Better, she thought. Because there was always a new first kiss. At least for them. Once you got married, the odds of a new first kiss were slim. So was the chance of a new first anything. Though she wouldn’t share that with her readers. They were young and hopeful and why depress them?
She paused to sip her tea. Not that she wasn’t happily married, she thought. Kevin was great, and she loved their life. She lived six minutes from the Pacific Ocean, in Mischief Bay—an eclectic Southern California beach town. She had her work and her friends and—
“Stop it,” Averil said aloud, then slammed her laptop shut and stood. She crossed to the window and stared out at the view of the side yard. It consisted of little more than the neighbor’s fence and the recycling bin, but was apparently more fascinating than her work.
She couldn’t focus, she thought grimly. Couldn’t write. Whatever was causing this was happening more and more. In the past few months, she’d turned in every article closer to deadline. Her boss hadn’t said anything, but Averil knew she would eventually. Digital content had to be produced regularly, and if Averil didn’t step it up, there were a hundred younger hopefuls ready to take her place. The print version of the magazine only came out once a month, but the online presence needed daily updates.
She walked to the battered armchair in the corner and dropped onto the mashed cushion. Maybe she should go see her doctor. Vitamins might help. Or hypnosis. Lately nothing had felt right. She was restless and couldn’t say why. Uneasy without a cause.
She glanced outside again. Maybe a run would bring her out of her funk. She’d already exercised that morning, but a run on the beach might clear her head. Or she could go to the mall and—
“Averil?”
She looked up and saw Kevin standing in the doorway to her small office. After dinner she’d excused herself, saying she had to work. Something she was doing more and more, she thought. Disappearing to her private space, only to realize she still couldn’t focus, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything.
Now she saw there was a tightness to his face. She came to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“I decided to sharpen the knives in the kitchen.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand where a fresh bandage covered his middle finger. “Is it deep?”
“No. It’s fine. But while I was looking for a bandage, I found something else.” He stepped more fully into her office and held up a small, round, plastic container. “We’d agreed to start trying for a baby, Averil. Why are you still taking birth control pills?”
Averil felt instant heat on her cheeks as she instinctively looked for a place to hide. Or a way to escape. As Kevin stood between her and the door and she wasn’t willing to try leaping out the window, she was trapped.
“It’s not what you think,” she said loudly, even as she knew it was. “Having a baby is a big decision. You can’t expect me to get pregnant just like that. It’s not fair or reasonable.”
She tried to stop the words, knowing they could come back to bite her in the butt later. Because Kevin was nothing if not fair. They had talked...endlessly. For weeks and weeks. They’d made lists of the pros and cons and had mutually agreed it was time to start their family. Only she couldn’t seem to stop taking the pills. Every morning she told herself she was ready, and every morning, she carefully swallowed the next tiny pill.
“You’re still on birth control.”
He made the words a statement, but she nodded anyway. She braced herself for the fight, but instead of saying anything, he turned and left.
Averil stood in her office, trying to steady her breathing, wondering what would happen now. Finally she went down the short hallway and into the other spare bedroom. The one he used as his office.
He sat at his desk, the disk of pills next to his keyboard. He wasn’t typing, but he didn’t look up at her, either.
She’d met Kevin six years ago. She’d been in her senior year of college. A journalism major, sent to report on a street fair in Mischief Bay. Not her usual assignment. Averil had been the go-to reporter for her college newspaper, accustomed to hard-hitting stories on criminals or cover-ups. But one of the junior reporters had flaked out, and she’d agreed to fill in.
She was just pretty enough to be used to a lot of male attention. Tall and blonde, which made her practically an indigenous species on a California beach. She’d been taking notes and shooting pictures, when a guy had approached her.
He’d been kind of cute, about her height, skinny, with the intense look of someone with more intelligence than the average man-on-the-street. He’d held out her camera bag and said, You left this on the bench back there.
She’d smiled and thanked him, then had playfully asked, Are you going to hit on me now?
He’d shaken his head. No, but I will tell you that you shouldn’t use autofocus in this setting. It’s letting in too much light, and you’ll lose contrast in the scene.
An unusual response. She’d studied him more closely, taking in the gold flecks in his brown eyes and shape of his mouth. He’d lacked the deep tan of a surfer—no surprise there. Engineer, she thought. Or computer science major.
You do like girls, right? she’d asked.
He’d smiled at her, then. A slow, sexy smile that had made her toes curl in her Keds and caused the noise around them to fade into the background.
I’ll take the pictures, he’d said, reaching for the camera. You make your notes.
I’m writing an article for The Daily Bruin. She paused. That’s the paper at UCLA.
I know what it is.
You’re out of college?
Yup. Just got a job at a software company here in Mischief Bay. He’d slipped the strap around his neck and started making adjustments on the camera. I went to MIT.
Smart, great smile and he had a job. Things were looking up. I’m Averil, she’d said.
Kevin.
He hadn’t hit on her, but he had asked her out. It had been three dates before he’d kissed her and nearly four months before they’d had sex. The day after she’d graduated, he’d proposed. She’d said yes to him and a full-time job at California Girl magazine.
“About the pills,” she said, stepping into his office.
“You said you were ready. You said you wanted to have kids. Have you changed your mind?”
“No. It’s just...” She took a step forward. “There’s a lot going on.”
“What’s going on now that isn’t going on all the time? We’re settled in the house, we have money in the bank. You have your job and your novel. What are you waiting for?”
She wished he hadn’t mentioned the novel. The one she was supposed to be writing. The one that was little more than a few notes and a hundred and forty-seven false starts. Saying you were going to write a novel was easy. Actually writing it—not so much.
“I’m feeling pressured,” she said,
