Now
“Harder, Teller. Harder. Push harder!”
“If I push any fucking harder, it’s going to come out the other side.”
“Do I need to do it myself?” I ask, blowing a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Use your muscles. Put your weight into it. Push harder, Tell.”
He’s so helpless sometimes.
Teller grunts, gives up, groans, and gives up. His cheeks are red, and he’s clenching his jaw. “It doesn’t fucking fit. I’m not doing this anymore.”
“You’re acting like you’ve never done this before. Move it around. Try different positions.”
He wipes sweat from his forehead, exhaling a heavy breath from between his lips. No matter where we are or what we’re doing, he has an arm full of nicotine patches. They don’t work. Teller’s down to a half a pack a week, but he loses his patience like it’s the first day he decided to quit.
I’d almost prefer him to keep the habit, if it weren’t for cancer, emphysema, and cardiovascular disease.
“What you’re asking me to do is impossible. I’m done.”
“It’s not rocket science, prick.” Maneuvering it around, I fit it in without much effort. “I’m eight months pregnant and did it. You must feel like a fool.”
“I loosened it up for you,” he grumbles, glowing with embarrassment.
I stare at him in amazement, blink, blink, blinking. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not a pickle jar. It’s not a jar of spaghetti sauce, Tell. It’s—”
From behind us, someone clears their throat. Teller and I look back simultaneously, and it dawns on me that we’re not the only people on this airplane. Annie, our marriage counselor, has said once or twice during our sessions that we’re a little narcissistic. No doubt one of our fellow passengers recorded the entire exchange, and by the time we land in San Francisco, we’ll be an internet sensation.
The suitcase pops out of the overhead compartment.
How embarrassing.
“Can I be of assistance?” the flight attendant asks. She’s a brunette woman with extra curly hair, and she doesn’t blink. At all.
“No, thanks,” I say, jamming my bag back into its spot.
She smiles, tilting her head to the left. “It might be easier if you…”
“I said we don’t need any help,” I say too forcefully. Teller and I have only seen Annie Streety twice more since our initial appointment, but she’s already given me some building blocks to incorporate into my everyday life. Such as not being a jerk when easily irritated. I soften my tone and say, “But thank you.”
Teller snorts.
Harmony, our flight attendant, scoots between my husband and me and reaches for my luggage. “The hatch won’t close with it sticking out like this, so it’ll be easier if we just check it. We wouldn’t want it to fall on your head during the flight, now would we?” she singsongs.
“Get your hands off my bag.” I knock the building blocks all the way down.
Harmony’s smile broadens, and she still hasn’t blinked. “I’m only trying to help, ma’am. Please, lower your voice before you frighten the other passengers on the plane.”
I rub my eyes to make sure this isn’t a dream. Because surely, I’ve transported to an alternate dimension. Normal human beings, like Teller and me, blink so our eyes function properly, and we don’t tilt our head from side-to-side like a robot. And we listen when someone says, “Don’t touch my things.”
“Harmony?” Teller speaks in a composed, persuasive tone. The right side of his mouth curves into a brilliant smile. “I’m sure you can see that my wife is expecting a child. There is a thing in her luggage she’ll need during the flight, so if you can help us.”
Harmony finally blinks. Once.
I scoff. Teller snaps his head in my direction, mouthing for me to sit the fuck down. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Harmony’s lucky day. If I weren’t the size of a blue whale, puffy, and in a constant state of exhaustion, I wouldn’t stand for this tyranny.
“I’m sure there’s a way to help the suitcase fit in the compartment.” She tilts her head to the right.
“Thank you.” Teller winks.
With a flip of the wrist and a little elbow grease, Harmony plays a game of Tetris with the luggage. The compartment door closes easily with a snap.
“All set, you two. Enjoy your flight.” She claps her hands together. “I’ll be your first-class flight attendant during your time with us. Please, let me know if you need any more help.”
I feel weird.
Teller falls into the seat beside me. “We will. Thank you.”
As Harmony moves down the aisle toward the back of the plane, I say, “I loosened it for you!”
