The Home-wrecker (The Goode Brothers)

Part 1 – The Husband

The woman sitting across from me has the same sandals as I do. And so does the woman on my right, but she needs a pedicure. I should invite her to go with me to the nail salon tomorrow, but I think she has a baby. No one wants to take a baby to the nail salon.

To be honest, I don’t even remember the woman’s name.

“Briar.”

I blink, lifting my eyes from the floor to stare at the woman leading Bible study across from me.

Shoot. I think she asked me a question.

“We were just discussing the end of Proverbs 31. Did you have anything to add?”

I swallow. “No. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” she replies with a forced smile.

Sitting back in my seat, I scan the women in our circle, noticing the way they glance at me nervously before looking back down at their Bibles. Ever since my father-in-law was caught in a sex club scandal and arrested for assaulting my brother-in-law’s girlfriend, everyone at my church looks at me as if family scandal is a disease you can catch. As if I was in that sex club with him or I was the one holding down that poor woman as he punched her.

It might not be the same church, but word gets around. If it weren’t for my perfect mother and straitlaced sister dragging me to these meetings, I probably would have stopped coming months ago—or maybe more.

My sister, Juliet, side-eyes me for not paying attention as she shifts in her seat.

“Before we end tonight’s meeting, are there any prayer requests?” the leader of the group says, folding her hands in her lap.

I wince as my mother raises her hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Rockford.”

My mother reaches over my sister’s lap and squeezes my hand as she says, “My daughter, Briar, and her husband, Caleb, are still trying to conceive. It’s been a tough road. If we could bring together the power of prayer for them, we’d be eternally grateful.”

My stomach turns.

The women all nod in unison as the group leader leans toward us with an expression of nerve-grating sympathy. “Absolutely.”

Everyone bows their heads and closes their eyes. I do the same.

But halfway through the prayer, I open them and peer upward at the people around me. While studying each of their somber faces, furrowed brows, and pressed lips, I try to feel something. Gratitude, hope, faith, love…anything.

“Amen,” the woman says.

“Amen,” the rest of us reply in unison.

“Thank you,” I add quietly.

After everyone rises from their seats and says their goodbyes, my sister and I make our way to the parking lot first. Our mother has a way of lingering. She loves to strike up conversations with all of the other women, even though most of them are closer in age to Juliet and me.

I feel my phone buzz in the pocket of my sweater, and I pull it out to see the notification.

It’s a fertile day! Get busy!

My fertility tracker likes to make jokes, but I’m not laughing.

“There’s a woman in our PTA who said she cut all sugar and processed foods for six months, and she got pregnant after trying for years,” Juliet says like the haughty know-it-all she is.

I let out a sigh. More unsolicited advice from my older sister.

“Thanks. I’ll think about that,” I mutter flatly.

She shrugs in a way that tells me she’s disappointed with my response. As if I’m not appreciative enough of her gracious benevolence. “Just saying. That stuff is basically poison anyway. No wonder our bodies don’t work the way they’re supposed to.”

My sister drones on, but I tune her out. She and my mother have a tendency to speak around me in a way that I’m not sure they realize hurts. The little comments about my body. The constant complaints about my fertility. The pining and wishing for another baby—a boy this time.

I don’t argue. I don’t speak up. I take it all in stride and sweep it under the rug—as the women in our family so often do.

I track my cycle. I have sex with my husband. I do everything to hold up my side of the bargain for them.

Caleb and I were really excited for another baby around the time Abigail turned three. We were riding that parenthood high when our lives were filled with toddler milestones and joy with every new thing having a baby brought. Now, Abby is six and a half and she’s the love of our lives, but, to be honest, the idea of starting over scares me. The high has worn off.

Juliet and I wait by the car as Mom finally emerges, carrying a tray of cookies. She’s wearing a bright smile as she says goodbye to the other women. I wait for the moment when she wipes the grin off her face and says what’s really on her mind once she’s out of earshot of the others.

“That woman actually brought up your brother-in-law,” she mutters as she unlocks her car. “How embarrassing. Your husband’s family has become the laughingstock of the whole town. The nerve of her bringing up your family drama as if her husband hasn’t cheated on her five times in the past decade.”

There it is.

“Mother,” Juliet says in warning.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“She said she’ll be praying for Adam Goode’s soul and that he ought not to be associating himself with that woman and her…club. Like she has room to talk.”

I climb into the back seat of my mother’s car and slam the door. I’m not exactly looking forward to a car ride back to my house when I’m sure the two of them will do nothing but chastise Adam’s girlfriend, Sage, for owning a sex club.

