The First Fight
Glaring—and I mean the most awful glare known to man—at the small, white stick on the counter, another round of depression and extreme disappointment washes over me. There’s no damn reason this fucker shouldn’t have turned pink.
For the last thirty days, we’ve been doing everything we could find online, in magazines, and even tossed in a few old wives’ tales and religious theories for good measure, and still … blue. My new least-favorite color in the entire history of pigment. Rowan hasn’t given himself a hand in the last month, and my legs should be permanently glued to the wall as many times as I stick them up there to keep the stuff inside. Hell, I have a fucking fertility goddess statue in my backyard.
We’ve. Tried. Everything.
Yet, here I am sitting on a closed toilet, staring at a pinkless stick while my amazing husband paces on the other side of the door, his sock-covered feet wearing a clear path in the carpeting. Oh, and with each shuffle, my resolve cracks a little bit more. Just like every time we’ve rinsed and repeated this process, I’m going to get to step out of the bathroom only to watch his hope and dream of having a son to toss a football with, or daughter to adore, fly straight out the window.
I’m not just letting myself down, I’m destroying my husband one negative pregnancy test at a time. And that’s the part that hurts most—not giving him a child—even more than my own desires to be a mother.
“Charlie,” he whispers, rapping on the barrier between us. “The timer went off, baby,” he reminds me, as if my eyes haven’t been glued to the little window, praying for the second line—the pink one—to appear. Like I wouldn’t have burst out the door and jumped into his arms the moment I realized we were going to be parents.
“I know,” I respond with some semblance of chipper left in my voice. I’m not wanting to lead him on. Instead, I’d rather give him another minute of possibility before I break the news … again.
“No matter what, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay, Charlie. Do you hear me?”
Every time he says the same thing, and I think he really means it. Only problem with his logic—he’ll mean it until he finally has enough and comes to the conclusion his desire to be a father outweighs his overwhelming need to be cautious of my feelings. Once he’s done protecting me, then what? I’ll be left childless and husbandless.
“It’s negative.” My heart falls when the words leave my mouth.
“We’ll keep trying. That’s the fun part, right?” I can hear the sadness behind the playful tone he’s attempting to portray. I can’t keep doing this to him. Me.
“Rowan,” I sigh, unable to do this right now. I need a little while—enough to get myself together.
“I mean it, Charlie. I know it’s not what we hoped for, but it’ll happen at the right time. Come out here, please.”
“Please, just don’t, Rowan. Please,” I beg.
“Sorry, babe. We’re alive, married, and living life, doing exactly what we wanted to do. A baby is an added bonus. We’re good, and one day, we’ll have that baby and it’ll be perfect. And until then, we’ll live this perfect. Me and you.”
Annoyed, frustrated, and allowing the anger to get the best of me, I stand up from the toilet, turn the handle, and rip open the door to meet the face behind the words meant to comfort, yet they do anything but.
“I asked, Rowan, not once but twice, and you just keep pushing. Sometimes people need a damn minute to let it all sink in before the pep talk starts!” I yell, unable to channel my emotions in a way that’s not destructive. I know I’m not helping, but there’s nothing else I can do. As terrible as it sounds, it’s making me feel better to let out some of the hurt.
“Charlie, I’m trying to tell you everything’s okay. We’re fine.”
“Fine?!” I scream. “Are you kidding me? Ain’t nobody around here fucking fine. We’re a goddamn mess!”
He opens his mouth to rebut, and I place my finger over his lips, effectively shushing him. “No, it’s my turn to talk.”
He nods, so I lower my arm, disgusted that I put my hands on my husband for the first time ever. I just didn’t know how else to shut him up, and I need him to understand. I’m not pregnant and a fucking asshole. Obviously, I’m winning today.
“Seven times, Rowan. Seven times I’ve peed on that stick, and seven damn times I’ve had to tell you we’re not pregnant. We’re not having a baby. We’re not going to be parents. Seven times I’ve broken your heart. I’m far from fine, and if you’d stop lying to both of us, you’d see you’re not fine … or anything close to it, either.”
My shoulders sag in relief, finally getting my true, bottled-up feelings out in the open, and I lower my head to hide the tears I can’t hide any longer. Rowan tries to hug me, but I shove him aside. There are far too many emotions running amuck; touching isn’t a thing right now.
“No amount of hugs will fix me or my broken body.” I want to believe it’s a timing issue, not an infertility issue, but having gone through so many extensive cancer treatments in my youth, it’s hard to think of anything else.
“Charlie.”