The fifty-minute flight from L.A. to San Francisco is too short to watch an entire movie and too long to stay in one spot while being this pregnant. Teller rubs my lower back, makes sure my cup of water is always full, and he doesn’t bring up the fact that we could have avoided the drama at the beginning of the flight by checking the bag.
We checked three others before we set foot on the jet. This bag is literally full of shoes.
I adore his willingness to let me be a crazy pregnant person. Nothing about this baby growing process is easy for me. Watching my body expand in ways I’ve never experienced, the mood swings, and my overall discomfort leave me miserable at best.
I wanted to have a picture-perfect nine months leading to the birth of my child, decorating the nursery, making a plaster casing of my belly, and wearing flowing dresses like the goddess I’m supposed to feel like. There’s a stack of mommy-to-be books beside my bed making promises they can’t keep.
Pregnant women are supposed to glow; I sweat profusely.
Other women can’t believe how flawless pregnancy made their skin; I had the worst sudden acne during my first and second trimesters.
Heartburn makes it impossible to enjoy a meal, and if this kid kicks my sciatic nerve one more time…
There are good parts, like orgasms. My hair grows at an alarming rate, and it’s never felt healthier, and people constantly cater to my needs. Perfectly good strangers open doors for me, someone’s always giving up their seat so I can sit down, and Teller rubs my feet every night.
There’s nothing I want more than to hold our son in my arms, but I don’t think I can go through this twice. Maybe adoption is an option if we decide we want more children. Or maybe one will be enough.
“How is the house coming along?” I ask. I hope conversation distracts me from the tiny voice inside of my head reminding me that this is one more thing I can’t do right.
Pushing his fingers into my skin in all the right spots, he says, “The interior is done. Our contractor sent pictures, but I thought it would be better to wait and see it in person.”
I sit on the edge of my seat and hold on to the headrest in front of me with no apologies. My belly rests on the top of my thighs and practically shoves my breasts into my chin. Teller thinks I’m dramatic, but he isn’t carrying around gigantic, milk-filled boobs suffocating the life out of him.
He twists his palm from one side of my back to the other and continues, “A landscaper will be out sometime next week to do the yards. The roof needs to be repaired, and some boards need to be replaced on the porch before it’s sanded and stained. But it’s coming along.”
“Emerson said it looked good when he was up there last month,” I say.
My attempt to renovate the house I grew up in myself was a joke. One of the first decisions Teller and I made as a married couple was to hire a contractor and have it done correctly. Since the project started, we’ve chosen color schemes, countertops, and the crown molding we like best. The bathrooms were gutted and redesigned. The sliding glass door leading to the backyard was exchanged with French doors. Our contractor thought it was best to replace the cabinets I tried to refurbish.
“They’re beyond repairable,” he said.
While this is happening, we haven’t decided what we’ll do with the home when it’s done. There’s no doubt we can sell it for a profit, but Teller’s mentioned holding on to it as a vacation home. I’ve joked or not joked about dumping Los Angeles and living in the house ourselves.
Our plates are stacked with the pregnancy, the few shifts I work a week at the hospital, and with Teller studying like a madman for his exams. As much as we tried to make time for it, we never managed to travel north to check out the renovations until now. Four weeks away from delivery, this is our last chance.
“From what little I saw, the house looks great,” Teller says.
I’m ready to take a walk from one side of the plane to the other to ease the ache in my back when the captain announces we’re approaching our destination. The seat belt light comes on and Harmony comes around to collect trash and to make sure our seats are in the upright position.
I strongly consider not leaving St. Helena until my boy is born to avoid this discomfort on the way back to L.A.
And once we land in San Francisco, I also consider leaving my suitcase behind because now it’s stuck in the overhead compartment. Flight attendant extraordinaire twitches as a line of travelers wait behind us to unload, exhaling impatiently and groaning audibly. If I weren’t this pregnant and this wobbly on my feet, I’d give them something to complain about.
“Let—let me give it a go,” Harmony says, pushing Teller’s hands away from the jammed luggage.
The captain exits the cockpit with a proud smile that falters when he sees everyone is still on board. When Harmony can’t get the suitcase free, our pilot gives it a try. Soon, fellow passengers are shouting advice, “Yank it. Shove it. Can you hurry up before I miss my connecting flight?”
