Can't Look Away(53)

Chapter Twenty-one

Sabrina




It was a nice evening we had on the Fourth of July, don’t you think? I can tell you were genuinely worried about your history with Jake getting in the way of our friendship. That’s sweet, Molly, it really is. I’m touched you’ve grown so fond of me.

I’m sorry about downplaying your relationship with Jake—I saw the way your face fell when Meredith called it a “fling”—but really, your ego could use a good check. It’s a bit presumptuous to walk around assuming you’re the love of everyone’s life.

Anyway, I’m glad you and Hunter were able to join us. It is a bit snobbish, the whole country club thing, isn’t it? My grandparents never belonged to the FCCC, by the way. They didn’t even live in Flynn Cove, or Connecticut for that matter. I never actually met my grandparents—all four were already dead by the time I was born. The closest thing I had to a grandmother was my great-aunt Lenore, my maternal grandfather’s sister. She was a gem. She lived an hour from us in Miami, but she used to pick me up on the weekends and take me to South Beach for lunch, or to play mini golf—activities that never would have crossed either of my parents’ minds. For my tenth birthday, Lenore took me to the aquarium, and we went swimming with dolphins. Her house was much smaller than ours, but it was cheery and cozy and smelled like beeswax candles. Lenore smelled like beeswax, too. Her hands were always warm. She died of a stroke when I was thirteen.

Anyway, I only lied about my grandparents belonging to the club so you wouldn’t think I was as pretentious as those women like Meredith Duffy and Betsy Worthington, who you can’t seem to stand.

The truth is, I did want to join the FCCC. And not because I care about status—I don’t, not actually. What I do care about is family. Children. The memory of the blood in the toilet, of the violent river running down my legs, is forever imprinted in my mind and heart, a loss I’ve never really gotten over.

So yes, you and Jake had a bit more than a fling. I’ll admit that you inspired his music more than I ever did, fine. But Jake and I created a baby together, for fuck’s sake, and that’s more than you can say, Molly. And I know that we are meant to create more; I feel this in my gut, in my bones. It’s our destiny to build a family together, a real family, the kind neither of us were born into. Most people don’t know the loneliness of not being loved by their own parents. But Jake and I—we do. It’s part of our pull on each other the way we fill a mutual void you will never understand.

I’ve lied to you about plenty of things, Molly, but one area where I’ve actually been honest is in my struggle to have a child. This is a struggle that you and I share, a haunting desire that binds us. The only difference is that my hurdle is not biological—at least not that I know of. My hurdle is psychological. My hurdle is Jake.

It wasn’t always this way, obviously. Let’s make Jake-and-Sisi babies, he said once upon a time, his eyes lighting up with excitement, filling my heart with possibility.

But now, he’s hesitant. There’s something holding him back, something that was never there before.

Later, he says.

Soon.

I’m not ready.

I’m still not ready.

Stop pushing, Sisi.

I know that once it happens—once we do conceive, once he holds our little baby in his arms—his fears will melt away. In the meantime, I’m doing what I can. The FCCC is a family-oriented place—about as family-oriented as it gets. Chubby babies floating with their mothers in the turquoise pool, tots in tennis whites with miniature rackets, neatly dressed children sipping Shirley Temples in the clubhouse while their parents mingle. Camp, swim team, junior golf.

Jake and I are practically the only members without children, which means everyone is constantly chivvying: When are we going to see a little Danner around here?

It’s the perfect excuse to take the conversation home to Jake. Like I do tonight.

We’re lying in bed. Clean sheets, freshly ironed by our cleaning lady, Priscilla. She comes twice a week.

I’m ovulating, according to the app on my phone. Jake doesn’t know. He’s propped up on a pile of pillows, scribbling in his notebook. I lean over to his side of our king bed, slip my hand under the waistband of his boxers.

“Sees. I’m working.”

I ignore this. I take the notebook from his hands and drop it to the floor, hooking my thighs over his hips. I push his boxers all the way down, press my lips to his stomach, work my way south.

“Sisi. Not now.”

I don’t listen. I take him in my mouth, and he’s growing hard. Progress. I slide my lips all the way down till he rams the back of my throat. He usually goes crazy when I do this.

“Sisi.” He pushes me away, off of him, yanks his boxers back up.

“Jesus, Jake. What?”

“I just think we should be careful.”

“Careful?”

“You know I’m not ready. You got your period two weeks ago. I know what that means.”

I say nothing, waiting, testing him.

“Now is your…” He pauses. “Fertile window.”

“Calm down. I’m on the Pill.”

“You never remember to take it.”

He isn’t wrong, but I’m surprised he knows this. Jake is secretly very perceptive, though he probably doesn’t realize I “forget” to take my birth control on purpose.