Page 80 of Speechless

“Already on the itinerary.” She gives a small shriek of excitement before jumping out of bed to go take a shower. I shouldn’t lie to her so before she closes the door I add, “And after Oxford I think we’ll spend some time in the countryside, show you my favorite part of England.”

37

Lucy

Henry is takingme to a library.

Actually, he’s taking me to several. The amount of history here in Oxford is staggering—I think I want to live here forever. I’m overwhelmed with everything there is to read, to learn, to see. He gets me. He knew this would be my ideal way to spend a vacation.

A few summers ago, Jack and I spent three weeks on Nantucket when his parents were in Hawaii. I went to the Atheneum every morning—the island’s only public library—and usually stopped by Nantucket Bookworks every afternoon. Being surrounded by books, by stories and knowledge and magic andpossibility—that’smy happy place. Jack never joined me. He would tease me about being a book nerd, about being stuck in my imagination. But what’s so wrong with imagination? Stories show us the way thingscouldbe, in an alternate life. One where I might still have my parents, or functioning ovaries, or the power to teleport.

Jack was never mean, and it didn’t particularly bother me at the time. Books were my thing, never his. But now I think, I didn’t know what it could be like to be with a man who truly supported me, who understood how my brain works, who cared enough to plan a day together like this.

Oxford is a dream, and so is my current headspace. I love picturing what a future with Henry would look like, but it’s impossible for me to imagine it without the inevitable disappointment. My heart still believes in fairy tales, still sees the perfect ending playing out for me, again. My brain knows better. She’s seen some shit.

Driving through the countryside now is so idyllic, I vanquish all the pesky thoughts rattling in my head and squeeze Henry’s hand that never leaves my side. The air is scented with dew, the sweet earthiness lingering from the rain. I suck it in greedily through the open window, determined to hold on to my Oxford high.

Henry and I are in this perfect, mushy little bubble. I know I’m being selfish, but I’ve been throwing caution to the wind on this trip and just following the pleasure-seeking part of my brain. Who knows when I’ll be back in the hospital, getting another surgery, the one I’ve been dreading, the one that will change meforever.

I know I’m way overdue to have this conversation with Henry. He deserves my honesty, and I don’t want to keep anything from him anymore. It’s painful to think about ending what we have together, but I think I need to rip off the Band-Aid now before I let anything get more serious than it already is.

If it gets any more serious, I don’t know how I’ll ever get over him.

I wish I could flip my own script right now, pretend that motherhood isn’t so intrinsically tied to my self-worth. I wish I could focus on anything else in my life, things that make me feel good or sexy orenough. But no matter how much I try, it’s just always there.

My own mom started talking about grandkids long before I was ever engaged. And when she got sick, she always said that wanting to meet her grandchildren kept her fighting the cancer every day. I want her back more than anything, but maybe it’s for the best that she never got the chance to see what came of her wish. The thought of enduring her disappointment now seems unbearable.

And Henry’s attraction to me, I know it’s real. I feel it in my bones with every look he gives me, every time his lips brush my skin. But I’ll never forget him telling me I’d be a great mother. It’s all tied together: sex and fertility and motherhood and—God, I’m sosickof being a woman sometimes.

I just can’t put this off any longer. As soon as we get to the hotel, I’ll do it. I’ll tell him everything.

And then I’ll deal with the consequences.

“Umm, Henry. Are we staying at a bed and breakfast or something? This looks like a neighborhood.”

We just pulled onto a long street dotted with homes, surrounded by fields and . . . not much else. Henry stops the car in front of a modest, Tudor-style house. He squeezes my hand just a bit tighter and offers a nervous smile.

“This is my home, where I grew up. I wanted you to see it.”

Okay, this is unexpected. I guess I have been wondering what part of England he’s from. I was surprised it never came up when he told me his plans for the trip.

Wait, he’s getting out of the car. We’re going in? Does his mom still live here? My mind is racing and I can barely comprehend what’s happening in front of me. Henry is opening the passenger door for me, and walking me up to the porch, and the door is opening. And I am nowinsidehis house and a tiny woman who looks nothing like Henry is staring back at me.

“Oh, Lucy! I’m so glad to finally meet you! What a treat this is. I’m Mary, Henry’s mum, of course.” She reaches out to give me a hug and we share a quick embrace. She’s almost as short as I am. Henry’s dad must have been a giant.

How did Henry not tell me this is where we were going? I am not prepared for this.

Mary is looking at me with a worried expression and I realize I haven’t said anything yet.

“Are you okay, dear?”

“Yes, sorry. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m just a bit surprised, I didn’t know we were coming here.” I shoot Henry a quick glance letting him know this is not the good kind of surprise.

“Henry, shame on you. You promised this lovely girl a holiday and didn’t tell her about the visit to your boring old mum?”

Henry wraps his arm around me and whispers a quick “I’m sorry” into my hair, followed by a kiss to my temple. Another kiss to my nose, then my cheek and now my mouth. He’s kissing me, in front of his mom, and she is positively beaming. What is happening right now? This is the opposite of my plan. Fuck.

I keep trying to get Henry’s attention so we can talk alone. I don’t know why he brought me here, or why he didn’t tell me about it, but I feel like things are suddenly moving way too fast. I need to squash this before it gets bigger than it already is. Unfortunately his excitement about being here has made him much less observant to my subtle cues. He’s entirely oblivious.

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