His expression remains calm and steady as he assures me, “Then we’ll get through that.”
Normally, I appreciate how great he’s been through all of this—I mean, just unbelievably patient and encouraging with me. But today, his lack of fear about our future rankles me. “And how about babies? How are we supposed to make them if you refuse to have penetrative sex with me.”
He removes his hand from my back to rub it over his face. “Steph…”
“I hate to be that nagging wife, but I’m not getting any younger,” I point out. “My mom had trouble conceiving after me, and I don’t want to miss my window.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he says like a general who gets to decide who’s having babies and who’s not. “Your last workup from your OB said you don’t have anything to worry about in that regard. And things have come a lot further since your mom had you. We have time.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to waste any more of it!” I burst out. I know I’m acting like a whiny brat, but… “I want to have sex—real sex, like we had at our old house last weekend—with you. I want to have babies with you. You’re my husband, and I want to move forward with the life we had planned before the accident.”
He stands and grabs the copper watch I got him for our seventh anniversary off the top of the dresser drawer where he keeps it. It’s not nearly as stylish—or expensive—as the black-on-black square ceramic Hublot he favored before he received my gift, but he’s been wearing it every day since.
As he fastens the timepiece around his wrist, his voice goes terse, like it always does when I bring up this subject and refuse to drop it. “I’m sorry. I know this is frustrating. But the cabin was a mistake—”
“Oh, great!” I jump out of the bed and start gathering my own things for work. “I’m glad the only time you decided not to treat me like an invalid was a mistake. What are we going to do if I don’t get my next period, then? Are you going to make me get an abortion because you don’t think I’m capable of mothering a child?”
He stills. We both do.
The devastated look on his face lets me know I’ve crossed a line, and all the anger deflates out of me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize to me.” He closes the distance between us and picks my wedding ring hand up, clasping it to his chest with one hand while the other wraps around the back of my neck to bring me close.
“I love you. I love you more than my own life. You are mon coeur, my heart, and I vowed when I put that ring on your finger to spend my life making you happy. For the record, I enjoyed our time at the bayou house too.”
He kisses me…with so much passion, it spins my head. But then he says, “We’ve been over this, though. You need to remember before we do anything permanent. And I shouldn’t have lost control like that at the bayou house.”
“I loved you losing control. It was explosive, and I can’t stop thinking about it.” I shake my head. “And isn’t this hard for you too? I mean, it’s been a whole year. How can you stand to wait for a milestone that might never happen? The doctors say there’s a chance the damage to my mind is permanent.”
“Stephanie Fairgood, believe you me this.” He squeezes his hand around mine. And the Southern accent he is trying so hard to kick comes back strong as he says, “I would wait a thousand years if that’s what it took. I just want to be with you. I don’t care about nothing else.”
Like I said, he’s the most wonderful husband in the world. I take my hand back, but only so I can wrap both of my arms around him.
I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be married to Swamp Boy, the guy I fell for at first sight at the tender age of sixteen. Not going to lie, it’s been difficult cramming in my last two years of units at Ohio University around my full-time job at the Amy Fairgood Foundation. But dropping out of Tulane to marry Galen is one decision I’ll never regret.
We have a loving marriage. A beautiful house. And he’s right. We’ll make it to starting a family. I just have to be patient.
“I love you too,” I whisper into his lips. Because in the end, that’s all that matters.
We kiss and nuzzle noses like the lovebirds we still are, and I hop in the shower, once again resolved to be a better wife to him. As patient and loving with him as he is with me.
And, as it turns out, I shouldn’t have been so hard on Galen for bouncing to the shower so soon after making me come. I’d managed to score a morning meet and greet with Melinka Hale, the Managing Director of Corporate Responsibility at Weiss Fox Beer. But that argument with Galen cost me valuable time I should have spent reviewing my argument for why our “2050 Tiny Houses by 2050” housing initiative would be a great partnering match for their Environmental Sustainability program.
I’m hoping maybe she’ll show up late, but no such luck. The petite light-skinned Black woman is already waiting at one of the outside courtyard tables for me when I arrive at 9 am on the dot at the business hotel in Columbus where she’s staying.
“Hi!” I say, trying not to look or sound as flustered as I am.
I should have factored in that we might sit outside. Northerners are way more excited about dead-of-summer al fresco dining than Louisianans. The sun is already beating down, so I have to take off my lucky cardigan, which leaves me in just a silk spaghetti-strap tank top. Not exactly the best meeting attire.
“Just give me a second to stow this,” I say, my voice full of apology as I stuff it in my large tote purse before sitting down.
“Oh, wow, you got rid of the tattoo,” Melinka says when I finally settle in my seat.
“What tattoo?” I ask.
She looks at me quizzically, then says, “Oh, I totally get it, girl. We’ve all done things that we’d rather forget. And not a lot of guys look like Galen Fairgood. Don’t tell Lukas, but…”