“This isn’t what you signed up for. If you wanna leave, file for divorce, I’ll understand and won’t fight you. Let me give you this one thing.”
“Charlie.”
“You want a family and I’m not going to be able to give that to you. You deserve the world—the entire world—and all your heart’s desires. Take the out, Rowan. I don’t know if I can offer something like this ever again.
“Charlie!” he yells, and my head snaps up, my eyes meeting his in shock. In a decade, Rowan’s never yelled. Hell, he’s never even aimed a raised voice at me.
“It appears I have your attention now.”
I nod, blink, and wipe away the tears on my cheeks. I don’t know what else to do. This is uncharted territory, and I’m worried I fucked up pretty good this time—taken a great man for granted and he’s really going to take me up on that offer.
“There’s no way in hell we’re getting divorced,” he returns, the disdain obvious. “No way in hell we won’t be together forever,” Rowan affirms, telling me how the rest of our lives are going to be played. “We made vows, Charlie. Remember? Better or worse? Well, baby, this is the worse, which means it can only get better. Dammit, if we’re stuck doing this worse together, I want the fucking better. I want all the better.”
He stops for a breath, and I’m lost for words. How’s he able—even in the most dire of situations—to calm me down enough to kind of pull off controlled and collected. God, this man’s my perfect.
“I don’t want a divorce,” I honestly state.
“Good, ‘cause it wasn’t an option. Not even in the realm of possibility. We’re in this together. Always together.”
“We’re not pregnant.”
“And that’s okay. Not the most ideal—I won’t lie to you—but not a deal breaker by any means.”
“What if we never have a baby? Like, what if I can’t …?” I stop, unable to finish the question.
“Then we live our lives, happy and healthy. We roll with the punches. We’ll never have to search for a sitter to eat a decent meal, drink as often as possible, and travel the damn world. We do whatever we want. Together.”
“You won’t be disappointed … in me?” I’m not sure if I’m confident enough to deal with his honest answer and an honest answer is what he’s going to give me. Rowan and I don’t lie to each other. It’s the most important aspect of our relationship and our foundation—something he wouldn’t ruin to spare my emotions.
I’d rather be hurt by the truth than killed by a lie.
That was a wise piece of advice we received from the marriage counselor we met with before the wedding. It sets the tone for … us. It’s what we can fall back on during trying times such as this.
“I’ll be a little sad, but I’m not willing to give up on us for something I’ve never had, babe. I might not even like being a dad,” he laughs, lightening the mood. “But I do promise you this … If I get lonely or upset, we’ll talk about options. If this is even a real problem to stress over, we’ll cross that bridge when we have to, and tonight’s not that time. Tonight, we love each other a little more and help heal the wound.”
“I love you. You always have all the answers.” I finally lean into him, allowing Rowan to wrap his arms around my body, the hug more than welcomed this time … and I melt in his embrace, feeling a safety I’ve never known before.
“I don’t have them all,” he teases, “but I’ll do my best whenever there are questions.”
“I love you.” After placing a quick kiss to the shadow of facial hair on his jaw, I angle my head up, catching his gaze. “You down for trying?”
“You sure?” he asks, intently staring at me as if gauging for an issue that doesn’t exist.
Stepping backward, I unbutton the top of my dress, pull my arms out of the sleeves, and let the soft, cotton fabric fall down my body, leaving me only in a strapless bra and matching panties. I had a plan before the test thing went to shit.
I just knew this was going to be it, so I prepared. Earlier today, Sheena and I went to a salon in town where I got manicured, waxed, and primped. I picked out a sexy, lacy, white lingerie set, going for the image of purity and simple to celebrate our big news. Since that’s not happening tonight, or any night soon, I don’t plan on letting all this better go to waste—it cost more than we can afford and he’s going to get his fill.
“Well, well, well, it looks like my wife’s hotter than all the other wives,” Rowan hoarsely whispers, his glare ablaze with lust and want. His eyes follow me as I walk to the bedroom, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors as my feet leave the rug. Without turning my entire body, I crane my face toward Rowan.
“You coming?” I ask, sultry and sexy.
“I will be in a minute if you don’t get in that bed and stop taunting me. A man can only take so much, baby, and watching you calling for me, wearing that getup, your ass begging for me to grab it while burying myself so deep inside you … I’m inching over that threshold.”
“I guess you should stop staring and get to walking. I’d hate to have to start without you … but I will.”
Before I know it, Rowan clears the room in three, maybe four, long strides until he reaches me. He doesn’t push me into the room but instead picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and tosses me in the center of the bed.
“What exactly do you mean by start without me?”
