The Life Intended
by Kristin Harmel
Sliding Doors meets P.S. I Love You in this richly told novel from the author of The Sweetness of Forgetting about the struggle to overcome the past when our memories refuse to be forgotten.
After her husband's sudden death over ten years ago, Kate Waithman never expected to be lucky enough to find another love of her life. But now she's planning her second walk down the aisle to a perfectly nice man. So why isn't she more excited?
At first, Kate blames her lack of sleep on stress. But when she starts seeing Patrick, her late husband, in her dreams, she begins to wonder if she's really ready to move on. Is Patrick trying to tell her something? Attempting to navigate between dreams and reality, Kate must uncover her husband's hidden message. Her quest leads her to a sign language class and into the New York City foster system, where she finds rewards greater than she could have imagined.
Publisher: Gallery BooksReleased: Dec 30, 2014ISBN: 9781476754178Format: book
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The Life Intended - Kristin Harmel
It was 11:04 when Patrick walked through the door that final night almost a dozen years ago.
I remember the numbers glowing red and angry on the digital clock by our bed, the sound of his key turning in the lock. I remember his sheepish expression, the way his five o'clock shadow had bloomed into an almost-beard, the way his shirt looked rumpled as he stood in the doorway. I remember the way he said my name, Kate, like it was an apology and a greeting all in one.
I'd been listening to Sister Hazel's Fortress, my favorite album at the time, as I waited for him to come home. Champagne High, the fourth track on the CD, was playing, and just before he walked in, I was mouthing the lyrics, thinking to myself how the million hours that we were was such a poetic way to describe a life together.
Patrick and I were just four months into our marriage, and I couldn't imagine a day when we'd no longer be with each other. I was twenty-eight then, Patrick twenty-nine, and the years seemed to stretch before us into an endless horizon. I remember reflecting that a million hours—just over a hundred years—didn't sound like enough time.
But as it turned out, our hours together were almost up. The number that defined us in the end was only fifteen thousand and nine.
That was the number of hours that had passed since we'd met at a New Year's Eve party on the last night of 2000, the number of hours we'd spent knowing we'd found our soul mates, the number of hours we'd spent thinking we had it all. But fifteen thousand and nine isn't even close to a million.
Honey, I am so, so sorry. Patrick was all apologies as he fumbled his way into the bedroom, where I sat on top of our comforter, knees pulled up to my chest, checking my watch pointedly. The relief that he was home safely was being quickly supplanted by annoyance for making me worry.
You didn't call. I knew I sounded petulant, but I didn't care. We had made each other a promise the year before, after my uncle had been killed in a hunting accident, that we'd always make an effort to let each other know when we were going to be late. My aunt had been blissfully unaware of her husband's death for nearly twenty hours, which had horrified Patrick and me.
I just got caught up in something, Patrick said, averting his gaze. His thick black hair was mussed and his green eyes were full of concern when he finally looked back at me.
I glanced at the phone on our bedside table, the phone that had been silent all night. You were stuck at the office? I asked. It wouldn't have been the first time. Patrick was a risk management consultant for a firm in Midtown. He was young, hungry, one of those people who would always pitch in if there was extra work to be done. I loved that about him.
No, Katielee, he said, using the affectionate nickname he'd been calling me since the night we met, when he'd mistaken my maiden name, Kate Beale, as I shouted it above the din of the crowd. My beautiful Katielee, he murmured as he crossed the room and sat down beside me on the bed. The back of his right hand grazed my left thigh, and I slowly unfolded my legs, melting into him. He inched toward me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. He smelled like cologne and smoke. I was with Candice, he said into my hair. She had something important she needed to tell me.
I pulled away from him and scrambled out of bed. "Candice? You were with Candice? Until eleven?"
Candice Belazar was the girl he'd dated just before me, a bartender at a smoky dive in Midtown. It had been a short-term fling and they'd broken up two months before we met, but she'd been a thorn in my side as long as I'd known him. It was just a physical thing, he'd tried to explain the first time he told me about her. I was in a rut, and she was there. I got out of it as soon as I realized how wrong we were for each other. But that hadn't been much comfort.
We'd run into Candice once at a restaurant in Little Italy, and having a face to put with the name only made things worse. She was several inches taller than me, with huge, obviously fake breasts, stringy bleached blond hair, and hollow eyes. She had smirked as she looked me up and down, and I'd heard her stage-whisper to her friend that Patrick apparently couldn't handle a real woman anymore.