Teller has a cheek full of nicotine gum, patting his pockets for a pack of cigarettes he hasn’t carried for months. He’s red-faced and unamused, trying hard to keep his temper in check.
“Back away,” he asks calmly. The wad of gum moves from one cheek to the other.
Harmony asks us to move aside to allow the other travelers by, but that’s a no-go for me. My feet are parted, my shoulders are straight, and my breasts aren’t smothering me at the moment—I’m not moving again until absolutely necessary.
“I think I got it,” Captain Noodle Arms grunts. He doesn’t have it.
“Please, stop,” Teller asks again. No one hears, and he’s tried to go about this in a calm, collected manner. Their mistake for not paying attention. “Move the fuck out of the way.”
Teller wrenches the suitcase, shaking the entire overhead compartment on its hinges.
Harmony is all, “Sir, stop. Sir, please.”
And Captain Numb Nuts is like, “If you don’t stop, I’ll be forced to call security.”
With one last hard jerk, the suitcase breaks free. The momentum is more than Teller can handle and he stumbles back. The bag nearly takes Harmony’s head off, but I’m not mad.
“Have a nice night, you two,” she beckons as we leave.
“Fuck your mother,” I whisper under my breath, wobbling off the airplane.
Our rental is ready for us and we’re on the road in no time, speeding toward St. Helena—toward home. Teller chose the largest SUV on the lot, allowing the baby and me enough room to stretch out and be comfortable for the duration of our commute. I roll down the window, and the briny, bay area air rustles through my hair, dirtying it with sea salt and humidity. The setting sun paints the sky tangerine and violet, veiling the skyline in a dark silhouette.
When massive bridges and too-close houses fade to vineyards and tree-covered mountains, I know we’re close. The stars are pinpricks in the inky sky when we pull into the driveway, stopping the car in the same exact spot my dad parked his work truck during my entire childhood.
From the outside, the house looks how I left it. Dull yellow-orange light from the bulb next to the door and white light from the moon show off chipped paint and splintered wood. Overgrown weeds and dying shrubs give a false impression. In a month or so, this place will look brand-new. I want that. But I’m grateful to see it in its originality one more time.
My dad nearly built this house with his own two hands. I watched him install and paint the shutters, pave the driveway and walkway, and mount the address numbers above the door. His memory is engraved into the bones of the place, and a fresh coat of paint won’t change that. Nothing can rewrite history.
“I can’t wait to see inside.” The last time I was here, I ran away with a gust of indecisiveness and on a current of regret. This time, I arrive with the next generation inside of me and an anchor beside me. My heart beats with such powerful satisfaction, I feel the pulse in my teeth.
Teller gives me a hand out of the rental, and he doesn’t let go as he leads me up the steps to the front door. It opens with a crack like a soda bottle. Baby daddy says they painted the old door to look new. “The old one was strong,” he says. “The old one was sturdy,” he promises. “You can’t buy doors like that anymore,” he swears.
Paint, stain, and plastic-scented, the house is airless and stale.
“I’ll open the back doors,” Teller says, walking through the dark toward the French doors. “You shouldn’t breathe this shit in.”
Moonlight streams through the parted doors, gifting me with enough radiance to see the fresh coat of paint covering the patches I left on the walls. The floors are red oak, replacing the warped timber that was here before.
“Where is the fucking light switch?” Teller mumbles, dragging his hand along the walls. “The electricity needed to be redone, so everything’s been moved around.”
He finds the switch and turns on the light fixture above the small dining room area. I’m speechless as I take in the updated kitchen with cabinets that match the floors, a backsplash that matches the new farmhouse sink, and the stone countertops that tie it all together. Our fireplace is refinished, and a new mantel has been installed above it.
Everything’s altered and fresh, but it’s not unrecognizable. The walls are a different color, but the memories are the same. The guts are the same. The legacy is here. A homegrown, deep down warmth flourishes inside of me, and I cry with relief.
If I look hard enough, if I really try, I can see far back—far back before my mom left, my dad died, and my brother and I had to grow up too soon. We’re sitting on a dusty floral pattern couch in front of a square television, eating dinner on TV trays. I don’t know if my parents we’re happy, but Em and I were. We were appropriately immature. We were kids.