“Well, first, I’d slip my hand inside my panties, kind of like this.” I slowly glide my palm over my stomach, under the hem of my underwear, and move a little lower until I have two fingers gently pressed against my clit. “Then, I’d start really slow … let it build.” My digits deliberately rub. I pull my legs up and apart, enhancing his view. “And when it starts to feel like I’m going to come …” I pant. Quiet whimpers leave my lips, and with the vision of him watching me give myself pleasure, I close my eyes, allowing that image to fuel my fire. “I’ll move a little faster.” My hips work in time with my fingers, urging my body to the finish line. “A little harder,” I cry as the first wave starts to crest.
Before I can get any further, the bed dips with Rowan’s weight, his breath hot on my thighs as he creeps up the bed, undoubtedly trying to be stealth-like but failing miserably. Not wanting to burst his bubble, I play along.
“It’s like I can feel you between my legs. Oh God, Rowan,” I mewl, my movements becoming uncontrollable.
Then, I can feel him—well, his teeth anyway—nibbling through the fabric, catching my fingers between them. “Move,” he demands, but I don’t. He’s going to have to fight me for it. I know my husband; I only have a small window to play with here, so I have to make it quick.
Going lower, I slip one finger—followed by another—inside my pussy, methodically moving them in and out, grinding the base of my hand against my clit. If I play my cards right, I can get off before he kicks me out.
“Now,” Rowan growls, and bites a knuckle. “Move your damn hand out of the way, Charlie. If you’re gonna come, it’ll be on my dick or in my mouth.”
“Give me a second,” I beg. “I’m so close.”
Like a well-oiled machine, my fingers, hips, hand, and spank bank, all work together to push me to the edge. I’m about to fall when my panties are ripped from my body and Rowan yanks me down the bed a little, all my movements ceasing.
“Hey,” I whine, need and want overtaking me.
“I don’t know why you don’t listen, Charlotte. Now, I gotta prove a point, don’t I?” Rowan palms his cock, stroking it to erect perfection, and I clench every muscle in my stomach in anticipation.
God, he’s sexy.
Rowan’s always been the sweetest man I’ve ever known—perfect—but like this, all controlled, demanding, and alpha, you’d never believe he’s as wonderful as he is. I’m not sure how it happened or why, but I got the best of both worlds—the genuine good guy and the man who’ll fuck me so hard I don’t remember my name.
“Flip over, Charlie.”
“Come here, baby.”
Rowan crosses his arms at the elbow in front of him, grabs onto each of my ankles, and in one swift movement, turns me over. I’ve seen it in movies, but having your man do it in real life … even hotter. So much fucking hotter.
“If I gotta put up with all that sass, you’re gonna give me that ass, too.” Rowan takes my hips in his strong grip, raises them, and pulls me back toward him.
“It’s all yours, baby,” I moan as he runs the tip of his dick through my wetness. I should do this shit more often; I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
“Good to know.” Quickly and without pause, he enters my body, not giving me the usual few seconds I need to accommodate for his size. Much like the biting, the pain of stretching drives me crazy.
“Grab the sheets, baby. It’s gonna be a hard, fast ride. Someone decided it was a good idea to tease me to the point I almost came in my pants like a teenager.”
I clench the sheets in my hand like directed, make sure my knees are firmly planted on the outsides of his hips, and brace myself.
Tonight, there’s no pretense. We’re not fucking for any purpose other than getting off. I won’t be putting my feet on the wall to keep the stuff inside. I won’t be counting the minutes until it’s prime time. It’s just us coming together in the most glorious way—the way it should be. And for this exact moment, everything is right in the world and we want for nothing other than each other.
Slowly, Rowan drags his cock against the walls of my pussy as he backs out of me, only to quickly slam into me again. It takes a few more before I’m coming apart beneath him, my knees buckling from the sheer power of my orgasm. While I’m flat on the bed, my ass no longer raised at the perfect angle, Rowan flips me over again, slowly and carefully this time.
My thighs cradle his large frame as he enters me slowly, making love to me and healing all our sadness from earlier. With each thrust he reminds me why our love can survive everything and he’ll always give me exactly what I need.
“I love you, Charlie,” he whispers in my ear as his body stiffens.
“Not as much as I love you,” I respond, my body producing another orgasm—the first one hot and frantic, this one deliberate and full of happiness.
We only lie together for a few moments before Rowan gets up to get a towel to clean us both. When he’s back in bed, holding me in his arms, I have to ask myself … why don’t we fight more often? Sex is pretty damn good when there’s some yelling and anger involved.
The world was right … make-up sex is the best kind.
