three terrible sentences. As her fingers rested on the keyboard, she'd felt as if someone were sitting on her chest, and she'd gasped
for breath, her heart racing, her fingers tingling. Jessie had suspected it was a panic attack when Gabriela confided in her, but she refused to go to the doctor to find out, afraid they would prescribe her a medication that would interfere with her ability to get pregnant. Or worse, they'd suggest she take some time off from IVF. And that, she was not willing to do.

“I've been writing here and there,” Gabriela lied. She had found it easier to tell everyone she was writing, to avoid the concerned looks they were sure to dispense.
Two thousand words just today!
she'd written in an email to her editor, her stomach clenching as she'd pushed send. She hated to mislead her, but she kept thinking about Sheila's plea that Gabriela not let her down. She prayed the words would come, that she'd wake up one morning and the book would rush out of her. The last time she'd penned the novel, she'd done so in less than ninety days so she knew she was capable of making the deadline if she could just get the words to form in her head soon. Because it wouldn't be long before she and Jessie and Claire would have to decide if they were going back or staying here.

“Can I read any of it?” Colin pressed. “You used to give me pages every night. I haven't seen anything in almost a year.”

“I'm keeping this one really close to my heart. I think it's going to be better that way. But I promise to show you something as soon as I feel it's ready.” And that was the truth. She wanted so badly to have something to show him, something that was worthy to read and she knew if she could just get pregnant, the book would be unleashed onto paper.

Colin's face contorted. “Can you at least admit that agreeing to
another
round without talking to me isn't fair? Especially when you know my health insurance won't cover a fourth cycle.”

“How can you bring money into this? We're trying to make a baby, not buy a car!” Gabriela spat.

“Well, you're treating this like it's a pricey pair of shoes you bought without telling me and then hid in the back of the closet. It's a
baby
, Gabriela.” He drew out the syllables of the word slowly, as if she couldn't understand them otherwise.

“I get that, Colin. Believe me, I'm obsessed with the
baby
,” she yelled, then kicked the Styrofoam box of medication. “The question is, why aren't you?”

Colin took a deep breath. “I don't know who you are anymore. The woman I'm looking at right now, she's
not
the one I married.”

Gabriela watched him walk out of the room and heard their bedroom door close softly behind him. She knew she'd be sleeping in the guest room again tonight, where she'd been for most of the past two months. She waited for the tears to come, for the feelings of panic to arise in her heart that she could be losing her husband, but she felt numb. So she concentrated on the one thing that seemed to matter. She tore the lid off the top of the box and started sorting through the fertility drugs—Repronex, progesterone, Follistim—plus the packages of needles that she hoped would help bring her the baby she wanted so badly.

“Again?”

Claire could picture Mason on the other end of the phone frowning, disappointed that she was canceling another date, the second one this week. “I'm sorry, but my mom's not eating. And I wouldn't feel right going to dinner while she's in this condition.”

“I'm really sorry about your mom, but I miss you. Isn't there any way I can see you? I could bring her some chicken noodle soup.”

“She doesn't have the flu, Mason. She has cancer,” Claire snapped, immediately regretting her words.

“I know. I know. I can't imagine what it's like for you.”

“It sucks,” Claire whispered, and felt tears in her throat. “But I shouldn't be taking it out on you. You don't deserve that. We'll see each other soon. I promise,” Claire said, but wasn't sure she could deliver on it. The more ill her mom became, the more Claire seemed to cling to her.

“It's okay,” Mason said.

“No, it's not,” Claire said. “I wish you didn't have to see me
like this. I wish you could know the happy Claire.” Last time, Claire and Mason had enjoyed six uninterrupted months together before Mona's diagnosis. They had been carefree and fun, and it had been a solid foundation for when things got tough the next year. This time, Mason had barely glimpsed that Claire. The only version of her he knew was stressed and frazzled and distant.

“I like this Claire,” Mason said firmly, and Claire's heart melted.