Kate, honey, nothing happened, Patrick said quickly, reaching for me. I would never do anything to hurt you.
Then why didn't you call?
I'm so sorry. He raked his fingers through his hair. There's no excuse. But I would never, ever cheat on you. Ever. You know that. His voice caught at the end of his sentence, but his eyes were as guileless as ever. I felt my shoulders relax a little as some of my indignation rolled away.
Whatever, I huffed, because I couldn't think of a better response. I knew he was telling the truth, but the thought of waiting at home while he sat in a bar with his ex-girlfriend still stung. I wasn't going to tell him it was okay, because it wasn't.
I'm totally wrong here, he said, spreading his palms in a mea culpa. But it was a heavy conversation, and I didn't feel like I could walk away to make a phone call.
Yes, heaven forbid you offend Candice, I muttered.
Kate . . . Patrick's voice trailed off.
I'm going to bed. I knew I was supposed to soften, to tell him it was all right. But I couldn't bring myself to.
Don't you want to talk about this? he asked.
Patrick sighed. Kate, I'll explain everything tomorrow.
I rolled my eyes, stormed into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind me. I blinked at my reflection in the mirror, wondering how, nearly two years after they'd broken up, Candice still managed to hold some kind of power over my husband.
But as I climbed into bed ten minutes later, I could feel myself thawing a little. After all, Patrick had told me right away where he'd been. I knew he was being honest. And besides, he'd chosen me, and deep down, I knew that he would choose me every day for the rest of our lives. As I pulled the sheets over me, my anger receded in slow, steady waves.
I was already half asleep when Patrick came to bed. I turned away from him, facing the wall, and after a moment, I felt his arms encircle me. He moved closer, pressing into my back, entwining his legs with mine.
I thought for a moment about pulling away, but it was Patrick, my Patrick. He would tell me in the morning what had happened, and I would understand. So after a pause, I relaxed into his warmth.
You know I'd never hurt you, Katielee, he whispered. Ever. In a million years. Nothing happened.
I closed my eyes and breathed in. I know.
Patrick kissed the hollow beneath my left ear, sending a shiver up my spine. I knew before I met you— he murmured, just as I began to drift off to sleep.
I smiled. —that I was meant to be yours, I replied. It was the way we always said I love you, our own special language.
I knew I'd feel that way for the rest of our lives.
Sunlight streamed into the bedroom along with the scents of coffee and bacon when I awoke the next morning. I blinked and rolled over to look at the clock. It was 6:47, and Patrick was already up, making me breakfast. I knew it was his version of an apology, but in truth, he was already forgiven.
Morning, I said, covering a yawn as I walked into the kitchen a few minutes later. Patrick turned around holding a spatula, and I began to laugh. He was wearing a yellow KISS THE CHEF apron over his I LOVE NY boxers and white T-shirt. His feet were bare, his hair sleep tousled.
"Le chef eez at your service, he said in an exaggerated French accent, which made me laugh again. Sit, sit, he said, gesturing toward our tiny kitchen table with his spatula. Breakfast is served, madame."
He set two plates of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast with strawberry jam on the table with a flourish. A moment later, he returned with two steaming cups of coffee, already lightened with cream and sugar, and sat down beside me.
You didn't have to cook, honey, I said with a smile.
"Mais oui. He kissed me on the cheek. Nothing but the best for my girl."
I took a bite of my eggs and looked up to see him watching me, his gaze intense. What? I asked, my mouth still full.
There's no excuse for me not calling last night, he said, his words tumbling out. I feel terrible. I didn't mean to make you worry.
I take a sip of my coffee, then I draw a deep breath. It's okay, I said.
Relief spread across his features like a sunrise. You forgive me?
I know I overreacted.
No, you didn't, he said quickly. He took a bite of his bacon, and I watch his strong jaw work as he chewed. Look, there's something I'd really like to talk to you about, he said. He blinked a few times, and his expression made me suddenly uneasy. He seemed almost nervous. Can I take you to dinner tonight? The restaurant at the Sherry-Netherland, maybe? I know you love that place.
I smiled. Sounds great.
Aren't you forgetting something? Patrick asked a moment later, as I crunched on a piece of bacon.
I looked up. What?
