Page 1 of Your Two Lips
1
EMILY
Eighteen Months Ago
It wasthe last moment of my old life. Once I spoke, no matter what he said in response, things would be different. I let my rage fade temporarily and inhaled one final breath of knowing who I was and what I hoped before it all came crashing down.
I stood still in the marbled foyer of our luxury high-rise apartment, my Burberry coat failing to warm my chilled body, as I stared out at the fading fingers of light on what would likely be the last full day of sun in the Pacific Northwest until spring. Joel sat with his back to me, engrossed in the file open before him on the large kitchen island. The oversized whimsical clock we bought last year softly ticked the seconds away on the wall beside me. At this moment, I couldn't imagine anything whimsical ever again.
After this was uncharted territory for me and, though I wanted to be strong and brave in my anger, I allowed the fear for one breath. Reality gripped my heart, thrumming inside my chest. I blinked, and the rage was back.
“A box of condoms, Joel? Why do you have condoms in the glove compartment of your car?” I made my choice. This was happening.
Finding the unexpected condom is never good, and a box is worse. Joel and I hadn’t used condoms since we moved in together two years ago, right after I graduated from the University of Washington. Joel had recently received his MBA from Stanford and moved back to Seattle to work for his father’s company. We met the summer between his first and second year there, and after dating long-distance, our future together seemed within reach. We knew with my severe endometriosis that getting pregnant would be tough, so we started trying our first night in our new place.
Joel turned to me, his expression tired.
“I got pulled over on 405 today. Imagine my surprise when I opened the glove compartment. The officer had to ask me more than once for the registration. I just sat there holding the damn box.”
The look on the officer’s face said it all. She realized these were not my condoms, yet this car was licensed to a man I shared an address with. Sure, there may have been another explanation, but women know, and she knew. At least she didn’t give me the ticket.
Joel sighed and looked at me from the kitchen where the cherry pies I baked for Thanksgiving tomorrow were still cooling. The man I loved and planned a future with quietly crossed the living room. The lights of the city and a ferry on Puget Sound were bright and cheerful through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.
Anger surged through my veins. The glittering lights, the sound of that shabby-chic clock, and the warm scent of pie all mocked me. With Joel’s calm reaction, I already knew how this would end.
“Em, let’s sit down.” He deliberately spoke in hushed tones and reached out to guide me by the elbow into the living room.
Out of habit, I walked with him, then stopped short. “No! I will not sit, and I will not stay calm. I won’t follow your snobby family’s protocols for how to behave this time.” Inhaling a fortifying breath, I felt myself shaking. I knew the truth but needed to hear him say it. I needed to look him in the eyes and hold on to whatever dignity I had while he delivered the lethal blow. “Tell me why you have a half-empty box of condoms in your car?”
He let out a deep sigh and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants as he faced me. “She works out at the gym downstairs. It was just sex.” He held up a hand as if that somehow made it better. “You were feeling worse again, and we hadn’t had sex in a while.” He lifted his chin and stared directly at me.
Was this where it happened, where I gave in and became the good little rich man’s future wife? Looked the other way because I wasn’t holding up my end of some deal? Mollify myself later with a shopping spree at Neiman Marcus? I held his gaze. That was not who I was and not who I wanted to be.
“Sex hasn’t been easy or fun for a long time,” he added.
“So, this is my fault? Blow jobs just not getting it done? Fuck you, Joel. You know the pain is real. I’m not faking a headache!”
He reared back like I punched him. I didn’t speak that way to him or anyone. I turned away from him and tried to stifle the betrayal and the hurt.
My disease had progressed quickly. Sex was always painful, but the last two years had been the worst. My most recent laparoscopic surgery a year ago helped, and I briefly enjoyed a taste of what life and love and sex could be like. But the pain crept back.
Our sex life was a challenge, but Joel had been patient and understanding from the beginning. He’d never pressured me, and I loved him so much more because of it, and we had a plan. One natural pregnancy, then I would have the final surgery freeing me from the pain and heavy periods that could be life-threatening.
“She’d been coming on to me for a while, and I turned her down, every time.” He paused. “Then, I didn’t. I missed carefree, fun sex, and I didn’t want to hurt you. Call me terrible, but I want the woman I’m with to enjoy sex as much as I do.”
“You didn’t want to hurt me?” Between the coat I hadn’t taken off yet and my rage, I was sweating. “Really, Joel? I’m the one who endures the pain, hoping we’ll get pregnant. I endure the ultrasounds, doctor appointments, and consultations with experts. If you weren’t in this,” I said, motioning between us, “then you allowed me to hurt needlessly for a long time. Judging by the number of condoms missing, you’ve been involved in this indiscretion for a while.”Indiscretion. His family’s word for any sin they intended to overlook. It didn’t carry the same weight asfuck fest, but I was new to this jilted woman thing.
“Em, you don’t understand.”
“You think I don’t miss sex every day, Joel? You think I don’t want to have sex like I’m whole instead of like I’m … like I’m not?” The tears that once threatened were coming now as I considered the weight of all I was losing, not Joel, but the hope and future he represented.
My voice lowered. “I want to be normal, but I’m trying everything I can to have a baby first, regardless of what your mother believes.”
Joel’s family—well, his mother—was practically rabid with the idea of the next Carter heir to continue the family legacy. More like the family’s belief their DNA was responsible for their success, and someone without it couldn’t possibly run their billion-dollar company. No one said it aloud. This was the twenty-first century. But the undercurrent that flowed through his parents’ stories of business acumen and vision that werein the bloodsaid enough.
My inability to become pregnant was irrefutable evidence of my unworthiness. Thinly veiled accusations that our engagement had been my effort to trap Joel, knowing I would never provide an heir, hung in the air, along with the cloying scent of Mrs. Carter’s perfume.
We’d considered surrogate pregnancy. We certainly had the financial means, something that stopped other couples. But with the rare nature of my disease, the high doses of hormones needed to harvest my eggs could quickly take my symptoms to a dangerous level. And it was genetic. What if I had a girl and passed this fate down to her?
