Liquid Courage: A Marriage in Crisis Romance eBook

What happens when happily ever after…isn’t?

On paper, I've got it all...an amazing group of friends, a rabid fan base for my romance novels, and a sweetheart of a husband. Except, these days, his heart doesn’t seem so sweet. He also doesn’t seem to understand my career…or maybe me at all.

Teddy didn’t start out as a stuffy suit. It just sort of happened, somewhere between his MBA and his big promotion and our failed attempts at starting a family. From the time we met on the soccer field, Teddy and I have been inseparable. Only Teddy hasn’t kicked a goal in a long time and he doesn't really not unhappy.

Maybe all relationships are like house plants, and the leaves all eventually wither up. That’s normal, right? I just wish we could find a middle ground...

Now

I type THE END and sigh, sinking back into my desk chair. I close my eyes, taking a moment to appreciate the feeling of satisfaction at finishing a draft of another book. I’m an author. I sometimes feel like I just dreamed this career and have to remind myself it’s real.

I look at the clock. Two in the afternoon. I wish for a moment I could call Teddy and gush about this achievement, but I know he has meetings all day. He wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. Same with a text message. His phone would bing or vibrate and distract him. 

Worse, he’d see it and not respond. 

I crack my knuckles and stand up, unsure what to do with myself now that I got these people in my head to be quiet for a minute. The feeling won’t last long. In a few hours, I’ll think of things I missed, things that I need to change. I’ll start worrying about which details I got wrong and which angry historians will fill my inbox with scalding critiques. 

By the time one of my books publishes, it feels like another day at the office. Marketing and creating a launch plan, all of that stuff is just gravy. This right here is the real achievement: finishing a draft of the thing. Revisions and conversations with my editor and early readers…those are the fun part. The draft, though. So much work. 

I try not to think about the parallels to my work and my marriage, try not to think about the Teddy I fell in love with as the first draft. That would mean the current Teddy is a finished product and that just makes me sad. 

“Nope,” I say out loud to the empty room. I can’t be a wife who thinks of her husband as sad. Not after all we’ve been through. This is just a rough patch. To prove it to myself, I pick up the phone and fire off a text.

Me: I finished a draft of my next book! 

And then I wait, way too long, for a response that doesn’t come. 

There are other things I could be doing. Just because there aren’t people clambering for my attention doesn’t mean my work isn’t intense. I run my own business over here. Not only do I research and write the books myself, I publish them on my own, too. I even established an official business for my books last year: Scandal Sheets Press.

“I’m the CEO of Scandal Sheets Press,” I mutter, still surprised I’d be the CEO of anything.

I don’t love the business aspect of the business. What I really should do is hire a business guy. Or gal. I wonder if my friend Logan can help me with that, but I also worry it’s been so long now that I might as well start over. Or something.

Has enough time passed that Teddy should have seen my text?

In an effort to not stare at my phone, I check on my advertising campaigns. I run ads for my books on social media, and it’s been so fun figuring out the best way to fine-tune those to get the most clicks. I recently figured out that the people who tend to buy my books also tend to buy Crock-Pots. So now I target people who love slow-cookers and slow-cooker recipes. There’s always something new to learn, some new connection I hadn’t considered. 

Running my own author business is the first thing that really clicked for me. I think it’s because all the tasks are so different. I write the books and run the ads and hire the cover designer. No two days ever look the same. If only my husband appreciated my need to be all over the place. He sees that sort of thing as a lack of focus. Or at least I think he does. We never talk about my work. Not these days.

* * *

Once I determine that the ads are all spending the amount of money they should be, I force myself not to check my phone for a response from Teddy. I email my cover designer to let her know I finished a draft. She immediately writes back with a ton of exclamation points and asks if she can read it yet. I smile at that. I know she’s just hoping for details that will inform her design process, but I don’t show the rough material to just anybody.

I always say showing someone a rough draft of my book is like letting people see me naked. 

I frown, then, because nobody has seen me naked in a long time. How long has it been? 

I can’t decide if it’s worthwhile to try to figure that out. My friends assume I have a blazing hot sex life. It’s a fair assumption, since I write steamy historical romance novels. People have made memes about my spicy scenes, sent me messages about how the sexy bits have helped them revitalize their love life with their partner. I’m glad someone is benefitting from my fiction…

* * *

Eventually I can’t stand it anymore and I glance at my phone. The message to Teddy shows as read, but just as I feared, he has not responded. How long would it take him to send a party hat emoji? To give the message a thumbs up? “Asshole,” I mutter. And then I bite my lip. I don’t want to be angry with him. We’ve been through a lot together. He’s still struggling. 

