“Don’t do your buddy like that. Kieran is on top of his shit.”
“Good to hear. From now on, you’ll be responsible for case audits in conjunction with your receptionist duties.”
“I can’t wait to send passive-aggressive emails to the team,” I sang as I logged off the computer.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he remarked.
“How did your talk with the bros go?”
“There was a lot of yelling and speaking over each other, along with too many questions to keep up with. Kieran reiterated several times throughout the call that I was the worst big brother ever and I’d be blocked for the next forty-eight hours.”
I snorted.
Like Grant gives a fuck.
“Casey couldn’t stop whistling the tune to “Sweet Home Alabama,” and Ronan said you’re an asshole because you turned him down years ago and said it was because he felt like a brother to you. You never told me he asked you out.”
I shrugged. “What would that have accomplished?”
“Nothing, I guess. How did your talk with the sisters go?”
“I’m not blocked,” I answered.
“Fair enough. Are you done here?”
“I am.”
“Good. We need to have that talk. I deserve to know why you left me.”
This will go one of two ways: Grant will forgive me for being an idiot, or I’ll find myself divorced and back at our parents’.
* * *
We sat together on the porch swing, and Grant remained silent, staring at me with imploring green eyes, begging me to makethis right as I gathered the courage to be honest after all these years.
Ripping the band-aid off always seems like the way to go.
“I had a miscarriage while on my trip.”
I paused and waited for Grant to digest what I’d revealed. I peeked at him a few times and was slightly unnerved by his lack of reaction. I swallowed around the lump that had formed in my throat and forced myself to continue.
“We’d been partying and having a good time, and one night, I stayed behind because I wasn’t feeling well. I thought that maybe I was still coming down from my hangover and told myself I would drink some water and sleep it off until the next day. I woke up in the middle of the night with the worst cramps I’d ever experienced. I started bleeding heavily, and I eventually put two and two together when I realized my period had been late. I went to the hospital, and the doctor confirmed the miscarriage.
“My first thought was to call you, but then… I didn’t. I felt that it was my fault. I asked the doctor if the partying was what caused it, and she immediately gave me that ‘Bless your heart’ look and a sympathetic pat on the leg. She told me that she couldn’t say for sure, but drugs and alcohol didn’t help.
“I returned to the hotel and packed my shit while my friends were passed the hell out. I left a note saying that I was homesick and going home, but I never made it home. I wanted to tell you, but my guilt and shame overrode my common sense.”
I wiped away a tear before continuing.
“I sent you that text and said we’d made a mistake by getting married, and I took off. I spent years dodging accountability by convincing myself that I couldn’t tell you because you had a track record of not handling loss and grief well. You were about to start your final year of law school, and I didn’t want to mess that up for you. It was a true enough statement, but the bigger issuewas not trusting you with your emotions or mine and not taking responsibility.
“I stayed away all these years because I couldn’t face you, and I hated being home for family events. Everyone was so fucking happy while I was dying inside, thinking that if I hadn’t fucked up, our kid would be there at the Thanksgiving table or opening an endless amount of presents on Christmas morning. Eventually, I sought out therapy, and while it helped with the guilt somewhat, it didn’t magically resolve my issues. I had to put the work in, and that had to start with me coming clean. So… that’s what happened. I more than likely caused the miscarriage by being reckless, and I was a coward and ran away… I’m sorry.”
Finally, it was out, and that burden I’d been carrying for seven years seemed to dissipate like smoke in the wind. However, that oh-so brief moment of peace was hauled away when I noticed Grant’s hardened stare. If looks could kill, I’d be vaporized into ashes. I reached for his hand and chastised myself for feeling so emotional when he pulled away from me. I was gripped with fear—fear that everything would play out exactly how I thought it would—he’d never forgive me and would despise me more than ever. There were too many lies told and too much time lost, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it because his feelings were valid. I knew about the miscarriage for seven years—over 2,500 days; it was Day One for him.
His voice was strained when he finally said, “I… I need some time,” before leaving me on the porch swing and taking my confession with him.
This is what they mean when they say, “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”