Anchor Me
Page 9
Damien drags his fingers through his hair, his expression a mix of both compassion and frustration. “Baby, I’m sorry. This town. Your mom. Getting sick. You have every right to feel off.”
“I’m not sick—I mean, come on, Damien, are you even listening to me?” Now it’s my turn to stand. I tell myself I should leave, because everything inside me is churning. I’m touchy and emotional, and I know that no matter what he says, it’s going to be the wrong thing, and that’s never how I feel with Damien. Which means he’s right, of course. This is because of my mom. Because of Dallas.
And because I fainted and then vomited all over the lawn of a perfect stranger.
Just the memory makes me want to curl up and hide. “You put me on display,” I accuse. “Calling an ambulance just for a fainting spell? The whole neighborhood came out to stare.”
“Christ, Nikki. You passed out. I was fucking terrified. I wasn’t concerned with being subtle.”
“You weren’t subtle at all.” I choke a little, then blink furiously to hold back the tears. “What the hell happened to the Damien Stark who holds his private life close to the vest?”
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I meet his gaze, but hug myself, readying for the onslaught of accusations. That I’m overly emotional. That I’m tired. That I’m stressed. That I’m a complete emotional wreck because of this town, and maybe I should think about only competing for contracts that send me to cities that aren’t Dallas. Better yet, that aren’t in Texas.
He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he moves closer. He doesn’t touch me, however, and as we stand there, only inches apart, I realize that I am longing for him to do just that. I want him to enfold me in his arms. I want to cling to him until the world turns right again. Until I turn right again.
But all he does is watch me. Then he says, “This isn’t about fainting. It’s not about being sick.”
“It’s not? Well, then by all means, tell me what it is that’s upset me since you know me so much better than I know myself.”
“It’s about what I said to Caroline. About having kids someday.”
I take an involuntary step backward. Because he’s right. I hadn’t realized it until he said it, but he’s absolutely right. We’ve talked about kids a lot recently. We had the conversation before we got married, of course, and again more recently. And we’ve always been in agreement that we want to wait. That he’s too busy being a master of the universe and I’m working long hours to get my own business off the ground. And on top of all of that, neither of us have good role models for how to be a parent. We’d agreed that we needed time. For ourselves. To get our lives in order. To get my business rolling.
But lately, I can’t help but wonder if the expression of joy I see on Damien’s face when he plays with our niece and nephew doesn’t also have an element of longing. If he regrets waiting and wants to start a family of our own, just like Sylvia and Jackson have.
“Someday,” Damien repeats, apparently following the breadcrumbs of my thoughts. “That’s all I said to Caroline. Not today. Not next week. But someday.” He takes my hands. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
I swallow, wishing I could read his mind as well as he always seems to be able to read mine. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s not private.”
Something hard flashes in his eyes, and for an instant, I think that I’ve pissed him off. But then he curses softly and shakes his head, his expression as warm as I’ve ever seen it. “You’re right,” he says, and I realize it’s not me he’s angry with; it’s himself. “Goddammit, you’re absolutely right. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His apology is like a ladder by which I can climb out of my deep, black hole. “Really.” I draw a breath, realizing I’m no longer itching for a fight. That, somehow, he has smoothed my rough edges. “I just . . . I didn’t expect it. I mean, we don’t know Misty. And even though Ollie’s mom’s like family—”
“I get it,” he says, leading me back to the couch. “You’re right. And I love you. And I’m sorry.”
He sits again, then pulls me down next to him. I sigh, reveling in the easy way his arm goes around me. The comfortable rhythm of being curled up against him. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “You’re right about my mom and all the rest. It put me in a really crappy mood.”
“I’d be surprised if it didn’t. So here’s the question I have for you.” His voice is so serious, I shift in his arms so that I can see his face more clearly. “Comedy or drama, movie or television?”
I shake my head, amused. “Don’t you have to review some spreadsheets before your call about that production facility?” Damien wasn’t planning to work this weekend, but the construction manager of one of his foreign plants called right before we left Los Angeles. There’s some sort of crisis that needs to be dealt with first thing Monday, local time. With the time difference, that means Sunday afternoon in Texas. “And aren’t I supposed to be prepping for my meeting tomorrow?”
“My call’s not for another two hours,” he says. “And if you do any more prep work, your head’s going to explode.” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues on. “Take a break. Chill with your husband. We’ll have a late lunch, and you can spend all evening going over your notes. Sound like a plan?”
“So long as I don’t have to pick what we watch.” I yawn as I snuggle close, certain he’ll choose something amazing because he always does. And, in fact, I enjoy the first hour or so of Audrey Hepburn’s and Cary Grant’s shenanigans in Charade. I can’t speak to the rest of the movie, though, because the next thing I know, I’m prone on the sofa, disoriented as I wake from an unexpected nap.
Damien’s voice drifts back from the bedroom area, and the television is off. I reach for my phone to check the time and notice that Damien’s notes are no longer on the coffee table. Which explains why I hear him talking to someone—he must be on his conference call.
I sit up and stretch, fighting both frustration and worry. It’s far too early for me to be this tired, and yet I’ve been dragging for over a week now. Even before we left LA, it was often all I could do to focus on my computer screen at work, and coding often felt like slogging through a pudding-filled swamp. I would load up on coffee, but I think I’ve finally OD’d on my favorite pick-me-up, because lately even the thought of downing a cup leaves me vaguely queasy.