But I’m struggling, too. 

I take a deep breath and close my laptop. I neaten the papers on my desk and return my research books to their shelves. I flick off the light in my office, close the door, and walk outside to check the mail. My breath catches when I see the envelope from the insurance company—an invoice. Part of me wants to pay it and shred it immediately, to spare Teddy having to look at the black and white reminder from the fertility clinic. Part of me wants to staple it to his pillow to force him to talk about it with me.

Instead of doing either, I leave the mail in the box and walk away. I need to get away from this house for a bit, enjoy the sunshine. How often do we get sunny days in Pittsburgh? Not nearly enough. I stand in my driveway and remember that I live in the suburbs. My neighborhood doesn’t have sidewalks, and there’s not really a destination I can reach on foot without crossing a highway. 

I touch the keyless entry to the fancy car Teddy bought me with his last promotion. I climb in the drivers seat and head toward the city, back to the neighborhood where we bought our first house right after college, when we could only afford a fixer-upper and when we worked together to fix it up ourselves. Teddy was so angry when I refused to sell the house in Highland Park, but even he has come to admit it’s been a good idea to hang on to it as a rental property. 

After all, he’s always saying I have plenty of time to manage the tenants. I roll my eyes, trying to remember the last time I took an afternoon to check on the house. I drive over there, wondering why I don’t just explain to Teddy that my days are full of data analysis and drafting marketing copy in addition to writing sweeping historical romance novels. 

I pull up to the curb outside and smile at the hoard of kids sprinting up the sidewalk from the neighborhood school around the corner. I watch as a sea of dark-haired boys floods into the old Peterson house. I used to babysit for Doug and Amy sometimes when Teddy and I first bought this place. I remember that Amy is a Rogers now, and the Peterson House is technically the Rogers House. Alice Peterson Stag lives just around the corner with her own trio of rowdy boys.

I love knowing the history of this neighborhood. Living here made me a historian—I started researching these beautiful old buildings and learning about the long line of families who lived here. I guess I always imagined starting my own family here. Teddy viewed our house as as a starter house, but I think it was more to me. I should have spoken up about that.

I take a deep breath, noting the neatly mowed grass at our house, the tidy curtains in the windows. I’m about to put the car in gear and head home again when I see my tenants come out the front door. Julian holds the storm door open for Isla as she locks the door and turns to grin at him, a massive pregnant belly jutting before her like the prow of a ship.

Like a beacon or a billboard, shouting that this couple has done it: they’ve checked all society’s boxes. They only signed their lease a few months ago. She must have been newly pregnant, still not showing. I’m glad I didn’t have to do paperwork with them when she was visibly pregnant, didn’t have to school my face muscles into a supportive, happy expression. Honestly, I still don’t even know whether I want to have a baby or whether I wanted to give a baby to Teddy. It definitely seemed to matter more to him.

I try to turn the car back on, realize it’s already on, and rev the engine by accident as I pull out from the curb to get away. Hearing the sound, Isla and Julian recognize me and wave. She pats her belly and smiles as he beckons for me to open the window. “You got a second to talk?”

I sigh and turn off the car for real this time, climbing out with a smile on my face. “Place looks great,” I say, gesturing.

Isla smiles, rubbing her belly absentmindedly. “I was hoping we could ask a favor.” She darts her eyes toward her husband, who scratches at the back of his neck. 

I sigh. “Let me guess. You put in an offer on a house?”

Isla rolls her eyes in relief. “Yes. And I’d really love to move in before the baby arrives. God, I can’t imagine moving with a newborn.” She grimaces. “Any chance we can end our lease early? I’ll help you find a new tenant!”

I smile, less enthusiastically this time. “Let me talk to Teddy, okay? Text me your closing date and all that.”

Julian extends a hand and I hold on as he shakes us both vigorously. “I really appreciate this, Chloe. This wasn’t in the plan…”

“These things happen,” I tell him, meaning it. “I’m glad you two are on the same page about it.” They smile and thank me again profusely as I make my way back to my car. 

I check my mirrors for any straggling neighborhood kids and pull out, back toward my suburban upscale life.