He pulled his apron taut and turned to face me. It says Kiss the Chef. He smiled at me, and when I met his eye, he winked. And it's only polite to follow apron instructions.
I laughed. Is that right?
It's one of the laws of kitchenocracies around the world.
Kitchenocracies?
Of course. Sovereign kitchen nations. Like this one.
I see, I said quite solemnly. Well, I don't want to violate any laws, sir.
It's probably in your best interest to just follow along, then. He smiled at me, stood, and held out his arms.
I laughed and got up. He bent his head, I stood on tiptoe, and our lips met.
Good enough? I whispered after a moment as he wrapped his arms around me, folding me in.
Not even close, he murmured back. Then he was kissing me again, parting my lips gently with his tongue.
We made love that morning, quickly, urgently, drinking each other in. Then I cleaned up our breakfast dishes while he showered and dressed for work.
Looking good! I marveled with a whistle as he reemerged into the kitchen with freshly washed hair, charcoal pants, a crisp blue shirt, and a striped gray tie.
I didn't think the apron and boxers would cut it at the big meeting I have this morning, he said, "although—and I don't want to brag here—I do have some seriously sexy legs."
I laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye. Good luck with the clients.
Who needs luck? he asked with a crooked, dimpled smile. I have the greatest wife in the world. Life is good.
Life is good, I agreed. I kissed him again, and this time, it was Patrick who pulled away too soon.
When I opened my eyes, he was holding up a silver dollar from his grandfather's old collection. Listen, would you hang on to this for me until tonight? he asked.
I took it with a nod. What's this one for? Patrick had a tradition of tossing a silver dollar somewhere nearby whenever something good happened to him. You have to pass the good luck on, he always used to say. That way, someone else gets to make a wish. We'd thrown a silver dollar into Central Park the day I'd gotten into graduate school, another into the fountain outside City Hall when Patrick got a big promotion last year, and a third into the ocean near his parents' house on Long Island after we got married in the spring. Must be something big, I added.
It is, he promised. You'll see. I'll tell you at dinner. We can throw it into the Pulitzer Fountain after we eat. And Katielee?
He stood in the doorway and stared at me for a long moment. I knew before I met you— he finally said, his voice soft.
My heart fluttered. —that I was meant to be yours.
The door closed behind him at 7:48 a.m.
I never saw him again.
I was out for my morning run when it happened. While I was jogging north along the Hudson River greenway, marveling at how bright and clear the sky looked after a few days of rain, a thirty-seven-year-old woman named Gennifer Barwin, a tourist from Alabama, was finishing off the bottle of vodka she'd started drinking at three in the morning after a fight with her boyfriend. While I was mentally replaying a lecture I'd heard the day before in the music therapy graduate program I'm just started at NYU, she was strapping her seventeen-month-old daughter Lianna into a car seat in her 1997 Toyota Corolla. While I was thinking how lucky I was that Patrick had encouraged me to quit my banking job to pursue the career I'd always wanted, she was pulling out of the parking lot of Hoboken's Starlite Motel.
You have to do what your heart tells you to do. Patrick's words of encouragement rang in my ears as my feet pounded the pavement. Life's too short not to follow your dreams, Kate. As I looked up at the sky that morning, reflecting on how wonderfully supportive my husband was, Gennifer Barwin was swerving through the Lincoln Tunnel, headed for Manhattan. As I turned south to head home, she was taking the exit for West Fortieth Street, sideswiping a sign after she got off the highway.
And as I smiled to myself, wondering what piece of good luck had made Patrick hand me a silver dollar that morning, Gennifer Barwin was driving at 47 mph directly into the back passenger-side door of the taxi my husband was riding in.
Thirty minutes later, I rounded the corner to our fifth-floor apartment, still breathing hard from my run, and found two uniformed police officers standing outside my front door.
Mrs. Waithman? asked the younger one. I'm not sure whether it was his eyes full of sympathy, his somber expression, or the way he said my name, but in an instant, I knew something was terribly wrong.
What happened? I asked, my knees buckling beneath me. The young officer caught me before I could hit the ground.
Ma'am, we're very sorry, but your husband was involved in a serious car accident this morning, he said, his voice flat. He was in a cab, ma'am. Near Times Square.
No, that can't be right, I protested, looking back and forth between the officers. Their faces were suddenly blurry. He's at work. He takes the subway to work. But he had that meeting, I realized immediately, the one with some of his most important clients. He would have taken a taxi from his office to theirs. "Oh God."
