the top drawer of the file cabinet.
Leaning against the arm of the recliner, Claire asked, "What are you looking for?"
When he didn't respond, her already low reserve of patience abandoned her altogether. "Please be ok with this."
Nice.
In that one statement, she skipped reason and went directly to begging.
Head bent over his files, he responded, "With what?"
"With me doing the kind of writing I want to do."
He pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to her. It was a printout of a spreadsheet.
"And this is…?"
"Our monthly expenses."
As her eyes grazed the piece of paper, she recited the categories listed aloud, the irritation growing in her voice with each one. "Groceries, mortgage, clothing, school expense, electric, gas, cable, car repairs, and house expense."
She looked at him expectantly. "So you track every dime we spend. To the penny."
He reached over and pointed. "That total at the bottom? That's how much we spend each month. I don't know what reporters make, but I'm guessing it's not gonna cover that."
Claire stared at the figure, frustration welling up inside of her. Fighting the urge to wad up the piece of paper and pelt him with it, she shoved it back into the folder, not caring if she jammed, wrinkled, or tore it, and slammed the file drawer closed with a bang.
"Hey." Paul jerked his knee away just in time. He shot an angry glare in her direction.
Just wanted to level the playing field.
"Well, if you hadn't—" she started.
"Hadn't what?" he prompted, his mouth in a tight line as if he already knew what she would say.
"Lost our nest egg."
There. She'd said it. Out loud.
Dredging up the unfortunate chain of events during which his stock portfolio evaporated before he could reinvest it was a cheap shot. He had always referred to it as their "nest egg." Before he knew it, they went from contemplating paying off their hefty mortgage to trying desperately to reclaim some of its lost value from federal regulators.
His expression was a mixture of shock and defeat. "Really. Wow."
She felt awful, as if she had just kicked a kitten.
"Please understand," she said about a thousand times softer as she laid her hand tentatively on his arm. "This might be my only chance to be a real writer."
Her voice sounded as small as she felt.
Looking in the direction of the wall behind her, Paul replied, "I don't know what more to tell you."
With that, he got up and went back downstairs, leaving her in the fading light of the office-slash-man cave. Uncomfortable under the admonishing glares of Michael Jordan and Walter Payton, she headed to Jonah's room to help him pick out a bedtime book, grateful that she didn't have to recite any stupid fairy-tale lies.
* * *
The next morning, Paul had no sooner gotten back home after dropping everyone off at school than Luke called to tell him he needed a pair of running spikes for practice after school. That was the only reason he found himself kneeling in front of a small mountain of shoes piled high in the bedroom closet of his two youngest sons. Some had belonged to the older two boys, but one pair had belonged to him.
He started removing the shoes a pair at a time. With vigor.
By the time he had gotten back from his run that morning, Claire was already gone, presumably on her interview at the newspaper. He had no idea which one. While he knew there were about a dozen better ways he could have reacted to her news the night before, her asking where she could find their marriage license was, to say the least, a low blow. What she intended to do with it, besides riling him, he had no idea.
He nearly fell over backward when he tugged out a beaten-up pair of black running spikes with a jerk. Holding the bottom of one up against a newer running shoe of Luke's to check the size, he was relieved to see that it was a perfect match.
Yes.
Paul set them to the side and started returning the other old shoes to the closet, weeding out any
Leaning against the arm of the recliner, Claire asked, "What are you looking for?"
When he didn't respond, her already low reserve of patience abandoned her altogether. "Please be ok with this."
Nice.
In that one statement, she skipped reason and went directly to begging.
Head bent over his files, he responded, "With what?"
"With me doing the kind of writing I want to do."
He pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to her. It was a printout of a spreadsheet.
"And this is…?"
"Our monthly expenses."
As her eyes grazed the piece of paper, she recited the categories listed aloud, the irritation growing in her voice with each one. "Groceries, mortgage, clothing, school expense, electric, gas, cable, car repairs, and house expense."
She looked at him expectantly. "So you track every dime we spend. To the penny."
He reached over and pointed. "That total at the bottom? That's how much we spend each month. I don't know what reporters make, but I'm guessing it's not gonna cover that."
Claire stared at the figure, frustration welling up inside of her. Fighting the urge to wad up the piece of paper and pelt him with it, she shoved it back into the folder, not caring if she jammed, wrinkled, or tore it, and slammed the file drawer closed with a bang.
"Hey." Paul jerked his knee away just in time. He shot an angry glare in her direction.
Just wanted to level the playing field.
"Well, if you hadn't—" she started.
"Hadn't what?" he prompted, his mouth in a tight line as if he already knew what she would say.
"Lost our nest egg."
There. She'd said it. Out loud.
Dredging up the unfortunate chain of events during which his stock portfolio evaporated before he could reinvest it was a cheap shot. He had always referred to it as their "nest egg." Before he knew it, they went from contemplating paying off their hefty mortgage to trying desperately to reclaim some of its lost value from federal regulators.
His expression was a mixture of shock and defeat. "Really. Wow."
She felt awful, as if she had just kicked a kitten.
"Please understand," she said about a thousand times softer as she laid her hand tentatively on his arm. "This might be my only chance to be a real writer."
Her voice sounded as small as she felt.
Looking in the direction of the wall behind her, Paul replied, "I don't know what more to tell you."
With that, he got up and went back downstairs, leaving her in the fading light of the office-slash-man cave. Uncomfortable under the admonishing glares of Michael Jordan and Walter Payton, she headed to Jonah's room to help him pick out a bedtime book, grateful that she didn't have to recite any stupid fairy-tale lies.
* * *
The next morning, Paul had no sooner gotten back home after dropping everyone off at school than Luke called to tell him he needed a pair of running spikes for practice after school. That was the only reason he found himself kneeling in front of a small mountain of shoes piled high in the bedroom closet of his two youngest sons. Some had belonged to the older two boys, but one pair had belonged to him.
He started removing the shoes a pair at a time. With vigor.
By the time he had gotten back from his run that morning, Claire was already gone, presumably on her interview at the newspaper. He had no idea which one. While he knew there were about a dozen better ways he could have reacted to her news the night before, her asking where she could find their marriage license was, to say the least, a low blow. What she intended to do with it, besides riling him, he had no idea.
He nearly fell over backward when he tugged out a beaten-up pair of black running spikes with a jerk. Holding the bottom of one up against a newer running shoe of Luke's to check the size, he was relieved to see that it was a perfect match.
Yes.
Paul set them to the side and started returning the other old shoes to the closet, weeding out any
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