together. “Don’t bullshit me, Birdie. I always know when you’re lying. What’s going on?”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I take a deep breath.
What’s the worst that could happen if you open up to her?
I’m just going to do it.
Get it out there.
Maybe she’ll help me figure it all out.
God knows I could do with the help.
“We haven’t had sex for nearly three weeks,” I blurt, starting with the thing that will let her know just how bad it’s gotten for Winter and me.
Her eyes flare with surprise. “Okay, so shit is bad.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”
“What’s causing that? And don’t try to tell me it’s just because you’re working all the time. You guys never let long hours get in the way of your sex life before.”
She knows me so damn well.
And it’s time for me to get super honest.
“So I thought it started because we’ve both been really busy, and tired, and grieving Max and the baby, but if I’m honest, I think we’re both avoiding dealing with the fallout of IVF not working.”
“I thought you guys stuck close after your miscarriage?”
“We did for a couple of weeks and then we got busy with work and club stuff. And I think Winter is probably shutting down his feelings over losing the baby and never being able to try again just as much as I am.”
“Oh babe, why didn’t you talk to me about all of this? I hate that you’ve been going through this alone.”
I point at my eyes. “See this? No tears. I’ve numbed myself to it by working all the time and not talking about it. And I like the fact I’ve stopped crying every second of every day.” I swallow hard as an unexpected and unwelcome wave of emotion hits me. God damn you feelings. Why can’t you fuck off and leave me alone? I grip the vanity and breathe through the pain. “This all feels too hard, Cleo.” My voice cracks. “Too hard to think about. Too hard to talk about. Too fucking hard to face. I want my husband back, but I know to do that we’re going to have to finally deal with this, and I’m not sure either of us are ready for that.”
Her face creases with sadness. “I know, B, but what if you guys drift too far apart that it becomes impossible to bridge that distance? Are you willing to chance losing Winter altogether because you didn’t want to talk about hard stuff?”
She’s right.
I know she is.
It scares the hell out of me to think about the worst happening. Pushing those fears down deep is what’s gotten me through, but at what cost? Maybe falling apart is what I need to do in order to grow stronger and to start living again.
Swallowing hard again, I say, “Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how to fix this, because I’ve reached the point where I don’t even know how to bring stuff up with my own husband. I don’t know how to get past the silences and the miscommunications and the fear of us breaking. It feels easier to not chance breaking us even more, but I know you’re right; we can’t go on like this.”
“Start small. Find ways to be with him again and maybe don’t bring up the difficult conversations to begin with. Cut back on work and make time for the two of you, and just start there.”
I can do that.
We can just spend time together and talk about things other than babies and the family we don’t have.
“Okay, yes. I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll go to the clubhouse after I see this Instagram chick today. Surprise him with a visit.”
She smiles. “Yes. You used to do that all the time.”
“Yeah, and he used to love it.” I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. We can do this. “Thank you.”
“Always. But please don’t do this alone anymore. Talk to me, especially when it all feels too fucking hard. And remember, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just show up.”
Oh my God, I’m gonna cry if I stay on the phone with her any longer. Quoting Brené Brown to me always affects me like this.
“Okay, I love you, but I’m going now, otherwise you’re gonna make me cry and my make-up for this meeting will be ruined.”
After we end the call, I stare at myself in the mirror. Really stare. I see the things I’ve been avoiding for months.