Ma'am—?
You're sure it's him? I choked out.
Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid so.
But he's okay, right? I asked into the strangely heavy silence. Of course he's okay?
Mrs. Waithman— the younger one began uncertainly.
Where is he? I cut him off, glancing at the older officer, who reminded me of my dad, someone who would surely make everything okay. Which hospital? Can you take me? I have to help him.
From the thin slice of stillness that lingered between them, the way neither of them made a move, I knew before they said the words.
Ma'am. The older one finally spoke, his eyes watery. I'm afraid your husband was pronounced dead at the scene.
No. Absolutely not. My reply was instant, for the very concept was impossible. No more than two hours earlier, Patrick and I had made love. He'd held me in his arms. He'd kissed me good-bye, just like any other day. He'd been warm and alive and mine. That can't be right, I mumbled. Of course it can't. There's been some kind of mistake.
Ma'am, I'm afraid it's true, the younger officer said, reaching out again and catching my other elbow so that I was suspended between the two men. I hadn't even noticed that I was falling. Is there someone we can call for you? he asked gently.
Patrick, I answered irrationally. Patrick's my emergency contact. It had never occurred to me that he could be the emergency. I let them help me inside the apartment, where they placed me gently on the couch. I handed them my cell phone, and somehow, they must have managed to find my sister Susan's number, because my daze was interrupted some thirty minutes later by her flying through my front door, her hair a mess.
I got here as soon as I could, she said, but all I could do was nod. It wasn't until I noticed the tears streaked across her face that I realized I hadn't cried yet. Mom and Dad are out of town, but Gina's on her way.
Oh, I managed.
Kate, she said softly, sitting down beside me on the couch. Are you okay? What can I do?
I just stared at her blankly. It was like she was speaking a different language. I knew that I'd have to call Patrick's parents, reach his friends, arrange a funeral, and do all those things you're supposed to do when someone dies. But the thing is, I wasn't ready to admit he was gone yet. As long as I sat there on the couch, the couch where we'd spent hundreds of hours together, believing in our future, I could convince myself that the world hadn't ended.
My best friend, Gina, who'd lost her husband a year earlier in the September eleventh attacks, arrived some time later, and the two of them stayed with me, rubbing my back in silence, until long after the time Patrick should have come home from work. I watched the door for hours, hoping beyond hope that he'd walk through it, that it would all be a crazy mistake.
But it wasn't. And as the clock turned to midnight and September nineteenth became the first day of my life that Patrick wasn't on this earth with me, I finally began to cry.
Twelve Years Later
Raise your hands up high! I sing brightly, strumming my guitar as I smile at Max, my favorite client.
Kick your feet up too, I continue. Now twirl 'round and 'round! Bend down and touch your—
—shoe! Max cries.
Good job, Max! I'm making it up as I go, and Max, who has autism, is giggling madly, but he's playing along. In the corner of my office, his mother, Joya, laughs as Max straightens up from his toe touch and begins to jump up and down.
More, Miss Kate! Max begs. More, more!
Okay, I tell him solemnly. But this time, you have to sing along. Can you do that?
Yeah! he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air with joyful abandon.
Promise? I ask.
Yeah! His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself laughing again.
Okay, Max, I say slowly. Sing with me, okay?
I've been in private practice as a music therapist for five years now, specializing in kids with special needs, and Max was one of my very first clients. Joya first brought him to me on the recommendation of his speech therapist when he was five, because he wasn't making progress with her and was refusing to speak. Slowly, in our weekly sessions, I managed to coax one-word answers, then sentences, then entire conversations out of him. Now, our sessions are a time to sing, to dance, to be silly together. On the surface, I'm helping him with his verbal and motor skills, but this is about more than that. It's about helping him to socialize, to trust people, to open up.
Okay, Max, fill in the blank, I begin. I strum the guitar and sing, My name is Max, and I have—
—brown hair! Max cries, giggling. My name is Max and I have brown hair!
I laugh. Good one. I play another chord and sing, I'm so handsome that all the girls stare, I sing, raising an eyebrow at him.
Max collapses in giggles. I wait until he straightens back up again and says, Miss Kate, that's so silly!
Silly? I exclaim in mock horror. Silly is as silly does, mister. Now are you going to sing with me or not?
Sing it again, sing it again! Max says.
