Lucy Knott - Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

In the pit of my stomach I feel a tingle of excitement that this will be the year we take the leap and start trying for kids. Scott and I have talked about it and this weekend gave me a glimpse into the future; how perfect our lives have been thus far and how incredible the next step in our journey together will be.

Scott must be thinking what I’m thinking and ordering that takeaway, I muse to myself when he doesn’t come up to the bathroom. I stop dawdling in the shower, keen to get downstairs and join him on the couch. I hastily towel dry, throw on my Christmas pyjamas – it’s December after all – wrap my hair in a towel and head downstairs.

I’m walking into the living room when I see Scott in my peripheral vision sitting at the dining room table. He is smiling at his phone, the smile that after all these years still gives me butterflies. But when he sees me, I notice his cheeks flush and a forlorn gaze appears in his eyes. I wander over to him, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him tight. I can sense his brain has already switched back into work mode and he’s worrying about emails and the crazy schedule that December brings with it as he feels cool and tense to the touch, making my gut wriggle uncomfortably for some reason.

‘How about I order us a takeaway and we make a start on the Christmas movies, so we can actually fit them all in this year?’ I say, kissing his cheek, hoping to relax the knots in his neck and keep work thoughts at bay for at least a few more hours. Scott is rigid, and I feel a discomfort in the pit of my stomach that I can’t place. Usually he can’t keep his hands off me at this proximity. I understand it has been a tiring travel day, but something doesn’t sit right.

‘I think we should take a break,’ Scott says. I sigh and a titter escapes my lips – all this tension over Christmas movies.

‘OK, how about we watch a movie of your choosing tonight and then start up on the Christmas movies Christmas Eve Eve? We still have so many to get through and it’s really not Christmas without a few romantic fairy tales,’ I suggest, tucking my hair behind my ear, the wet strands having started to stick to my cheeks. I make to step into the hall when Scott repeats himself causing me to back-pedal.

‘Not the bloody Christmas movies, Harper, though yes, a break from all that crap would be good.’ His voice sounds hard. I’m confused as to what has suddenly made him so moody. I’ve never heard him call my favourite kind of movie crap before. We often watch them and gush over our own real-life fairy tale.

‘Oh OK, I’m sorry,’ I stutter through a nervous laugh. ‘Would you like me to cook something, honey? If you want a break from the takeaways, I can see what we’ve got in, whip something up?’ I step out of the hall and back into the dining room now, eager to get Scott out of the chilly space and his ‘just got back from vacation funk’, and into the warmth of the living room and under the pile of blankets awaiting us on the couch. He’s not making any effort to move on his own and remains still in the chair.

‘You make it sound like those are my only two options. I want a break,’ he says, his tone dull and deadpan.

My brain is going over his words before I speak. I feel as though every time I open my mouth, I say something wrong. ‘Options,’ I repeat slowly. ‘Erm, no we can cook together, we can go out, we don’t have to watch movies.’ I tug on the hem of my pyjama top, not knowing what to do or say next.

‘I want a break from us,’ Scott says with a heavy sigh.

It’s the tiny word at the end of his sentence that takes me completely by surprise and causes a sharp stabbing pain in my throat. I take a step back and try to digest the words Scott has just said, my brain muddled with talk of takeaways and movies.

‘What do you mean “a break”?’ I ask quietly, tripping up over each word. My brain is rattling in my head with all kinds of uncertainty and fear. Is Scott joking? Is this some kind of prank? What have I missed? Scott isn’t moving, just sitting in the same position he has been in during this entire conversation, but he’s looking at me and I hate that I don’t recognize the look in his eyes.

‘A break, like we take some time apart, give each other some space,’ he says. His features are relaxed, and I hate that he looks more relieved than pained. I feel like a child flying over the handlebars of my bike, landing in a heap on the ground with a sudden whack. I can’t find my breath.

‘Why?’ is all I can manage. I’m hunched over a little with my hand on my stomach. I’ve paced a few steps, so I can look at Scott. He flicks his hands up at my question, almost like a shrug, like he doesn’t have an answer. But you don’t suggest something as big as taking a break from your marriage without having an answer, surely?

‘We want different things; I don’t think it’s working.’ He runs a hand through his blonde hair. There’s a buzzing sound in my brain, a rattle, a hum, making it difficult for me to understand what is going on. When was it not working? It was working fine the last time I checked.

‘I want you.’ The words slip out before I can catch them. Doesn’t he know how much I love him? How can he be saying we want different things? Where has this come from? Never have we discussed wanting different things. What does he even mean by wanting different things? We got married because we wanted each other. We gazed out in the same direction with similar goals and dreams in mind.

‘I want you too, but I think we need this break. Have some time to figure out if this is what we really want,’ Scott says. I feel like my mind is playing a trick on me. If he wants me then what is there to figure out? He’s talking to me with the same look he gives the Chinese menu when deciding what he wants; I want fried rice, but I want won ton soup too. But this is our marriage, it isn’t flavour of the week.

‘If you want me, Scott, then what is the problem? What is it that you need to take a break from?’ I ask. My brows are drawn and my lips are trembling at the weight of the questions. This is a conversation I never thought I would be having and it’s all happening too quickly for my body to know how to react.

‘You want kids. What happens if I don’t want kids?’ he says. He is flipping his phone around in his hands. He’s agitated, I can tell. He’s looking out of the window now and my instinct is telling me that he’s ready for this conversation to be over. Scott isn’t a huge talker and we’ve never had an argument that warranted a discussion lasting more than five minutes, mostly because it would just be me talking and Scott would get fed up. I would have to reduce myself to a few words, get them in quickly before Scott kissed me, then it would be make-up sex and we’d be good.

‘Do you not want kids, Scott?’ I ask, perplexed by his question. I’d never given thought to him not wanting kids because not once had he mentioned anything of the sort. Not once, not even one little hint had been given to me that would make me think my husband did not want kids someday. He joined in with conversations about what it would be like when we had our own children in the future. Heck, he had started conversations about when we would have them, what names he liked, what books he would read and games he would play with them.

I’m holding on to the back of a dining room chair to keep me upright. I want to sit down but there is a strange adrenaline keeping me standing. I want to fix this. Scott stays quiet, leaving my question lingering, like he doesn’t have an answer. My dad is a fixer, a manly man with a molten core. I can be emotional, but I know I can fix this; I can be strong.

‘Scott, if you’re worried about kids, we can talk about it. If you don’t want kids right this second, it’s OK. We can talk about having them when we’re both ready. If you never want them, then I’m not sure what to tell you, but you’re right: maybe you need to take some time to figure out whether it’s a never or just not right now situation,’ I say. My words come out surprisingly calm, in contrast to the fast and shooting pains I keep getting in my chest. But Scott does this to me. I want to please him, I know that much. I can compromise. I just need to assure him that I am here for him, whatever he is going through, I’ll stand by his side.