Page 14 of You Met Me There

It’s been less than forty-eight hours since Natalie left, and I’ve been a train wreck the entire time. I’ve had calls from property managers looking for advice on a few home repairs, but with each conversation I have, I can only think of Nat and how I let her go. I freaking let. Her. Go.

I could punch myself in the face for that.

We’ve wanted different things for a long time, but I never thought this is what would become of our marriage. But I should have seen the signs. Since waking up yesterday, I’ve thought a lot about what those signs may have been. What did she say or do that might have hinted at her leaving? What made her want to leave now?

Was it the way she watched children on the beach with a forlorn smile on her face that should have told me she was dreaming of a life as a mother? Was it the way her face lit up when she babysat Emma’s daughter—how her voice softened, her eyes grew three sizes, and her laughs were louder? How she jumped to spend any extra minute with Ceecee that she could get?

Or was it the way she actually asked me every year on her birthday if I could get her pregnant as her big gift? I thought she was playing around the first couple times, but I knew deep down she was truly desperate to become a mom. I just didn’t want to acknowledge that I couldn’t give her what she wanted.

Instead, I smiled and told her we had each other. I told her all the ways in which we were free by not having kids. I told her we didn’t need anyone else to be happy if we had us. I told her I was terrified of committing to raise someone in a dangerous world such as ours.

But all of that only placated her for so long. She clearly had a breaking point.

I, on the other hand, have never been tempted to want to be a father. It isn’t that I don’t like kids—I do. I’ve gotten used to having Ceecee at our house, and I’ve become a little attached to her. But having one of my own is other-level scary. You go to the hospital, the baby is born, and they test you on your knowledge of installing a car seat and watch you drive off, baby on board?

No way. That’s not for me. It’s too much responsibility. What if the car flips or dives off a bridge?

And then there are the things I went through with my mom, things I’ve never told Natalie about. I know I should have—maybe I could have prevented her leaving—but the things I dealt with as a kid aren’t things I ever talk about. Mom and Dad don’t know the cost I’ve paid for Mom’s years of depression.

I shake my head, wishing I didn’t have all these fears around fatherhood. Empty, lost, and wanting Nat back, I’m almost ready to throw caution to the wind and give in to her baby demand just to have her with me.

But will that really fix all our problems? Superficially, yes. But deep down? No, not at all.

My phone rings. Maybe it’s Natalie. Hoping it’s her, my heart skips a beat as I lift my phone to see a call from my property manager in Atlanta. Sweat drips over my eyebrows and down my nose, falling onto my bare chest.

Florida is hot this time of year, and it will only grow hotter as the summer progresses. I slow to a walk and answer it on my cordless earbuds.

“Hey, Gray,” I say. “What’s going on?”

His raspy smoker voice sounds worse each time I hear it. “Hey, Luke. Is now a good time?”

No.

“It’s fine. What’s up? Is everything okay with the water furnace?”

“No, not really,” he says, sounding impatient. “It never showed up.”

I wipe sweat from my brow, wishing I’d worn my sunglasses. Sunlight bounces off every passing car, piercing my eyes.

“What do you mean it never showed up?”

“I mean, the guys never delivered it, never showed up to install it, nothing. Are you sure you had the right day?”

I thought I did. With everything that happened with Natalie the past couple days, I’ve been in a haze of sorts. I’ve been answering phone call after phone call without really knowing what any of them are about. I’ve talked with my hired guys, heating and air companies, my dad—who’s also my business partner—and every conversation is a blur by the end of it. It’s possible I wrote down the wrong date.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I rub sweat from my eye and tension from my neck as I walk steadily in the direction of my house. A seagull watches me from a metal bench. “I thought they said today.”

“I’ve been waiting here for two hours,” says Gray. “Do you want me to stay a little longer?”

Gray is a thirty-five-year-old man that my dad hired to manage the rental homes we own in the Atlanta area. We have houses all over the country, but of all the property managers we have, Gray is the absolute worst. He calls about the smallest things, unable to piece together puzzles enough to troubleshoot problems himself.

As a property manager who gets paid well above what his work ethic should allow, he should be calling the heating company himself. And I have no trouble telling him so.

“Gray, you need to call the heating company.”

“And ask them what?” he says with the tone of a thirteen-year-old who just got told he can’t play video games until his room’s clean.

“You need to ask them what day the water heater replacement is scheduled for,” I reply gruffly. I don’t have time or the brain power to deal with this right now.