I wink at him. I'm so handsome that all the girls stare, I repeat, strumming my guitar.
This time, Max sings it back to me, so I move on to the next line.
I'm just turned ten; I'm getting so— I sing.
—old! he cries, puffing his chest out and holding up ten fingers. I'm getting old!
You got it, old dude! I strum again and conclude my on-the-spot verse. But the best part of me, I sing, is my heart of gold.
I stop strumming and put my hand over my heart as Max sings back, The best part of me is my heart of gold! He giggles again and claps his hands over his mouth But my heart's not made of gold! he exclaims through his fingers. That's silly again!
You're right! I tell him. But what that means is that I think you're a very, very nice person, Max.
He breaks into a grin and throws his hands in the air. You're nice too, Miss Kate.
I put my guitar down so that I can hug him. Today, I needed him and his cheerful innocence more than he needed me. But I don't want him to know that. These sessions aren't supposed to be about me.
Thanks, Miss Kate! Max cries as he squeezes me hard around the waist, pressing his head into my shoulder. I love you!
Max, you are very special, I reply, surprised to feel tears prickling my eyes. You be a good guy for your mom this week, okay?
Okay, Miss Kate! he says cheerfully. Then he bounds over to give Joya a hug.
Thanks, Kate, she says with a smile, getting up from her chair as she returns her son's squeeze. Max, why don't you go out and see Dina in the waiting room? I just need to talk to Miss Kate for a minute.
Okay! Max agrees. Bye, Miss Kate! he cries as he dashes out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I turn to Joya. Everything okay?
She smiles. I was going to ask you the same thing. You don't seem like yourself today.
I shake my head, chiding myself for letting my personal life bleed into my professional one. No, I'm fine, Joya, I say. Thanks.
She takes a step closer, and I can see doubt in her eyes. Things with Dan are still going well? she asks.
Things are great, I answer quickly. Joya and I have gotten to know each other well in the last five years. I know, for example, that she's a single mom struggling to make ends meet and that she'd do anything to make her son's life as normal and as easy as possible. She knows that I'm still struggling with the grief left over from Patrick's death nearly a dozen years ago, but that I'm finally dating a guy I'm serious about, someone everyone in my life agrees is perfect for me.
Is it something else, then? she asks gently.
Really, it's nothing, I respond too quickly, too brightly. I see something in her eyes flicker. Don't worry about me, I add with as much confidence as I can muster. I'll be fine.
But after Joya takes Max's hand and leaves, her face full of doubt, I sink into the chair behind my desk and put my head in my hands. It takes me another five minutes before I can force myself to open the file folder my doctor gave me today, the one filled with terms like chronic anovulation and primary infertility.
Two hours later, I've finished up my notes on today's clients and I'm headed south on Third Avenue toward Zidle's, the intimate bistro on the corner of Lexington and Forty-Eighth that's become a favorite of Dan's and mine over the last year. We have a reservation at seven, and the closer I get, the more ferociously my heart thuds.
I'll have to tell Dan about the news from my doctor, the fact that my ovaries have basically shut down, but what if this changes his mind about being with me? He's the first person I've been serious about since I lost Patrick. I've made the choice—finally—to blend my life with someone else's. I can't lose that. I can't be alone again.
You don't know what Dan will say, I remind myself as I turn the corner onto Forty-Eighth. We've never really talked about children, save for a few surface-level conversations when we first started dating. I had just turned thirty-eight when we met, so I suppose my biological clock should have been ticking, but it was strangely silent. I thought—even though I knew intellectually that it would be harder to get pregnant the older I got—that I had all the time in the world to make my mind up about kids. I certainly didn't expect to be told at barely forty that my chances had all vanished. I'm not even sure I want to be a mom, but I've realized I'm not ready for that door to close.
What if Dan isn't either?
I check my watch as I arrive outside the entrance to Zidle's. I'm already ten minutes late, but there's a piece of me that wants to turn around and go home. I could text Dan with an apology, tell him I got caught up with a client, and suggest we order takeout. It would buy me an extra hour to keep things just as they are.
Kate?
My intentions evaporate as Dan emerges from the restaurant, his brow creased in concern.
Oh. I force a smile. Hey.
What are you doing just standing out here? He takes a step closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. Right away, I feel better. This is Dan. Perfect, blond-haired, hazel-eyed, friends-with-everyone Dan, who's reasonable and rational and loves me. Everything's going to be okay. He's not going to give up on me just because my ovaries have.
