Never Lie (42)

“It doesn’t matter. My knee is fine. I just need some oxycodone to get through it. Like I said, thirty tablets should be perfect.”

“I can’t just give you a prescription for a narcotic. These medications are controlled.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You prescribe stuff way stronger than oxycodone.”

“Psychiatric medications. Not narcotics. I can’t give you thirty tablets of oxycodone. I could get in trouble.”

“More or less trouble than if a video came out of you slashing someone’s tires?”

“I…”

“Like I said, thirty tablets should be fine. I won’t sell them or anything. I just want to get through this knee pain. Have pity on me, Doc.”

“I’ll give you twenty tablets. Five mg each.”

“I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”

“I could lose my license.”

“Thirty tablets. You could do the five-milligram ones if that makes you feel better.”

“Fine. But this is the only time.”

“Right. Of course, Doc. I’m not going to ask you for oxycodone again. I mean, unless I hurt my knee again.”





Chapter 30


TRICIA



Present Day




Ethan is making us lunch. I said I would do it, because he has made the last two meals, but he’s so insistent. “You’re pregnant. I have to take care of you.”

He’s making me feel silly for having waited so long to tell him about the baby.

He gets the packet of turkey out of the refrigerator. But instead of putting it on the bread, he places the pieces on a plate and sticks them in the microwave. Then he heats it up for thirty seconds.

“What are you doing?” I ask, baffled.

“Pregnant women aren’t supposed to eat cold cuts,” he explains. “They have to be heated. To kill the bacteria.”

“Really?”

He nods solemnly. “I read it’s very serious. You could get really sick.”

“Oh…” I think back to the bologna sandwich I ate earlier. And I might have eaten a roast beef sandwich earlier in the week. God, I need to be more careful. This pregnancy thing is so tricky. “I’m glad you checked. But how did you know that? We don’t have any Internet.”

He hesitates for a beat. “I didn’t read it today, obviously. I read it before. Like a long time ago. I just remembered it.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know why my husband would have been reading about things pregnant women should and shouldn’t do years ago. But I’m not going to question him. Maybe he read it in an article and it stuck in his mind. That happens to me sometimes. That’s how I learned that there are earthquakes on the moon. And they’re called moonquakes.

“I wonder if you’re having a girl or a boy,” he muses as he pulls the heated turkey out of the microwave.

“I have a feeling it’s a girl.”

“Based on what?”

I lift my shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s just this feeling I have.”

He smiles indulgently. Ethan might be a nice guy, but he is not spiritual. He believes in science and facts and is the kind of person who would roll his eyes over me telling him I have a feeling about the gender of our child.

“If it’s a girl,” I say, “we could name her after your mother. And if it’s a boy, we could name him after your dad.”

It’s like a curtain has dropped over Ethan’s face. He plops a lump of mayonnaise on one of the sandwiches without even bothering to spread it out. “My parents and I weren’t close.”

I frown at the edge that has crept into his voice. “Why not?”

“We just weren’t.”

“Did you fight?”

He picks up a knife from the block and starts slicing the sandwiches. “Sometimes. I don’t know.”

“What did you fight about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You must remember something about it…”

Ethan slams the knife down on the counter loud enough that I jump. “I said I don’t remember, Tricia.”

I back away from the counter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He looks up at me, his crystal blue eyes flashing. “Why do you always have to be so damn curious about everything? Why do you have to know everything about everyone?”

“I just…” I wring my hands together. “I don’t have to know everything about everyone. I just want to know about you. Because you’re my husband, and I love you.”

I don’t know why it’s so hard for him to wrap his head around this. I mean, Ethan has met every member of my family—even my great aunt Bertha, who is ninety-nine years old, was at our wedding. And I have met nobody from his family. Not even one person.

Is it so wrong to be curious where he came from? After all, he’s going to be the father of my child.

“I don’t want to talk about my parents.” His voice is quiet now, but firm. “It… it brings back bad memories, okay? I want to move forward… with you. I don’t want to look backward.”

“Okay,” I say. “I understand.”