“I’m not sick—I mean, come on, Damien, are you even listening to me?” Now it’s my turn to stand. I tell myself I should leave, because everything inside me is churning. I’m touchy and emotional, and I know that no matter what he says, it’s going to be the wrong thing, and that’s never how I feel with Damien. Which means he’s right, of course. This is because of my mom. Because of Dallas.
And because I fainted and then vomited all over the lawn of a perfect stranger.
Just the memory makes me want to curl up and hide. “You put me on display,” I accuse. “Calling an ambulance just for a fainting spell? The whole neighborhood came out to stare.”
“Christ, Nikki. You passed out. I was fucking terrified. I wasn’t concerned with being subtle.”
“You weren’t subtle at all.” I choke a little, then blink furiously to hold back the tears. “What the hell happened to the Damien Stark who holds his private life close to the vest?”
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I meet his gaze, but hug myself, readying for the onslaught of accusations. That I’m overly emotional. That I’m tired. That I’m stressed. That I’m a complete emotional wreck because of this town, and maybe I should think about only competing for contracts that send me to cities that aren’t Dallas. Better yet, that aren’t in Texas.
He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he moves closer. He doesn’t touch me, however, and as we stand there, only inches apart, I realize that I am longing for him to do just that. I want him to enfold me in his arms. I want to cling to him until the world turns right again. Until I turn right again.
But all he does is watch me. Then he says, “This isn’t about fainting. It’s not about being sick.”
“It’s not? Well, then by all means, tell me what it is that’s upset me since you know me so much better than I know myself.”
“It’s about what I said to Caroline. About having kids someday.”
I take an involuntary step backward. Because he’s right. I hadn’t realized it until he said it, but he’s absolutely right. We’ve talked about kids a lot recently. We had the conversation before we got married, of course, and again more recently. And we’ve always been in agreement that we want to wait. That he’s too busy being a master of the universe and I’m working long hours to get my own business off the ground. And on top of all of that, neither of us have good role models for how to be a parent. We’d agreed that we needed time. For ourselves. To get our lives in order. To get my business rolling.
But lately, I can’t help but wonder if the expression of joy I see on Damien’s face when he plays with our niece and nephew doesn’t also have an element of longing. If he regrets waiting and wants to start a family of our own, just like Sylvia and Jackson have.
“Someday,” Damien repeats, apparently following the breadcrumbs of my thoughts. “That’s all I said to Caroline. Not today. Not next week. But someday.” He takes my hands. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
I swallow, wishing I could read his mind as well as he always seems to be able to read mine. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s not private.”
Something hard flashes in his eyes, and for an instant, I think that I’ve pissed him off. But then he curses softly and shakes his head, his expression as warm as I’ve ever seen it. “You’re right,” he says, and I realize it’s not me he’s angry with; it’s himself. “Goddammit, you’re absolutely right. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His apology is like a ladder by which I can climb out of my deep, black hole. “Really.” I draw a breath, realizing I’m no longer itching for a fight. That, somehow, he has smoothed my rough edges. “I just . . . I didn’t expect it. I mean, we don’t know Misty. And even though Ollie’s mom’s like family—”
“I get it,” he says, leading me back to the couch. “You’re right. And I love you. And I’m sorry.”
He sits again, then pulls me down next to him. I sigh, reveling in the easy way his arm goes around me. The comfortable rhythm of being curled up against him. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “You’re right about my mom and all the rest. It put me in a really crappy mood.”
“I’d be surprised if it didn’t. So here’s the question I have for you.” His voice is so serious, I shift in his arms so that I can see his face more clearly. “Comedy or drama, movie or television?”
I shake my head, amused. “Don’t you have to review some spreadsheets before your call about that production facility?” Damien wasn’t planning to work this weekend, but the construction manager of one of his foreign plants called right before we left Los Angeles. There’s some sort of crisis that needs to be dealt with first thing Monday, local time. With the time difference, that means Sunday afternoon in Texas. “And aren’t I supposed to be prepping for my meeting tomorrow?”
“My call’s not for another two hours,” he says. “And if you do any more prep work, your head’s going to explode.” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues on. “Take a break. Chill with your husband. We’ll have a late lunch, and you can spend all evening going over your notes. Sound like a plan?”
“So long as I don’t have to pick what we watch.” I yawn as I snuggle close, certain he’ll choose something amazing because he always does. And, in fact, I enjoy the first hour or so of Audrey Hepburn’s and Cary Grant’s shenanigans in Charade. I can’t speak to the rest of the movie, though, because the next thing I know, I’m prone on the sofa, disoriented as I wake from an unexpected nap.
Damien’s voice drifts back from the bedroom area, and the television is off. I reach for my phone to check the time and notice that Damien’s notes are no longer on the coffee table. Which explains why I hear him talking to someone—he must be on his conference call.
I sit up and stretch, fighting both frustration and worry. It’s far too early for me to be this tired, and yet I’ve been dragging for over a week now. Even before we left LA, it was often all I could do to focus on my computer screen at work, and coding often felt like slogging through a pudding-filled swamp. I would load up on coffee, but I think I’ve finally OD’d on my favorite pick-me-up, because lately even the thought of downing a cup leaves me vaguely queasy.