“I'm glad you do, because I can't stand her.” Claire laughed feebly before saying good-bye and putting her head in her hands. As she listened to the ticking of the clock in her parents' kitchen, she speculated why she had kept Mason at bay this time. Sure they laughed, both having a deep love for
Seinfeld
's humor; they watched basketball games on TV, Claire's legs slung over Mason's lap; and they'd talked, but Claire kept the conversation centered around lighter topics, skirting his questions about her mom's health or Emily's situation at school. She knew she was holding a big part of herself back. She felt conflicted about Jared—whom she was missing less each day—and about her feelings for Mason, which were deepening each day. It was hard to stop herself from falling back in love with the one that got away.

Last week, when she'd gone home to get her mail, noticing the front porch light and four other bulbs had gone out, she'd complained to Mason that since she'd been practically living at her parents' house, she'd been neglecting her own, only going home to water the grass or grab some more clothes. An hour later, Mason was on her doorstep holding a plastic bag from Lowe's. She'd thrown her arms around his back, buried her chin into his broad chest, feeling his lips brush the top of her head, then cried out, “Let there be light!”

“I love you, Claire,” Mason whispered into her ear, the way he used to, and Claire's breath caught in her chest. When they broke up, and she'd watched him walk to his car, his shoulders hunched in a way that made him appear to have lost several inches of height, she was sure she'd never hear those words from him again. And now, his
I love you
felt like hearing her favorite song playing on the radio.

But she already had a man back home in 2015, whom she loved and was planning to marry. And even though she knew that in this alternate time she and Jared weren't together, it still felt wrong to say it back to Mason, especially since she'd been telling herself she was returning to her old life when the year was up. So she stayed silent. Because the relationship they had in this life was not built on truth. Mason had no idea who she really was, where she had been, and where she was going in just three short months. She wished she could tell him everything. That it had shocked her how easy it had been to fall back into step with him, that the love she felt for him rekindled faster than she'd been comfortable with. That it made her think she didn't love Jared as much as she thought she had. That this realization scared her most of all. But she didn't say any of that. Instead she sat in place, her lips glued shut as Mason held her gaze expectantly, kicking the welcome mat with his toe.

Finally he'd mumbled something about an appointment with a general contractor, gave her a quick peck on the lips, and hurried to his car. It hadn't come up since, but had hung in the air during each conversation. Claire knew she needed to address it, that he deserved to know why she couldn't love him. Or at least why she was unable to say it. But she just wasn't ready to go there yet, to let him down. So she allowed the elephant in the room to hang out with them—in the spaces of silence
during their phone conversations, in the backseat of the car as they traveled to dinner, on the couch next to them when they watched TV—praying he wouldn't bring it up again before she was ready to let go.

•  •  •

Mason hung up the phone and popped the top on a can of Budweiser. He took a long drink, wondering if Claire was distancing herself from him because of what he'd said. He knew it was probably too soon to have told Claire he loved her, but the words were out before he could stop them. And even though it had stung when she hadn't said them back, he wasn't sorry he'd told her. Because he'd wanted her to know—from the morning after they'd slept together if he was being completely honest.

When he'd first noticed Claire standing by the chocolate fountain at the birthday party—watching her tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before she glided a strawberry through the fudge, laughing as she'd popped it into her mouth—he'd felt something almost physical in his chest. He'd felt his feet moving toward her, his boldness surprising him. But he had to meet this petite woman with the large laugh. And then he'd pressed his business card into her soft hand and squeezed, feeling an electric current run up his arm. And when she'd called him the next night, he couldn't believe his luck. Women like Claire didn't go for men like him. He knew she was out of his league. Claire was gorgeous—reminding him of a porcelain doll with her fair skin and large brown eyes. He knew from their brief chat at the party that she was a successful real estate agent and a single mom. Although he had height on his side, towering over her at six foot four, his hair was thinning and he had a few crooked teeth his parents couldn't afford to fix with braces. People sometimes told
him he reminded them of a skinnier and taller version of the guy from
King of Queens
. He'd take it! He was a carpenter who hadn't finished college, but he was a hard worker with plenty of money in the bank.