Again, I stay quiet.

Instead, I stare out the window for the rest of the drive.

When we reach my house, my mother stops at the curb.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I open the door and move to climb out.

“Briar,” she says, stopping me as I glance up at the front seat. “Just stay away from Adam and that girlfriend of his. They are nothing but trouble; we don’t need that in our family. Just as bad as his father, if you ask me.”

“I know,” I lie.

As I step out onto the sidewalk and slam the door behind me, I want to tell my mother that Adam and Sage are my family, too. I see them every Sunday at Caleb’s mother’s house. I like Sage.

But I can’t tell my mother that.

When I let myself in the front door of the house, it’s quiet. Looking down at my watch, I see that it’s eight thirty, and silently, I pray that Abby is asleep. After dropping my keys and purse on the entryway table, I go into the kitchen and immediately pour myself a glass of wine. Until there’s a possibility that I’m pregnant, I can still have a glass for now.

Standing in the dim room, leaning against the island, I soak up the silence and enjoy the warmth from the wine as it travels down my throat.

I hate that I’m dreading tonight. I don’t dread having sex with my husband. I love Caleb. I love his body and the way he touches me. I love sex with him.

But somewhere in the past three years of shots and schedules and doctors, the light has gone out. Any day now, I expect him to say he’s done. And part of me fears that he has been done for a while but won’t say it.

Done with me or with the trying or all of it.

At this point, those two things feel like one and the same. I have become this. I am the trying.

Taking my unfinished drink up the stairs, I hear the soft lullaby playing in Abby’s room. Peeking my head in, I feel a smile grow across my lips as I stare at my husband sprawled out on our daughter’s tiny twin bed, a unicorn book splayed open on his chest, and six-year-old Abigail cuddled up on his arm.

Leaning against the doorframe, I sip my wine as I stare at them. Seeing him like this definitely helps to turn my mood around.

Caleb has always had a way of getting Abby to sleep. Even as a baby, he would lay her on his chest or let her use his bicep as a pillow, and moments later, she was asleep. Memories like that make me miss having Abby as a baby. The sweet memories.

Not the colic or the sleepless nights, or the blowout diapers, or the exhaustion that burrowed itself into my bones like a tumor.

“Hey,” he mumbles in a raspy whisper.

“Hey,” I reply with a smile.

“She’s out,” he says.

“Like a light.”

Slowly, he works himself out from under her. She rolls over sleepily, and he tucks the plush purple blanket around her tiny body. Carefully, he creeps out of her room, avoiding the small toys and creaky spots on the floor like land mines as he makes his way to me.

Meeting me in the doorway, he gives me a soft grin and presses his lips to my cheek.

“How was Bible study?” he asks in that fake-interest way he always does.

Although Caleb grew up in the church with his father literally running his own and becoming a worldwide famous preacher, Caleb doesn’t care about God or religion at all anymore. Deep down, I think he thinks that bothers me, but it doesn’t. I love how independent he is from his family. I think that’s what I’ve always loved about him.

He takes the glass of wine from my hand and drinks a sip before handing it back to me. The silence between us starts to grow awkward, like a wilting rose.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me. In his mind, is everything between us as perfect as it was seven years ago when we could barely keep our hands off each other? When I could see the way he would light up whenever I entered the room.

Doesn’t he feel us dying, too?

I avoid looking him in the eye so I don’t have to face it. Instead, I turn away and head to our bedroom. He follows, and we move through our nightly routine in thick, tense silence.

I floss my teeth. He takes his supplements. I put on moisturizer. He tosses his shirt on the floor next to the hamper.

Same as every night.

At some point, I know I need to remind him of what we have to do. But I can’t bring myself to speak those words.

When we climb into bed, I let the opportunity slip away. He pulls out his laptop and I pick up my book. But even as my eyes settle on the words on the page, I don’t read. Instead, I fantasize about a different life for us. I conjure up a fairy tale in my head of what Caleb and I were supposed to be. Happy. Connected.

I reminisce on the way it felt when we first met. When I thought Caleb was going to save me. When it felt as if he was my liberation, my safe space, my truth.

And in my fantasy, we don’t have sex to conceive. Our lives look more similar to that of his brother and his girlfriend. Caleb wants me. He needs me. I belong to him in a way that’s not based on scripture. Silently lying next to my husband, my body starts to heat up just thinking about it.

I know deep down that I should be able to express my desires with him, but I’m afraid we might be too far gone. And that’s a harsh truth I don’t want to face.