The Break(23)

“Rowan,” Gabe whispers when he comes in.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness of our room. I can make out Lila’s figure in the bassinet, the gentle rise and fall of her stomach. Gabe comes toward the bed with two steaming cups of tea, and as he nears Lila’s bassinet I say, “Careful! Can you see?”

“I’m not going to spill the tea on the baby,” Gabe says, and I get it, I do; I understand why his frustration with me is festering.

“I’m just trying to help,” I say, but he and I both know that’s a lie. I’m not trying to help; I’m doing exactly what he thinks I’m doing, which is trying to make sure he doesn’t spill tea on the baby. I can feel myself turning into something different; someone I don’t recognize.

Gabe swerves around the bassinet and puts the tea down on our bedside table. I think he’s going to be cold with me because I made a big deal about the tea, but he surprises me by getting into our bed and kissing me on the mouth. It takes my breath away, same as any tender kiss on a moonlit night would, and a shiver runs over the skin on my arms. He puts a hand on my chest, lowering me onto the bed with a gentle push. His hand goes to my still-tender stomach, and he carefully avoids the fresh scar. Then he slips his fingers under my pajama pants. There’s a breath when I think I know what he’s going to do, but then I’m all wrong.

“Rowan,” he says, his voice a low, baritone hum in the warm air between us. “I’m worried about you. About us.”

“Me too,” I say into the dark. His hand is back on my stomach, rubbing a small circle near my navel.

“What are we gonna do?” he asks. He sounds like a little boy, and it makes me want to take care of him, something I haven’t felt for him in forever. I push myself up so I’m sitting against the headboard. He does the same, and our bodies are close but not touching. He reaches to grab his tea, takes a sip, and then puts it back on the bedside table. He turns to me and says, “I’m sorry for being a prick.”

I want to tell him he hasn’t been one, but in fact it’s almost the perfect word for what he’s been: an uptight, unfeeling prick. Like I said, we know how to use language.



I suck in a breath and then I say words I know might send us spiraling in a direction I’m not ready to go. “I feel like you don’t love me the way you used to,” I whisper.

The words hang there like Christmas lights, twinkling and dying out when he says nothing. His hands go into my hair and then move to my neck, circling my throat like a promise, something he needs me to understand. My heart is a trapped bird beating against my ribs. How bad is our situation, really? How do I not know what he’s going to say?

“Rowan,” he says, and he leans closer until I can feel his mouth against my collarbone, kissing me. I let out a moan that takes me by surprise, embarrasses me. “You know how I feel,” he says, breath against the skin of my breasts.

“I don’t,” I say, wanting him to contradict what I’ve said. But maybe that’s what he’s trying to do now. He pushes me gently down to the bed and keeps kissing me. I don’t know where this is going—we haven’t even gotten the clearance from my OB to have sex yet, and plus Lila’s sleeping right there in the bassinet. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” I ask against his lips. I need him to argue with me, to fight for me—I know my world through words, not actions.

He stops kissing me, his breath coming fast, the smell of chamomile tea everywhere. “I heard it,” he says. “But how can you believe that could be true?”

I disentangle myself from his arms. “Because everything feels different. And I’m scared you don’t like who I’ve become.” It sounds so juvenile, but I don’t know how else to say it. “I’m scared that this incarnation of me, being a mother, being unwell, that I’m going to lose you to it.”

He lets go of a long breath, his whole body quieting down, like he’s giving up, which isn’t what I want. I wish I had just shut up and kept kissing him.

“This is an impossible situation,” he says, finality in his voice, like he’s just summed it up for us.



“I love you,” I say firmly, but there isn’t any time for him to say it back because my phone rings. I scramble for it, not quite believing I forgot to silence it. It’s that same 518 number I saw in the pediatrician’s office.

“Hello?” I answer. Gabe’s hand is still on my hip, fingers curled over the bone. I want it to stay there.

“Rowan O’Sullivan?” comes a jovial voice on the other end.

“Yes. This is she,” I say.

“This is Art Patricks,” the voice says.

I’m quiet for a moment, certain I don’t know anyone by that name.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I sure hope so,” Art says, his voice a slow drawl. “Certainly would make my life a little easier.” He sounds almost friendly but not quite.

The phone’s dim light catches Gabe’s face, just inches from mine, staring.

“I got your number from June Wallenz’s employer, Louisa Smith,” Art says. “June babysits some evenings for you, yes?”

My pulse goes nuts. He could be a lawyer. Maybe June’s decided to press charges against me?

“We have a babysitter named June,” I say carefully. “But she told us her last name is Waters.”