Strong arms come around me, one across my chest and the other hand on my belly. Teller asks, “What do you think?”
I sink into him and say, “It’s perfect.”
Teller brings in our luggage while I put the sheets on the bed in my dad’s old room. Traces of Emerson and Nicolette are here and there. She left a pair of earrings on the bathroom counter, and he forgot a pair of shoes in the closet. The house may be mine legally, but it will always be ours.
“Baby, what bag is the shampoo in?” Teller asks, overwhelmed by the things I brought. But I want to forget shoes and earrings here, too.
“I already put it in the bathroom.”
“I’m going to shower. It’s been a long day.” He kisses the top of my head and disappears behind the bathroom door. The shower sounds minutes later.
Kicking my shoes from my feet, I tie my hair up before I start to unpack. Because I don’t know the fate of this place, I don’t put the suitcases away. Instead, I stack them on top of each other beside the dresser.
I don’t want these new roots to go too deep if we’re not going to stay.
Teller saunters into the room as I unpack the last suitcase. A billow of steam follows him out and drops of water drip from his hair. Covered only waist down in a towel, he falls onto the mattress and says, “I need sleep.”
Shimmying out of my jeans, I get them mid-thigh before Teller lifts himself off the bed and helps me undress. He frees me from my socks one at a time and lifts my shirt over my head.
“Do you want the bra on or off?” he asks, pushing a strand of hair from my lips.
“On.” I roll my eyes. With breasts this big, they have to remain contained or I risk knocking myself out with a wayward boob.
There’s no way I’m climbing onto the bed myself, and it only takes one helpless look from me for Teller to realize it, too. Like I weigh nothing at all, he lifts me onto the mattress and doesn’t even laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
“Have I told you how much you mean to me today, Smella?” Teller asks. He crawls under the blankets to be with me.
“Over and over again,” I whisper with a smile.
Teller blinks heavily, and his breathing slows to a steady, sleepy rate. He smells like hot water and soap, curls dry across his forehead, and maybe without realizing it, he moves closer to me.
It’s been a while since we’ve pressed stop and put the world on hold. Our lives are fast and demanding, and days effortlessly veer into weeks and then months. We combat expectations, set goals, and try to make this work. What bills need to be paid? Do our work schedules conflict? Did someone feed the fish? Call your mom. Call your brother. Your sister wants to have dinner. And so on, and so on.
Domestication is hard.
But it’s so worth it.
“Thank you.” I sweep the back of my fingers across his cheek.
His lips curve in the smallest way. “For what, baby?”
“For being you.”
Teller and I spend our first three days in St. Helena doing nothing—literally. We watch movies, eat too much food, and we catch up on much-needed rest and relaxation. Anything outside our little house ceases to exist, and we just are. I haven’t touched my makeup bag or turned on a curling iron once, and we’ve changed from one pair of pajamas to another.
He wakes me up on the forth morning like he has the previous three.
I’m lying on my side, and Teller’s behind me. With one hand gripped onto the wrought iron headboard, the other clutches my hip, and he moves inside of me slowly, deeply. Not one thing about my body has left me feeling sexy lately, but Teller’s spent the last few days changing my mind. He worships every too-soft, too-round inch of me, and he swears I’ve never looked better.
Lost in love digs his fingers into my thighs and whispers, “You are so fucking beautiful.”
My body moves. It shakes, wiggles, and rolls. On day one, I covered myself with the sheet, with my hands and arms, and I refused to do anything that showed off the dips and dives in my thighs. I said, “Teller, don’t look. Teller, turn off the lights.”
He said, “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous.”
On this day, I’m not concerned with the way my body looks, but I’m obsessed with the way it feels. I’m amazed by how it’s changed and by what it can do. I adore the way Teller touches me, and fucks me, and looks at me.
Despite everything we’ve gone through and everything we’ve put each other through, he’s always made me feel like the best version of myself.
He was like, “You’re kind of fucked up, but I want you around anyways.”
He said things like, “You sometimes make me want to drive my car into a brick wall, but you’re the one for me.”
