Page 55 of Beyond Oblivion

“I just want to give you children,” she said, her eyes immediately filling with tears and spilling down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away and turned back to face the sink. “That’s it. I want to, so badly, but no matter what I do… I can’t. And so many things remind me of that. Every baby, every baby shower invitation, every time we’re in bed together… and I just wonder… when will it stop? When I’m too old to have children? Because I’m just so tired of feeling that I’m failing you, that a part of our future is slipping away. And I know, I know you’d rather have me than a house full of kids. I know that, and still, it gnaws at me.”

I squeezed her. She’d already heard what I wanted to say dozens of times before.

“I love you so much,” she said.

I tensed, worried what she’d say next.

“The way you listen, let me vent, and just,” she sighed, “let me feel what I’m feeling… makes it all feel less… suffocating.” She held my arms against her middle. “And I don’t think I’ve told you that. Everything you do, if you didn’t know, is exactly what I need.”

I felt my eyes burn. “Yeah?”

Her head fell back against my chest. “Yeah. No one has a handbook for this, and somehow you do everything right.”

My muscles relaxed. “I really needed to hear that. Thanks for saying it.”

She turned, and we stood there in the kitchen, holding on to each other like the world didn’t exist outside of that moment. Those few words soothed something raw inside me, repairing threads that had been slowly fraying over time. It’s strange how a little acknowledgment could work like extra-strength Gorilla Glue, sealing the cracks in my confidence. Just like that, I felt a renewed sense of purpose, reassured that I was still capable of holding down the fort.

“I’ll say it more,” she whispered.

Chapter Thirteen

Camille

Jim’s worn couch made it easy to sink into the cushions and relax during my short break between the breakfast dishes, chores, and prepping for lunch. The loud buzz of the lawnmower outside competed with the music playing from Olive’s laptop, and I chuckled and waved as Trenton stopped at the window to smooch at me like he had the previous four laps around Jim’s front yard.

Saturdays at Jim’s were my favorite, even if it meant cleaning his house and then mine. We spent it mowing and vacuuming instead of the farmer’s market or watching the game at a local pub, but it was the one day of the week we could spend several hours of quality time with Jim without rushing out to get to work or home. Travis and Abby usually stopped by with the twins for lunch. It was the closest we could come to having the family under one roof on a regular basis.

Saturdays at Jim’s also meant hanging out with Olive from the moment she finished breakfast until dinner time, and after the full day I’d had of testing with my OB/GYN the day before, I needed the sweet distraction that was Olive.

She was sitting on the floor just a few feet away, surrounded by a chaotic mess of schoolbooks, snack wrappers, and papers. She’d swept back her long, cool blonde strands behind her shoulders so they didn’t get in the way of the calculations she was jotting down in her pink glitter notebook.

I watched her with a smile, sitting with my legs tucked beneath me, both hands cupping my mug of lukewarm coffee. I couldn’t help but still see her as that wide-eyed five-year-old, absolutely unbothered by the fact that her best friend and champion was a full-grown man, up to his neck in tattoos.

Olive might’ve been just months away from moving out on her own, but to me, she was still the adorable whirlwind who’d gotten me to open the door for Trenton the night of our first not-a-date date—always moving, always asking questions. I glanced over at her just as she looked up, her big eyes fixed on me with a familiar expression. I knew that look. It meant she was working up to an uncomfortable conversation, something bigger than her parents would prefer she’d ask. My chest tightened a little. Olive was an old soul, and as long as I’d known her, she’d asked difficult questions, and trying to answer them reminded me that I was still figuring things out myself.

“Cami?” Her voice was softer than usual, cautious.

I leaned over to set my mug on the coffee table and playfully narrowed my eyes, unable to stifle a grin. “I knew it. What’s up, buttercup?”

She hesitated, biting her lip before continuing, a grimace weighing down her delicate features. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sounds like you’ve been holding on to this for a while. Of course,” I tried to keep my voice light, “you can ask me anything.”

She paused again, her eyes dropping to the floor before she blurted it out, “You and Trent are okay, right?”

The question knocked the breath out of me for a second. I blinked, trying to steady myself before I answered. “I love him like my life depends on it. What makes you ask?”

She shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her shirt. “I just… I hear things. Mom and Dad talk, and sometimes I see the way you look at each other, and I just… I wanted to make sure.”

“We look at each other like we’re not okay?”

“It’s just that you don’t look as happy as you used to.”

Olive was too perceptive for her own good. She watched as I silently scolded myself. It wasn’t as if we’d been careless. I thought back on as many of the times Trenton and I had been around her and her parents that I could remember, wondering what was said or what expressions had been exchanged to tip her off. She knew us more intimately than most, and it was no secret that life had been intense lately. The challenges with infertility, the general stress of adulting, and then there was the small detail that an unstable college student had been routinely stalking us and scheming to ruin our marriage.

I leaned forward, trying to keep my voice steady. “Olive, look at me.”

She met my gaze, waiting for news that would either reassure her or—as far as she was concerned—end life as she knew it.

---