Page 15 of All We Could Still Have

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I might have to dip into it again.”

“Isn’t there a huge penalty?”

Page pressed her lips together. “You do what you have to.”

Chapter 9

Snow had been falling on and off all day, and the sidewalks downtown hadn’t been shoveled yet. Concentrating on keeping my balance, I inched along over the thin path of footprints stomped into the deep snow. Minutes before, I had dropped off Aunt Izzie at the front door of Sip and Strokes because I didn’t want her walking in the treacherous conditions. Tonight, the paint bar was hosting their third annual beach party, which meant they’d be serving rum punch, and we’d be painting the ocean, beach chairs and umbrellas, and palm trees. The last two years, the event had sold out, and judging by the full parking lot, tonight looked like a sellout as well.

After being passed over for the magazine’s managing editor position, I didn’t feel like painting or socializing, but Dana and Sharon had already canceled. Aunt Izzie didn’t want to go by herself, so I’d forced myself to come. At the least, by not going home after work, I hadn’t had to tell Kyle that I didn’t get the raise or even a bonus. I could picture what he’d say when I told him.That settles it, then. We’re not doing another round.I had to figure out another way to get the money.

In the distance, the marquee for Pendleton 88 came into view, the name lit up in red lights. I considered turning onto Main Street, but that would add an extra block to my walk, and the snow-covered sidewalks weren’t safe, so I forged ahead. As I passed the restaurant, I glanced in the windows and noticed pictures of Hank hanging on the wall: one of him and Arianna, his famous model wife, standing on ared carpet, and a large portrait of him dressed in his New York Rangers hockey uniform with the number 88 on his sleeve.

Despite the weather, a crowd huddled around the hostess stand, waiting to be seated. The magazine’s article on Declan’s hadn’t hurt Hank’s business like he had claimed. The man was a first-rate liar, and his latest lie had cost me not only a promotion but the money I needed to fund another round of IVF. My jaw tightened as I thought about all I had lost because of him.

At Sip and Strokes, Aunt Izzie sat at a table with four other women, who were all dressed in hula skirts and Hawaiian shirts. One of them smelled like coconut, as if she had slathered herself with suntan lotion before she came out on this winter evening. Even Aunt Izzie, in a sun hat and Cape Cod sweatshirt that Dana had given her, had dressed as if she were spending a day by the shore. In a turtleneck and sweater, I was the only party pooper at our table.

Aunt Izzie had set up my paint tray, and there was even a glass of rum punch waiting by my easel. The image we were painting was more complicated than the ones we usually did. It was a beach, crowded with sunbathers splayed out on beach chairs and blankets, some under an umbrella. Several people played in the ocean, some riding the waves on boogie boards.

“Can’t wait to see what you do with this.” Aunt Izzie laughed as she said it.

I stank at this painting thing and knew mine would end up as a smeared mess of blue, tan, and yellow. Aunt Izzie, on the other hand, was an artist. Until recently, she’d taught art to elementary school students. She was an old pro who took paint night seriously. Usually, Dana, Sharon, and I laughed our way through it. Like Aunt Izzie, Dana had talent, but Sharon was just as bad as I was, if not worse. Our paintings always looked as if we had accidentally spilled our paint trays over them or as if her kids had done them.

The instructor took her seat at the front of the class and eyed the crowd. “Don’t worry if you’re not a good painter,” she said. “I’llwalk you through this picture step by step. Everyone will leave with a painting they’re proud of.” She spotted me and frowned. “Well, almost everyone.”

Aunt Izzie laughed and tapped her glass against mine. “You can do this, Nikki.”

Once we started painting, Aunt Izzie focused solely on the canvas in front of her, shushing me whenever I spoke. I tried to concentrate and listen to the instructor’s directions but found myself eavesdropping on the beach ladies next to us. One of them owned an oceanfront bungalow in Maine. “The cottage next door is for sale,” she said. “One of you should buy it.” Her friends all laughed.

“I wish I could,” said the woman who smelled like suntan lotion. “We just don’t have the cash right now with Tyler’s tuition.”

“Christine was starting BU when we bought ours. I wanted it so bad nothing was going to stop me. I borrowed from my 401(k).”

My paintbrush froze in my hand. This was the second time today I’d heard someone mention withdrawing money from their retirement fund.It’s definitely a sign that I should do the same.

Aunt Izzie tapped my shoulder. “You’re making a mess.” Yellow paint had dripped off my brush all over the bottom of my canvas, where the ocean was supposed to be. I painted over it with blue, but the yellow paint wasn’t dry, and the colors combined to a stormy green.

My foot bounced off the floor under my desk as I navigated to the web page to download the 401(k) withdrawal form. My account had more than enough money to fund another round of IVF, and taking an early withdrawal rather than borrowing from it would save us from going further into debt. While I was confident that using the money now to start a family was the right thing to do, I knew I’d have a hard time convincing Kyle. He worked for himself and was still investing in hisbusiness rather than saving for retirement, so for now, we were counting on living off my account in our golden years.

The investment site loaded. I took a deep breath and scrolled to the appropriate part of the page. My grip on the mouse tightened as I read the bold red font above the link to the withdrawal form:Taking an early withdrawal on your 401(k) should only be done as a last resort.I scanned the rest of the text. The warnings jumped off the screen.Do not make the decision to withdraw money early from your 401(k) lightly.

As I read, the voice in my head morphed into Kyle’s argumentative tone.An early withdrawal carries serious financial penalties.I could picture the vertical line between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced, the way it did whenever he was tense.The withdrawal is taxed.I saw him thrusting his chest forward.You’ll incur a ten percent penalty.In my mind, he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his temple.You will net only six thousand three hundred dollars on a ten-thousand-dollar withdrawal.Now imaginary Kyle laughed as if to say,This is so ridiculous; of course we’re not doing it.

I let go of the mouse and flexed my hand. For several seconds, I stared at the online form without moving. Was this the right thing to do? Early in the process, we had applied for a second mortgage but had been declined. This was the only remaining option that wouldn’t increase our debt. If we wanted a baby, we had to do it. My fingers flew across the keyboard, pausing only on the question about how I wanted the disbursement paid, direct deposit or check. I clicked the box next toCheck, not sure why, and submitted the form. The money would be available in five to seven business days. I had a week to convince Kyle this was a good idea.

Chapter 10

Our kitchen table sat six and had a built-in lazy Susan. Kyle had picked it out before we got married and added it to our wedding registry. At the time, we’d both imagined two or three kids sitting down to eat with us. Instead, the empty chairs had turned into a scab I couldn’t stop picking at. Maybe that was part of the reason we had started eating in the living room, plates balanced on our thighs and the television on so we didn’t have to talk.

Tonight, though, I had set the table for two and made one of Kyle’s favorite Italian dinners: manicotti, meatballs, and garlic bread. More than a week had passed since I found out I wasn’t being promoted to managing editor, and I still hadn’t told him. I’d been putting it off because when I told him, I’d also have to tell him about withdrawing from my 401(k). But I had to tell him tonight. We had to get back to the clinic.

“We’re eating in here?” he asked when I called him in from the living room. “Must be a special occasion?”

I winced. Had our marriage really deteriorated to the point where he thought sitting down to dinner together marked some type of celebration?

He looked at me with a hopeful expression. “So are we celebrating?” He smiled as he asked the question.Is he happy because he thinks I got promoted and we’ll have the money for another cycle?

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