It’s perfect.
*****
The very next week, I got an urgent call from Rowan to come home on my lunch break; he had forgotten his gym shoes in the backseat of my car and needed them to go work out. Unsuspecting, I got in my car and did what any good wife would do—headed to the house so my man could get his fitness on.
“Rowan!” I call, entering the front door. The text I sent on the way asking him to meet me out front so I could make it back before my break was over went unanswered. I assumed he was in the shower or something, but it doesn’t relieve any of my irritation. Since my company’s been absorbed by another, our lunches have gone from an hour to thirty minutes and an additional two fifteen-minute breaks throughout the day. It doesn’t usually matter to me, except for when I leave … like today.
“Rowan!” I yell again and start walking through the house. Not in the living room. Kitchen. Dining Room. “Babe?” I softly ask, worry starting to settle deep in my stomach. This isn’t like him.
When I get to the bedroom, the door’s closed. Again, something out of character for Rowan, especially in the middle of the day. He started working from home and he’s typically in the living room, and if he does go into the bedroom, the door’s never shut. Hell, I didn’t even know if it worked—that’s how seldom it’s not open.
Turning the handle, I slowly crack it, peeking inside, my view getting better with each inch. “Rowan?” I ask again, praying he’ll answer me and I’m not going to finish opening this door to find him dead or kidnapped.
“Get in here,” he mutters and something—or someone—lets out a small yelp.
“What’s going on?” There he is. Not dead, not kidnapped, but lying back on the bed over the blankets. “Are you taking naps now?” I laugh and walk through the threshold and nearly jump out of my skin when something wet and cold touches my bare calf.
“Rowan?” Looking down, there he or she is, all perfect and cuddly. “Is there a puppy in our bedroom?” I go to meet his eyes only to find another dog in bed. The more I survey the room, the more dogs I see. I rub my eyes, wondering if this is some sort of dream, even going as far as pinching myself. “There’re dogs in here!” I cry, realizing there is no imagining going on here … my husband’s filled the room with puppies.
“Since you’re so hung up on this baby thing, and there’s not much I can do to help you, figured I’d do what I could.” Rowan climbs off the bed only for me to take his place and nuzzle up with the adorable boxer puppy.
“You should do this all the time. I just wanna love on them all. How long are they here? I’ll have to call Marcy and let her know I won’t be back this afternoon.”
“All of them aren’t here for very long, but they need to come and pick up the ones you don’t want to keep.”
“Keep? I get to have one?” Oh. My. Gosh. Becky. Best day ever!!
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls like any true southern gentleman. “I wasn’t sure which would be your favorite, so I had her bring over a boxer, a lab, a pom and some kind of weird mix I can’t remember. Go ahead and get a feel for them and let me know which one you want.”
“I can’t pick just one,” I whine. Rowan picks up the stragglers off the floor, plopping them on the bed next to me. Lying flat on my back, I let all four of the fur babies roam and explore, trying to figure out how I’m going to choose. They’re all so perfect.
Then my choice is made for me the second the fawn boxer wobbles up the bed on her little Bambi legs, puts her nose against mine, and snorts … yep, snorts … like a pig.
“This one. This is my puppy.” Pulling her in my arms, I cradle her like a baby and scratch her belly. “Miss Piggy is my baby. Can I really keep her?”
“Yes, baby, she’s yours if you want her.” Rowan joins me on the bed, running his fingers through the dog’s short coat. “What are we gonna call her?”
“Pig,” I state matter-of-factly. “Her name is Pig.”
“Charlie, sweetheart, of all the names in the entire world, you want to name a dog—a beautiful, pure-bred boxer puppy—Pig?”
“Yep. And thank you. This is the best baby ever.”
*****
About an hour later, the lady who brought over all the pets returns and takes back the three I didn’t choose, though I wanted to keep them all. I called Marcy and told her I wasn’t feeling well. She seemed irritated, but meh, what’s she gonna do? Fire me? I doubt it; nobody can write about anal leakage and the other nasty side effects of medication like I can, and she’d lose too many contracts.
The rest of the afternoon, I laid in bed with Pig and Rowan, thinking about how absolutely perfect my life was. Even in the worst of times, the ugly parts, Rowan found a way to make it beautiful.
He’s my favorite thing about the world and reminds me constantly to have faith in the human race because every once in a while, someone sneaks into your life, gives you a baby when your body protests and fills you with so much joy, you’d rather quit your job than leave the bubble where nothing’s ever wrong, and if it tries to go sour, he’ll fix it every single time.
Because he’s my perfect.