Pose

Chapter Twenty Eight: Pain, Guilt, and Pure Love

"It is better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be." - Bridget Bardot

(Corrine’s point of view)

     There was nothing left except for life to run its course. Or at least that’s what I thought. It was time to move on from all things Nathan and into all things I actually could pursue—a healthy marriage, for example. Something, that over the previous three weeks, I learned I was hellishly bad at. I had no clue how to pull it all together, none at all, so I just tried. I tried to be a better wife, and it may have been working because as the days passed, Jason was practically glowing in my presence. Or maybe it just looked like he was, again; I have no clue.

     His newfound happiness alone satisfied me enough until one night after work, while I was reading a book on the living room couch, Jason walked in and drooped his things on the nearby armchair and then began pacing around the couch.

     Without looking up from the book I asked, “What’s wrong?”

    He continued pacing and paid me no attention. Assuming that he wasn’t going to respond, I allowed myself to get distracted by the book. Abruptly he stopped in front of me and blurted, “Do you want kids?”

     The book, no longer interesting, fell aside as my hand and jaw went slack. I opened and shut my mouth a few times, trying to find my voice. It too must’ve gone into shock. Eventually, I managed a nod.

     I watched as the only move he made was the twirling of his wedding ring around his ring finger. I glanced at the front door and wondered if I’d make it out of the building before he said another word. “Good, so do I,” he finally said, halting my escape plan in its tracks.

     I swallowed. “Yeah, that’s good, I think.” My eyes didn’t stray from his hand, the only sign on his nervousness. Licking my lips I whispered, “Please don’t do it.”

     His fingers stilled. “Do what?”

     I let my eyes stray to his face, which was carefully blank. Uncomfortable with the height difference while I was sitting, I stood, assuming I could communicate better with a tiny bit over half a foot between us. “Don’t tell me that you want kids now, that you’re ready.” Guilt gnawed at the edges of my being. Just like there was a time that I would’ve sold a limb to hear him say he was in love with me, there was a time I would daydream about a house full of children. I’d imagine them grey-eyed redheads, or hazel eyed brunettes, or a combination of the two. I’d always pray they got Jason’s skin, clear and flawless. After years of acne and many different types of treatment, my skin was faintly flawed in places, like my cheeks, my chest and back. Jason’s skin never suffered a zit. Ever. However, now, it just wasn’t there. My desire to have any had disappeared. In fact, I was once again terrified at the thought of having them. Not in the way every person was afraid to be a parent. This was something much worse.

     I closed my eyes and swallowed again when he took my hand in his. “And why not?”

     “Because I’d have to tell you that I’m not ready. I’m not ready to have a third person to worry about.”

     “That’s the thing; there isn’t much to worry about.” My eyes snapped open. He shrugged. “We’re doing well financially. We both have stable jobs. And we’re working out—“

     “We are, but—“will it last?—“I’m just not ready.”

     I expected more of an argument, but he merely kissed me and said, “Okay.”

     That’s it? No overly logical explanation on why he disagrees with me—which he clearly does?

….