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“I thought we were forever, Tally Girl.”
I fall back, digging the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. It does nothing to stop the flow of tears. “Me too, baby. Me too.”
“Go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
Sleep is impossible when a storm rages inside of me. I just want to go back in time and stop him from going to the dinner with the label. Maybe if I’d gone with him, this would’ve never happened. But this isn’t a game of what-ifs. It’s reality. Our new reality.
When all I do is dwell on the past, I stop us from moving forward.
And I want to move forward so desperately.
I wish I knew how.
THIRTY-ONE
TALIA
ONE YEAR AGO–END OF MAY
Not pregnant.
I stare at the pregnancy test as an emptiness hollows me from the inside out.
Not pregnant.
Disappointment assaults me, only this time, it’s nothing to do with the results. Today, standing in our small bathroom, with Tate sleeping on the other side of the wall, a wave of relief ripples through me. Last month, seeing the result stung. But last month, my husband hadn’t just signed a two-year music contract. I feel disgusted with myself for being relieved when so many families pray for a baby.
I clutch the sink, the plastic stick clattering to the floor as I smother my sob behind my hand.
We’d always known we wanted kids. We wanted to wait until we were closer to thirty, a little more financially stable, and given ourselves the time to enjoy one another and be selfish before bringing a baby into the mix. And we’d been so selfish. Taking trips, sleeping in late on weekends, lots and lots of baby-making practice whenever and wherever we wanted.
It was glorious. Beautiful. Exactly the life we painted.
The attention from Vance Records was exciting at first, and I couldn’t disagree with Tate about the opportunities it would open. He’d supported me through every up and down of my career, and while he’d always reassured me he was happy at the distillery, I could see the promise of new horizons thrilled him.
But then came the reality of what a career in show business entailed.
Months on the road. Scrutiny of the public eye. The physical and mental toll.
Tate didn’t see it like that. He saw money. A chance to change our lives for the better, as he put it. But I liked our life and the future we’d mapped out. Maybe it wasn’t enough for him anymore.
He forced my hand by signing those papers without speaking to me, quickly souring any remaining excitement.
Since then, he’s hardly been home.
I should get used to it. For the next two years, I’ll be sharing him with the country. Maybe longer.
Not pregnant.
I wanted this so badly.
Until I didn’t.
Which is why, despite the heart-wrenching desire to be a mom, I know deep down the timing isn’t right.
They want to tour as early as February, and if we were to get pregnant now, I’d be in my third trimester or left alone with a newborn while Tate traveled the country.
My vision blurs as I wrap the test in toilet paper and throw it in the trash. My period will come in a few days. I’ll grieve what wasn’t meant to be. This is only temporary. A glitch in our timeline, and after the two years, we’ll resume our dreams.
