“Huh? What do you mean?” She and I speak every day; she knows what’s going on with Winter and me. Well, as much as I share with her. Some stuff is just too hard to talk about, so I avoid it.
“Okay,” she starts and then pauses briefly before continuing, “he called me today and asked me to talk to you about cutting back your work hours. I told him I agree that I’d like to see you work less, but that I don’t have any control over how much you work.”
I’ve been rummaging through my lipsticks while she talks, but I stop and look at her. “You think I work too much?” Winter and I got into a discussion over this last night, and just like every other time we’ve discussed it, he failed to see where I was coming from. We’re drowning in debt and I just want it to be gone. I want us to start this next part of our life without that hanging over us.
“Yes. I think the number of hours you’re working are going to start affecting your health soon. I also worry you’re working so much to avoid dealing with your pain. And I think it says a lot that Winter asked me to help. In all your years of marriage, he’s never once come to me for help. I’m worried about you guys, B.”
If I’m honest with myself, I’m worried about us, too, but I’ve buried all that worry under a mountain of work the last four months. It’s easier than facing the fact we’ve lost our way after losing our baby and coming to the end of the road of IVF.
At first, we clung to each other, but then I needed something to take my mind off the fact I had no fucking idea how to move forward knowing I would never have a baby, so I began channelling all the energy I’d given IVF to work instead.
“I know you’re right,” I say, not really wanting to admit it. “But I like working; I like that it helps me stop thinking about the fact I’ll never have a child. And Winter’s barely home, so work gives me something to do while he’s not around.”
“He’s still busy with the club?”
I don’t share a lot of club stuff with Cleo; Lily’s my girl for that. All she knows is he’s been flat out lately. “Yeah, and it’s just getting busier.”
“But you guys make time for each other, right?”
This is the hard stuff I haven’t shared with her. Hell, I’ve barely talked to myself about it, let alone anyone else. Some days, Winter and I are lucky to see each other. Those are the days he leaves home before I’m awake, or the days he comes home after I’m in bed. On other days, we might have half an hour together before we leave in the morning, and a little time together at night. But I always bring work home and he tends to leave me alone to do it. We haven’t had a date night since my miscarriage, and our sex life has taken a hit, too.
We’ve stopped talking like we used to. The kind of talking where we share our highs and lows, and our goals and dreams. Now, our conversations revolve around what we want for dinner, when we need to get the car serviced or the tyres changed, what bills are due, and scheduling time for home maintenance. I’ve stopped visiting the clubhouse as much as I used to. I still help out, but I don’t spend a lot of time with Winter there. And he shares even less with me about what’s happening with the club. I know he’s got some serious stuff going on right now, but I think he only told me so I know he’s got one of his guys keeping an eye on me for safety reasons.
Telling Cleo all this feels like admitting I not only failed to bring a child into the world, but that I’m also failing with my marriage. Because, I am. Big time. I know what I should do, but it’s like my heart doesn’t want to go there. Starting the necessary conversations with Winter will bring up all our hurt and pain and disappointment, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet.
I stare at her. “Well, we try to make time,” I say, my words stilted because I’m lying. “It’s hard some days, you know?”