Page 6 of Breaking the Rules
Soon, all eyes are miraculously dry and everyone’s back on track for a quiet night.
• • •
Long after we put the kids down for the night, tension hangs in the kitchen. Owen scrubs relentlessly at the scorched pot while I nurse a glass of cranberry juice, wishing it were wine.
“When we move to Nashville,” he says, “let’s hire a personal chef to make all our meals.”
Based on the half smirk he gives me, I can tell that he’s joking. Still, it kind of stings.
“I’m trying my best, okay?”
He pauses, his hands at rest as his dumb man-brain catches up with his words.
When he meets my eyes, his are full of contrition. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re doing great.”
I nod, accepting his apology. But something is eating away at me, and I feel like if I don’t say it right now, I’ll end up like the swiss cheese I put on the kids’ sandwiches—kinda nutty and full of holes.
“Nashville is a big move,” I say carefully. “Away from our friends. Our support system. Your parents. Bishop’s school.”
“True. But you’ve said yourself that we’re due for a change. Nashville could be that change.”
I think back on a late-night conversation we had over wine maybe two days before I found out about baby number four.
I guess I did say that, didn’t I? Oh, how naive that Becca was.
“I just don’t know if it’s the right time.”
“Oh, come on. What do you have against Nashville, Becs? I know you don’t like country music, but I promise it’s not all—”
“Owen, I’m pregnant, okay?”
“You’re ...” He half turns to me with a confused smile on his face, as if he’s waiting for me to finish the joke.
No punch line this time, buster. Just a punch-to-the-gut reality check.
Owen’s smile slowly fades. When all I do is blink at him, he turns off the faucet and hangs his head, staring at the suds.
My heart is crawling up my throat, pounding painfully in my ears. I need him to say something.Say anything.
“We weren’t even trying,” he says, his voice deep.
And just like that, my heart plummets. I don’t know what exactly I wanted him to say, but that wasn’t it.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump there. “I know. The doctor said that the pill isn’t one hundred percent effective. So there was always a chance.”
“How long have you known?”
“About a week.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Physically? I’m okay.”
“Good. That’s good. I’m ... gonna go for a run,” he says suddenly, shooting me a sideways glance that has all of my insecurities doing the rumba.
“But the dishes—”
“I’ll finish them in the morning. Let’s talk about this later.”
