All Your Perfects(75)
“Okay,” I say, full of giddiness. I catch myself biting my cheek in an attempt to hide my smile, but I immediately stop trying to hide it. If there’s one thing Graham deserves, it’s for my happiness to be transparent. And this moment is the first moment in a long time I’ve felt this much happiness. I want him to feel it, too.
It’s like this is the first time I’ve truly felt like I might be okay. That we’ll be okay. It’s the first time I don’t look at him and feel guilty for everything I can’t give him because I know how grateful he is for everything I can give him. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything you said in your letters.”
He stands between my legs, placing his hands on my hips. I wrap my arms around his neck, and for the first time in a long time, I kiss my husband and feel full of gratitude. I know my life as a whole hasn’t been perfect, but I’m finally starting to appreciate all the perfect things within it. There are so many of them. My flexible job, my husband, my in-laws, my sister, my nieces, my nephew.
That thought makes me pause. I pull back and look up at Graham. “What did my fortune say? Do you have it memorized?”
“If you only shine light on your flaws, all your perfects will dim.”
I think about it for a moment. About how fitting that fortune is for my life. I’ve spent way too much time putting all of my focus on my infertility. So much so, my husband and all the other things that are perfect in my life were being forced to take a backseat.
Since the moment we cracked open those fortune cookies, I’ve never really taken them seriously. But maybe Graham is right. Maybe those fortunes are more than a coincidence. And maybe Graham was right about the existence of fate.
If so, I think my fate is standing right in front of me.
Graham touches my mouth with the tips of his fingers and slowly traces the smile on my lips. “You have no idea what this smile means to me, Quinn. I’ve missed it so much.”
Epilogue
* * *
“Wait, look at this one!” I pull on Graham’s hand, making him stop in his tracks on the sidewalk again. But I can’t help it. Almost every store on this street has the cutest children’s clothes I’ve ever seen and Max would be adorable in the outfit displayed in the window.
Graham tries to keep moving forward, but I pull on his hand until he relents and follows me into the store. “We were almost to the car,” he says. “So close.”
I shove the bags of kids clothes I’ve already bought into Graham’s hands and then find the rack with the toddler sizes. “Should I get the green pants or the yellow ones?”
I hold them up to Graham and he says, “Definitely yellow.”
The green pants are cuter, but I go with Graham’s choice simply because he volunteered an answer. He hates shopping for clothes, and this is only the ninth store I’ve forced him to follow me into. “I swear this is the last one. Then we can go home.” I give Graham a quick peck on the lips before walking to the register.
Graham follows me and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “You know I don’t care, Quinn. Shop all day if you want. He only turns two once.”
I hand the clothes to the cashier. In a thick Italian accent, she says, “This outfit is my absolute favorite.” She looks up at us and says, “How old is your little boy?”
“He’s our nephew. Tomorrow is his second birthday.”
“Ah, perfect,” she says. “Would you like this in a gift box?”
“No, a bag is fine.”
She tells Graham the total, and as he’s paying, the cashier looks at me again. “What about the two of you? Any children of your own?”
I smile at her and open my mouth, but Graham beats me to the punch. “We have six children,” he lies. “But they’re all grown now and out of the house.”
I try not to laugh, but once we decided to start lying to strangers about our infertility, it’s become a competition with who can be the most ridiculous. Graham usually wins. Last week he told a lady we had quadruplets. Now he’s trying to convince someone that a couple our age could have six children already grown and out of our home.
“All girls,” I add. “We kept trying for a boy, but it just wasn’t in the cards.”
The cashier’s mouth falls open. “You have six daughters?”
Graham takes the bag and the receipt from her. “Yes. And two granddaughters.”
He always takes it a little too far. I grab Graham’s hand and mutter a thank-you to the cashier, pulling him outside as fast as I pulled him inside. When we’re on the sidewalk again, I slap him on the arm. “You are so ridiculous,” I say, laughing.
He threads our fingers together as we begin to walk. “We should make up names for our imaginary daughters,” he says. “In case someone probes for details.”
We’re passing a kitchen store when he says this, and my eyes automatically fall on a spice rack in the window. “Coriander,” I tell him. “She’s the oldest.”
Graham pauses and looks at the spice rack with me. “Parsley is the youngest. And Paprika and Cinnamon are the oldest set of twins.”
I laugh. “We have two sets of twins?”
“Juniper and Saffron.”