All Your Perfects(22)

“I’m sorry,” he says.

His apology creates an ache in my chest because I know he isn’t apologizing for our snippy exchange. He’s apologizing because he knows we were turned down because of his past conviction.

It happened when he was only nineteen. He doesn’t talk about it a lot. Hardly ever. The wreck wasn’t his fault, but because of the alcohol in his system, it didn’t matter. The charge still lingers on his record and will forever put us out of the running when couples without criminal charges are approved in place of us.

But that was years ago. It’s not something he can change and he’s been punished enough for what happened when he was just a teenager. The last thing he needs is for his own wife to blame him, too.

“Don’t apologize, Graham. If you apologize for not being approved for adoption then I’ll have to apologize for not being able to conceive. It is what it is.”

His eyes momentarily meet mine and I see a flash of appreciativeness in him.

He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “The adoption issue we’re having is a direct result of a poor decision I made. You can’t control the fact that you can’t conceive. There’s a difference.”

Graham and I aren’t a perfect example of a marriage, but we are a perfect example of knowing when and where the blame should be placed. He never makes me feel guilty for not being able to conceive and I’ve never wanted him to feel guilty for a choice he already holds way too much guilt for.

“There may be a difference, but it isn’t much of one. Let’s just drop it.” I’m tired of this conversation. We’ve had it so many times and it changes nothing. I take another bite, thinking of a way we can change the subject, but he just continues.

“What if . . .” He leans forward now, pushing his plate toward the center of the table. “What if you applied for adoption on your own? Left me out of the equation?”

I stare at him, thinking of all that question entails. “I can’t. We’re legally married.” He doesn’t react. Which means he knew exactly what he was suggesting. I lean back in my chair and eye him cautiously. “You want us to get a divorce so I can apply on my own?”

Graham reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “It wouldn’t mean anything, Quinn. We would still be together. But it might make our chances better if we just . . . you know . . . pretended I wasn’t in the picture. Then my past conviction couldn’t affect our chances.”

I contemplate his idea for a moment, but it’s just as preposterous as the fact that we keep trying to conceive. Who would approve a divorced, single woman to adopt a child over a stable, married couple with more income and more opportunity? Becoming approved by an agency isn’t an easy process, so actually being selected and the birth mother going through with the adoption are even harder. Not to mention the fees. Graham brings in twice as much money as me and we still might not be able to afford it, even if I were somehow approved for the process.

“We don’t have the money.” I expect that to be the end of it, but I can tell by his expression that he has another suggestion. I can also tell by the way he’s not readily suggesting whatever it is he’s thinking that it must include my mother. I immediately shake my head and grab my plate. I stand up. “We aren’t asking her. The last time I spoke to her about adoption, she told me God would give me a child when I was ready. And like I told Ava earlier, the last thing we need is for her to feel like she owns a piece of our family.” I walk the plate to the sink. Graham scoots back in his chair and stands.

“It was just an idea,” he says, following me into the kitchen. “You know, there’s a guy at my work who said his sister tried for seven years to get pregnant. She found out three months ago that she’s having a baby. Due in January.”

Yes, Graham. That’s called a miracle. And it’s called a miracle because the chances of it happening are slim to none.

I turn on the water and wash my plate. “You talk about it to people at work?”

Graham is next to me now, lowering his plate into the sink. “Sometimes,” he says quietly. “People ask why we haven’t had kids.”

I can feel the pressure building in my chest. I need to be done with the conversation. I want Graham to be done, too, but he leans against the counter and dips his head. “Hey.”

I give him a sidelong glance to let him know I’m listening, but then I move my attention back to the dishes.

“We barely talk about it anymore, Quinn. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s neither. I’m just tired of talking about it. It’s all our marriage has become.”

“Does that mean you’re accepting it?”

“Accepting what?” I still don’t look at him.

“That we’ll never be parents.”

The plate in my hand slips out of my grasp. It lands against the bottom of the sink with a loud clutter.

But it doesn’t break like I do.

I don’t even know why it happens. I’m gripping the sink now and my head is hanging between my shoulders and tears just start falling from my eyes. Fuck. I really can’t stand myself sometimes.

Graham waits several seconds before he moves to console me. He doesn’t put his arms around me, though. I think he can tell I don’t want to be crying right now and hugging me is something he’s learned doesn’t help in these situations. I don’t cry in front of him near as much as I cry alone, but I’ve done it enough for him to know that I’d rather do it alone. He runs his hand over my hair and kisses the back of my head. Then he just touches my arm and moves me out of the way of the sink. He picks up the plate and finishes washing the dishes. I do what I do best. I walk away until I’m strong enough to pretend the conversation never happened. And he does what he does best. He leaves me alone in my grief because I’ve made it so hard for him to console me.