Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [35]
I’m not sure that this means their marriage is superior to ours, but at times, it definitely gives me the unsettling feeling that we have room for improvement. Cate and April, with whom I’ve confided the issue, insist that I am the normal one, and that Rachel and Dex are atypical, if not completely freakish. April, especially, who has a marriage on the other end of the spectrum, maintains that Dex and Rachel are actually “unhealthy and codependent.” And when I broach the topic with Nick, whether with a wistful or worried tone, he becomes understandably defensive.
“You’re my best friend,” he’ll say, which is probably true only because Nick doesn’t really have close friends, typical of most surgeons we know. He once did—in high school and college and even a few in medical school—but hasn’t made much effort to keep up with them over the years.
More important, even if I am Nick’s best friend by default, and even if he is my best friend in theory, I sometimes feel as if I share more of my life with Cate and April and even Rachel—at least when it comes to the everyday matters that comprise my life—from the slice of cheesecake I regret eating to the killer sunglasses I found on sale to the adorable thing Ruby said or Frank did. Eventually, I get around to telling Nick this stuff, too, if it’s still relevant or pressing when we’re finally together at the end of the day. But more often, I mentally pare down the important issues and spare him the trivial ones—or at least the ones I think he would deem trivial.
Then there is the matter of Dex and Rachel’s sex life, something I know about by accident, really. The conversation began when Rachel recently confided that they’ve been trying for over a year to have a third baby. This, in and of itself, gave me a pang, as Nick has long since ruled out a third in no uncertain terms—and although I overall agree with him, I sometimes long for a less predictable, two-child, boy-girl family.
In any event, I asked Rachel if they’d been working hard at it or just casually trying, expecting her to delve into the typical unromantic strategies and methodologies of couples trying to conceive.
Ovulation kits, thermometers, scheduled intercourse. Instead she replied, “Well, nothing out of the ordinary. . . But, you know, we have sex three or four times a week—and no luck . . . I know a year of trying isn’t that long, but it happened right away with the girls. . .”
“Three or four times a week when you’re ovulating?” I asked. “Well, I’m not really sure exactly when I’m ovulating. So we just have sex four times a week, you know . . . all the time,” she said, releasing a nervous laugh, indicating that she didn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing her sex life.
“All the time?” I repeated, thinking of the old Japanese adage that if a newly married couple places a bean in a jar every time they make love during their first year, and then remove one every time they make love thereafter, they will never empty the jar.
“Yeah. Why? Should we do it . . . less?” she asked. “Maybe save it up for the best few days of my cycle? Could that be the problem?”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You have sex four times a week? As in, every other day?”
“Well. . . yeah,” she said, suddenly reverting to her old self-conscious self, the girl I worked so hard to bring out of her shell when she married my brother, with the hope that we would someday feel like sisters, something neither of us had growing up. “Why?” she asked. “How . . . often do you and Nick?”
I felt myself hesitate, then nearly told her the truth—that we have sex three or four times a month, if that. But a basic sense of pride, and maybe a little competition, kicked in.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe once or twice