He chuckled, the sound deep and comforting, warming my heart. “I think we could come up with a better use for that money. Even if you only donate it to charity or something.”
I bit my lip, wondering if I should say what I’d really like to do with the money. The last time I brought it up Kurt seemed panicked at the thought. “We could use it to have a baby.”
“Clara,” he groaned. “We’ve discussed this a million times.” I rolled my eyes with his words.
“It was just an idea,” I piped back, my annoyance clearly obvious.
“Clara . . . I just can’t go through that again right now. Now’s just not the time.”
“We only tried for a year. The doctor said seeing a fertility specialist would help.”
“I can’t go back to the robot sex. You were so single-minded and it literally became mandatory sex only when you were ovulating. There was no . . . passion. I can’t take you living in depression every time your period comes. I’m sorry. I know I sound like a dick, but with the way things have been between us, I just think . . . maybe we need to wait. Or . . . maybe we’re not meant to have a baby.”
In that moment, my eyes burned with tears. My body failed me. It couldn’t do the one thing that women are meant to do. And when it couldn’t, I went nuts trying to make it happen, and nearly lost my marriage in the process. Sex wasn’t about intimacy or being close—it was to get pregnant. I took my temperature every morning. I made him promise not to masturbate around my ovulation cycle. And I’d forced him to wear regular boxers instead of boxer briefs. Even the acupuncture was a fail. Finally, after a year with no success, when my doctor said we should see a specialist, Kurt lost it. In my obsession I had forgotten him—how to love him and make him feel wanted.
“I thought we were doing better,” I added after a beat. When he came to me and told me he was miserable, that he loved me but couldn’t take the stress of it anymore, I’d backed down. I begrudgingly put trying to have a baby aside to save my marriage. We went to counseling and we worked hard to rekindle our sex life together. I thought with time and a better mind-set—a healthier mind-set—maybe we could try again after some time. But he just wouldn’t come to the table.
“We are,” he concurred, “but I think we need more time.”
“How much more time?” I asked.
“Clara,” he said my name sternly. Like if I were a child. “I’m done talking about this. It’s your money, do what you want with it, but don’t spend it planning on a baby anytime soon because that’s not my plan.”
I frowned, my heart sinking deeper in my chest. “Fine,” I mumbled. “I have to go.”
“Don’t hang up while angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” I lied. “Just tired. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“How long did Dr. Shelton give you off?”
“He said I could have off until Monday if I wanted.”
“Are you at least going to go and check out the place before you tell them you’ll sell your half?”
“I don’t know. I guess I should. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” I knew I was being short with him, but I couldn’t help it.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“Love you, too.”
After hitting End on the call, I tossed my cell phone away from me to the end of the bed as if by doing so I in some way was hurting Kurt. Sitting up, I pulled my purse toward me and dug inside. I pulled the envelope and brochure out and placed the envelope on my nightstand. I wasn’t ready to read it yet. Opening the brochure, I read over it once more, finding two typos. Apparently jumping out of airplanes doesn’t require good grammar. How could they give these things out like this? It looked completely unprofessional. I tapped a finger on my leg as I stared at my cell. I couldn’t deny I was curious. The reason for which I’d been left this business wasn’t great, but it’s not every day a girl inherits half a skydiving business. Maybe I should go and check it out. What could it hurt? I could overcome my fear of heights and jump. Probably. Maybe. I hoped. Closing the brochure, I found the number on the back and dialed it.
It rang four times and I pursed my lips. How in the hell did this place run? On the fifth ring a deep voice answered, “Sky High.”
Furrowing my brows, I said, “Um . . . hello. I’d like to schedule a jump.”
“When?” he asked simply. Judging by his deep and haughty voice, I imagined some giant of a man on the other end of the line. Then I wondered . . . could this be Paul James?
“Is there anything available tomorrow?”
“Yep. Nine a.m. I need your credit card info to charge the deposit. If you don’t show, we keep the deposit.”
After fumbling through my purse, I found my wallet and gave him my name and credit card number.
“Wear pants and comfortable shoes; tennis shoes are best. Be here twenty minutes early to fill out paperwork.”
“Okay.”