Page 43 of Dream with Me

His words cause my heart to crack a little. I don’t respond, but we sit, holding hands in silence for several long moments after that. Troy finally pulls his hand away and breaks the silence.

“How is work going? Are you happy there?”

I hesitate, unsure how to explain that what I thought I wanted, what I thought was my dream job, isn’t. It’s not that I don’t want to be an accountant. It’s that the type of work I’m doing right now at the firm doesn’t feel good to me. It’s not rewarding.

I feel Troy’s stare on me and realize I never answered his question.

“It’s going okay. I’ve got enough hours now to sit for my test—obviously, since it’s scheduled for this week. I’ve made a new friend at work. Her name is Tillie. You’d get a kick out of her. But...” I pause for a second, trying to find the words that will explain it. He waits patiently, intently focused on me. “It’s not what I expected. The firm isn’t how I remember it. The clients are all very high profile, and there isn’t a lot of the personal touch I enjoyed when I worked for the old Mr. Stinson. I’m grateful for the opportunity, though. But when I pass my exam, I’m gonna want to think about something that gives me the flexibility I want with the kids but also makes me happy.”

“It’s not your dream job?” There’s no sarcasm or judgment in his voice. He sounds truly curious, surprised even. I can’t count the number of times I threw it in his face that I gave up my dreams, that I lost them to my role in our family.

I shake my head because I can’t find the words, and I don’t want to cry. I’m afraid if I try to speak right now, there’s a good chance that’ll happen.

“Maybe this isn’t the right place, but it’s the right type of work. You can figure out what you want it to look like, visualize the dream”—he pauses, and his eyes light up—“tell me about it. Tell me what you like and what it would look like if it was your ideal job.” I’m quiet for an uncomfortably long time, and then Troy speaks words that take my breath away. “Dream with me, Shan.”

My heart rate and my respiratory rate both kick up. He hasn’t said those words to me in years, nor have I said them to him. It was our toast. The toast we made every time we met for drinks. I lift my eyes to meet his, questioning whether he means this. Does he honestly want to know?

“Tell me,” he says in a hushed but firm voice. He doesn’t break eye contact, and I realize Iwantto tell him.

I spend the next couple of minutes telling him about how I would like to do something like Tillie has been talking about: Working with smaller businesses and women-owned businesses, focusing on the personal nature of the work, and helping other people meet their business goals. I tell him about Tillie joking about us going into business together, and his eyes brighten when I say it. I tell him I want to be able to control my schedule because I don’t want to work full-time right now while the kids are young. I want to be there for them as much as possible while still helping to provide for them and doing something that makes me feel stimulated on an intellectual level.

Troy listens intently the whole time, asking a question here or there for clarification, but there’s nothing in his expression or his voice that seems to be anything but supportive.

When I have to be home in about forty-five minutes, I pack my things, and Troy walks me to the door.

“Do you think I’m selfish for wanting these things?” I ask.

He cups my face on both sides with his rough palms and gently forces my gaze to his.

“Absolutely not. This is what you need to do for yourself, and fulfilling this part of you will be a good example for our kids and will keep you healthy. I’m only sorry that we didn’t figure out a way to help you do something like this when we were still together.”

I can only nod, afraid if I say anything, I’ll cry. Troy leans down and kisses me on the forehead. The tenderness in the gesture makes it hard for me to swallow. Before I lose control of my tears, I grab my bag, and he opens the door for me. He insists on watching me until I get to the car.

I make it about fifteen feet away from him and stop, my back still to him. There’s something that’s been bothering me all night. I’ve been pushing it down and refusing to give it any extended space in my thoughts. I’ve been telling myself to let it go, that it’s not my business. ThatIaskedhimfor a divorce.... But somehow, in light of all the vulnerability I allowed myself to show him tonight, I need to know.

I hear him call my name, questioning and concern in his voice. So, I turn around and face him. I close the distance between us.

I fight the tears welling up behind my eyes. The anxiety on his face and in his eyes makes me feel bad for worrying him.

“Are... are you dating? Seeing someone? I know it’s not my business, but I have to know. I know this is my fault, that I asked for this, but I didn’t think it would happen this fast. And I just... I need to know.”

Before I know it, he grabs me by the hand and pulls me back inside. He’s searching my face, his brow furrowed, and his eyes narrow in confusion.

“I know I don’t have any right to ask. And I shouldn’t. I should leave and go home. But it’s better if you rip the Band-Aid off now...”

“Chiclet, what are you talking about?” There he is with that nickname again.

“The wine glasses. You have two wine glasses that were probably favors from a wedding you went to and felt like you had to lie about going to in order to spare my feelings. You probably had a date for it, and that’s why you have two. Plus, you had wine here. You rarely drink wine. But you had wine here. Women like wine, so maybe she’s been here.”

“Shannon—” His hands grip my shoulders.

“Maybe she’s sat at that table or will someday soon with you and our kids. And you got a bed. You didn’t have a bed before, and now you do. There are four pillows on the bed, Troy.” My words are rushed, almost frenetic. “You only sleep with two pillows. You have two pillows for someone else. There’s someone else?—”

My heart is racing, and my chest feels tight.

He’s backed me against the wall, his hands on my face again, tilting my head so I look at him. His thumbs caress my cheeks, centering me a tiny bit.

“No,” he whispers. His face is only inches from mine, his intense focus on me helping pull me into the moment, slowing my racing thoughts. “No, you have it all wrong. There’s no one else. There won’t be—can’t be—not for me. The wine glasses were from a wedding, but I didn’t go. I didn’t wanna go alone, and I didn’t wanna go without you. David brought me a couple when I gave him his gift, saying he knew I had a new house and could use them.”

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