said that?”
“Not in so many words, but she was thinking it.”
Greg put the wine down. “Did you tell her you were feeling down about the whole baby thing?”
“No. Our conversations are an exchange of facts.”
His gaze was steady. “You’re unhappy. That’s a fact.”
“Not those sorts of facts. Everyone else seems able to talk to my mother, but not me.”
Why did it matter? She had Greg. Greg had always been easy to talk to. When people talked about marriage as something that had to be “worked at” she didn’t understand what they meant. She and Greg just were. They fitted like hand in glove or foot in shoe. They didn’t need to work at anything.
They ate dinner at the table in their cozy kitchen while the winter wind lashed at the house and rattled the windows. After they’d finished the meal and cleared up, they curled up on the sofa.
Jenna topped up Greg’s wineglass and he raised an eyebrow.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I’m a wild child, remember? I’m living down to my reputation.” She slid off her shoes, curled her legs under her and moved closer, pressing her body against the solid strength of his.
Unlike her, his body hadn’t changed much in the past decade. Greg believed exercise helped control mood and set an example to the community by spending time in the gym and running on the beach. As a result his body was as good as it had been at eighteen.
She thought about what Andrea had said earlier.
Would her marriage to Greg be different if they’d had other relationships? “Do you ever wish you’d sowed your wild oats?”
“Excuse me?” He shifted so he could look at her. “You want me to become a farmer?”
She laughed and took another sip of wine. “You’re not a morning person. You’d be a terrible farmer.”
“So why the ‘wild oats’ question?”
“No reason. Ignore me. Let’s go to bed.”
He looked at her quizzically. “It’s not the right time of the month for you to get pregnant, is it?”
She felt a flash of guilt, and that guilt was intensified by the knowledge that she’d done those calculations, too. “It’s not the right time for me to get pregnant, but that’s not the only reason to have sex.”
“Isn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that lately that seems to be the only reason you ever want to climb between the sheets with me.” He put his wineglass down and then took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Greg had been the only guy she’d ever kissed if you didn’t count that one session behind the bike sheds with Will Jones, which she didn’t because that had been part of a dare. Sex had changed over time. Being with him didn’t give her the same dizzying thrill she’d had when they’d first gotten together—Take that, Mom. Saint Greg and I had sex before we were married—but in many ways it was better. Familiar. Intimate.
As he deepened the kiss, his other arm came round her waist. She shifted closer to him and felt something hard dig into her hip. “Is that your phone?”
“No, it’s my giant penis and the reason you married me.” He nuzzled her neck but she shoved him away and put her glass down on the table next to his.
“Wait! Greg—why is it in your pocket?”
“My penis?”
“Your phone!”
He sighed. “Because that’s where I always carry my phone. Where else would it be?”
“Anywhere else! You’re supposed to be keeping your testicles cool and your phone out of your pocket. We agreed.”
Greg swore under his breath and released her. “This is crazy, Jenna. You’re obsessed.”
“I’m focused. Focused is good. Focused gets things done.”
“Getting pregnant is all you think about. When was the last time we talked about something not sex or baby related? And I don’t count talking about your mother.”
“Over dinner.” She smiled triumphantly. “We talked about decorating the upstairs bedroom.”
“Because you want to turn it into a nursery, even though you’re not pregnant.”
Oops. “Last week we had a long conversation about politics.”
“And the impact it might have on any children we have.”
That was true.
“It’s possible I might be a little overfocused on pregnancy. It’s what happens when you really want something you can’t have. Like being on a diet. If you can’t eat a chocolate brownie, all you think about is eating the chocolate brownie. You dream about brownies. Brownies become your life. You’re a psychologist. You’re supposed to know this!”
Greg breathed out slowly. “Honey, if you could just—”
“Do not tell me to relax, Greg. And don’t call me ‘honey’ in that tone. It drives me batshit crazy.”
“I know, but Jenna you really do need to relax. If something is taking over your mind, then the answer is to focus on other things. The way to forget the brownie is to think about something else.”
“Cupcakes?”
His expression was both amused and exasperated. “One of my clients is opening a new yoga studio in Oak Bluffs. Maybe you should go. You might find it calming.”
“I might find it annoying.” She thought about the girl in the magazine. “It will be full of serene people with perfect figures who are all in control of their lives. I’d have to kill them, and that wouldn’t be calming for anyone.”
Greg retrieved his wine. “Okay, no yoga. Tai chi? Kickboxing? Book group?”
“My mother runs the book group, and given that the last book I searched for was How Not to Kill Your Mother, I don’t think I’d be welcomed as a member.”
“Go to a different book group. Start your own. Do something. Anything to take your mind off babies.”
“You’re saying you don’t want babies?”
“I’m not saying that.” He finished his wine. “I do want babies, but I don’t think all this angst is going to help.”
She remembered the way he’d looked when she’d glanced out of the window. Thoroughly despondent.
She
