Page 35 of Good as Gold
Skye just smiles. “But you made me dinner! And I had a great time tonight.”
I suppose she has a point. I’d run into her today at the OB-GYN department at the hospital. I was there for an introductory exam with the fertility specialist and an eye-opening chat with the hospital’s “financial coordinator.”
Skye and I had hung out in the waiting room amid the outdated magazines, and she’d confessed two things to me: first, that she and Benito are about to start trying for a baby, and secondly that he had to work a stakeout tonight.
So I’d invited her over to dinner. I made my garlicky salmon Provençal. Skye brought a bottle of wine. “If I’m lucky, I’ll have to give up wine pretty soon, so let’s have some tonight,” she’d said.
Except she isn’t much of a drinker, so I may have had more than my share. I’d confessed to her that childlessness wasn’t really okay with me, and that I’d asked the fertility specialist to take me through my options.
“Guess how much a vial of donor sperm costs?” I’d asked her. “Just guess.”
“Um, five hundred dollars?”
“A thousand. And the doctor charges another two to four hundred for the job of delivering it.”
She’d gasped. “I never realized how valuable Benito is. I better start treating him better.”
We’d laughed and clinked our wine glasses together. But I’d felt an uncomfortable pang of jealousy. Skye and Benito are hopelessly in love. They’d found each other again after a long separation, and I can just tell they’ll go the distance.
They’ll have beautiful children too, of course. Probably by next year. She’s only thirty, so she’ll probably never evenmeetthe fertility specialist.
Self-pity is ugly. I need to cut it out.
The door to the bar opens again. Matteo walks back in, and my heart gives a little spasm of joy.
Stupid heart.
“Did you drive his drunken ass home?” Benito asks.
“Sure did. Sorry, Zara!” he calls to his sister.
“We’re almost done here.” Zara shrugs. “Come back here and help me clean up. It’s last call.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As he passes me, Matteo gives my elbow a casual squeeze. I meet his eye, and he winks as he walks on by. Behind the bar, he ties his apron and starts collecting dirty glassware and wiping down the surfaces.
That’s what a real man does—quietly takes care of business. Rory was never that guy. Rory wanted a gold medal for taking out the garbage. He required constant external validation. He was so needy.
I’d known this when I married him, but I’d married him anyway.
Worse, I think I’d fed off his need. He made me feel powerful—like my opinion mattered.
Maybe that’s why I put up with him for twelve wasted years.
Okay, that’s harsh. Those years hadn’t been all bad. In fact, Rory had been on a roll for the first few years of our marriage. He had a good job working for a snowboarding company. As a rep, he’d driven around New England to various ski mountains and let boarders demo the newest equipment.
It had been his dream job—hanging out with snowboard bros and getting paid to be the life of the party.
But then the company had tightened its belt, and let Rory go. He’d been indignant. He felt that life owed him a fun job. And when there were no more fun jobs to be had, he decided that he was meant to become an entrepreneur. He’d start his own company.
First, he wanted to be a fly-fishing guide, but hustling for customers was tough, and the work was too seasonal to be financially viable.
Then he went through a phase of selling nutritional supplements. We ended up with five hundred cans of some kind of powder in our basement before he realized it wasn’t going to make him rich.
Then he decided to open his own niche snowboard manufacturing business. My father grudgingly invested ten thousand dollars. Not because I asked him to—Rory pitched him directly.
I could have predicted the outcome. It made for some very uncomfortable family holidays when my father would ask him for updates, and Rory didn’t have much positive to say.
That’s when Rory became really hard to live with. Failure wasn’t a good look on him, and he took it out on everyone else, including me.