And he swore, “I will never, not ever abandon you. Got it? Do you hear me?”
Teller kept his word.
No matter how many times I tried to sabotage our chances at a life together, he was persistent. Teller knew when to sit back and let me figure it out for myself, and he knew when to come after me.
I don’t think there is one other person on this planet who would have done the same.
Insistence lifts me to my hands and knees and curves his body over mine. He grips my hair at the nape of my neck and gently pulls my head back, pressing his lips to my throat. The bed shakes, banging against the newly painted walls. Our neighbors might hear me moaning, “Harder, Teller. Harder. Please, please, do it harder.”
I don’t care.
I don’t care, because this is our life, and we’re living it.
“We should keep the house,” Teller says, watching people walk by our table. The tip of his nose is red from the cold, and his eyes are glassy with it, too.
We’ve left the house, afraid if we didn’t, no one would ever see us again. My brother might have sent reinforcements. Maby might have just shown up herself. Now we’re having breakfast at a small sidewalk café in the middle of town, wearing something besides our pajamas and reacquainting ourselves with society.
Annie said time alone is okay. She said it’s normal to shut everyone out for a couple of days. She also said we shouldn’t make a habit out of it because we’re co-dependent.
Before we left, she said, “You don’t think you need other people in your lives, but you do. Stop taking advantage of your support systems.”
It might be too late for Teller and me to change. We’ll do this counseling thing. We’ll do this family thing. We’ll repaint the walls of my childhood dysfunction, and he’ll tell himself every single day that he won’t be like his father. But who knows? The only thing we can do is try, and try again, and then try again if we must.
“I don’t want to get rid of it either.” I cup my glove-covered hands around my mug of tea and bring it to my lips.
I haven’t seen or heard from my mom since she drove by the open house all those months ago. That might have been the last time I’ll ever lay eyes on her, but I’m not ready to completely shut the door on that part of my life yet. By keeping the house, there will always be a way for us to find one another.
“We can live here, if that’s what you want.” Teller’s green, green eyes look away from me and down into his coffee cup. “I can open a practice anywhere.”
That’s not what he wants. It’s not what he already has in motion. He’s searched for investors, and permits, and lots in cities that need his help the most. Sure, it’s early enough that he can change his plans and open a family practice in St. Helena, but his calling isn’t here.
Shaking my head, I say, “No, let’s stay in L.A. I like it there, and our lives are there. We can come here for long weekends and weeks in the summer.”
He sets his coffee on the table and opens his arms for me. “Come over here, Smella.”
Baby Reddy is easy on me today, staying clear of my rib bones and tender nerves he usually likes to beat up. Maybe he’s sleeping, or maybe he knows I was in desperate need to feel like myself for one morning.
I half-expect the chair to collapse beneath us when I sit on Teller’s lap, but it holds true and fights the good fight.
“How’s my boy today?” Tell asks. He rubs my round belly.
“Behaving,” I say, resting my hand over my husband’s. Our wedding rings shine in the rising sunlight. “But if he’s anything like his dad, he’ll be up to no good in no time.”
Teller laughs, but he won’t think it’s too funny when our son grows up as stubborn as he is. Payback is a bitch. Or so I hear.
“Do you still want to name him Mason?” Teller asks. He kisses the spot right below my ear, and I melt into him.
“I think so,” I say softly, wondering why we ever left the house in the first place. “What do you think?”
Teller moves his lips lower, and my breathing goes higher.
“I like it,” he says. “But I get to name the next one.”
I snort. “Don’t hold your breath, prick.”
In less than twenty-four hours, we’ll board a plane and head back to Los Angeles, back to our lives and responsibilities, back to our families. We’ll wait out the birth of our son, Mason Reddy. We’ll wait out the beginning of the new chapter of our lives to start.
Nothing about marriage is easy. Not one thing about Teller or me is simple. We’re complicated people, with complicated behaviors, and complicated pasts. We love too hard, and fight too loud, and that’s how we like it.
He is wrecked, and I am damaged.
But together, we’re going to be okay.
Before we head back to our lives, I ask him once more, just to hear the words again, “Tell me what this is.”
And without hesitation, he says, “This is everything.”