I take a deep breath. Dan, there's something I need to tell you.
Something flickers across his face, but then he smiles and shakes his head. Think we could go in first?
Well— I begin.
You can tell me once we've gotten our table, okay? He grabs my hand and turns around without waiting for an answer. I sigh and let him pull me through the door.
Surprise! A chorus of voices greets us the moment we step inside. I gasp and take a step back as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the restaurant. It takes me a moment to register that the entryway is filled with some of the people I love most: my sister, Susan, and her husband, Robert; their kids, Sammie and Calvin; my best friend, Gina, and her husband, Wayne; a dozen other friends and acquaintances from over the years. Dan's brother, Will, is there too, as is his best friend, Stephen, and a handful of the couples we sometimes go out with.
What's happening? I ask, directing my confusion toward my sister, the one who always seems to be able to untangle me, even if she's usually judging me at the same time. But she merely smiles and points over my shoulder.
In slow motion, I turn back toward the doorway, where I'm startled to see Dan down on one knee. I blink at him, my heart thudding. You're proposing?
He laughs. Looks like it. From his pocket, he pulls a robin's-­egg-blue ring box, cracks it open, and holds it up. Kate, will you marry me?
Our friends break into applause, and it feels like time freezes as I stare at the perfect Tiffany solitaire inside. For a split second, all I can think is that it's different—too different—from the antique engagement ring Patrick proposed with. Then, my mind shifts into high-gear guilt. I shouldn't be thinking about Patrick. What's wrong with me? I should be thinking about whether I can say yes to Dan without telling him the news from my doctor. Then again, I can't say no in front of all these people either.
Of course I don't want to say no, I remind myself. Dan's perfect. Always holds doors. Never forgets to say please and thank you. He's the kind of man every mother wants for her daughter. In fact, my own mother never misses the chance to remind me how lucky I am to have found him. I hadn't been thinking marriage, but it's the next logical step, isn't it? It's what people do when they love each other.
Kate? Dan's voice jars me back to reality.
I feel my mouth shift into a smile as my pulse races. Yes, I hear myself say. And then, because I know it's the right thing—obviously it is—I say it again. Yes, of course, yes. This is what's meant to be, and when I tell myself that, my heart fills. Yes, I'll marry you, Dan, I say, smiling at him.
He whoops and jumps up, pulling me into his arms and dancing us around as our friends whistle and cheer. Kate Waithman, he says, I'm going to make you the happiest woman in the world.
I laugh with him as he slips the ring onto my finger, where it catches the light, diffusing it into a million tiny stars.
I love you, Kate, he murmurs, pulling me close. But I can barely hear him over the rushing sound in my ears.
For the next hour, I smile and laugh on cue, but it feels like I'm in a daze as our friends mill around, telling stories about both of us, calling us the golden couple, slapping Dan on the back, and kissing me on the cheek. At least a half-dozen people tell me they're glad to see me moving on; a dozen more tell me what a catch Dan is. I notice the waitress behind the bar staring lustily at him a few times, and I'm grateful that he seems oblivious.
Susan is busy corralling her two rambunctious kids, so it's Gina who sticks close to me as Dan mingles with his friends. I know she understands the weird roller coaster of emotions going on inside me right now. She remarried six years after her husband Bill died, and I remember her telling me how it felt like there was a storm going on inside of her after she said yes. Guilt for moving on. Joy at finding love again. A cautious optimism about a new life beginning. A regret at putting the old life definitively to rest.
You okay? she asks as she brings me a glass of champagne.
Yeah. I smile. Thanks.
She gives me a quick hug. I can't believe he rented this whole restaurant just so he could propose in front of all your friends. She grins and shakes her head. What a guy, right?
Gina? I ask, grabbing her arm as she starts to walk away. Do you think Dan would still want to marry me if I couldn't have a baby?
What? She stops and stares at me. Kate, what happened?
My eyes fill. I had a doctor's appointment today. I shakily recap what the doctor told me. It's okay; I'm going to deal with it, I add quickly when I see how concerned she looks. I'm just worried about Dan.
Oh, Kate. She folds me into a silent hug. But does he want kids? she asks after a moment.
I shrug and pull away. I don't know. We've never really talked about it.
You've never talked about it? Her tone isn't accusatory, but I still feel