As I’m driving to my meeting this morning, I’m smiling and feeling like I’m driving under the influence. They talk about influencers on social media, people with social clout who can make you buy a product or watch a video. Phillip is my influencer. He affects my moods. He’s an integral part of my soul. The beauty of his love is purely in that love’s existence. The power of our hearts to find our match and the profound impact on our life when we do.
I almost sound poetic.
Ha!
Which is fitting, I guess. Poetic promises of love are murmured into ears on top of pillows and behind closed doors. But I know that real love isn’t just a bunch of pretty words.
Real love is when you are running way late for a meeting, and as you are rushing out the door, you realize you drove home on fumes last night because you were too tired to stop for gas and put it off until the next morning. You get in your car, expecting to have to coast halfway to the gas station, but then in front of you is what appears to be a miracle. The gas needle is not buried below empty but is sitting on the other side of the energy rainbow—straight-up full. And, as you look through a shiny, clean windshield, you realize that, when the man you’re married to ran to the store last night to buy you Oreos and milk, he took your car, and not only did he fill it up with gas, but he ran it through the car wash, too.
When people asked my grandmother how she and Grandpa stayed married for so long, she would say, “It’s the little things that matter, not just the big gestures.”
Like every girl who grew up listening to fairy tales, I thought love was all about big gestures. But, now, I understand exactly what Grandma meant.
It’s the heart he drew in the sand on our honeymoon, driving miles to get me the best chicken noodle soup when I was sick, making me coffee every morning.
Getting me gas.
After my meeting with the construction team, I peek into Phillip’s office.
“There’s my gorgeous wife,” he says, looking up from his computer. “How was your meeting this morning? We on track?”
“I really like the general contractor and the foreman who’s overseeing the job site. They say we’ll finish on schedule.”
“Helps that Dad offered a bonus if they do.”
“I was running late this morning,” I confess.
“Shocker,” Phillip teases.
“And I still needed to get gas.”
He gives me a proud grin. “I got you gas last night.”
“And washed my car. You didn’t tell me. What made you do that?”
“When I went into the garage to go to the store, I noticed your car was all salty, so I thought I’d run it through the car wash. I didn’t have much choice on the fuel.”
“It was sweet. I love you.”
“I’m sweet on you.”
“I have a surprise for you tonight,” I say as he pulls me into his arms.
“I love your surprises, but don’t forget, my parents are back in town today.”
“Crap, I forgot. I think my bra is still lying by the couch. But I wasn’t referring to sex.”
“Damn.”
“Phillip, do you like being repaid with sex?”
“I didn’t do it to get repaid. I did it to be nice. But, yes, I like it when you’re nice back.”
I leave work before Phillip does, stopping on the way home to pick up his surprise.
As I’m pulling into our subdivision, I get a text.
Macy: I did it. Broke off my engagement with Peter. Told my parents. I thought they would be so mad, but they didn’t want me to marry him if I wasn’t sure. I can’t even tell you the weight that’s been lifted off my shoulders. And it sounds crazy, but Nick and I are officially dating!
Me: I’m happy for you!
When I bought my condo in Omaha, I had to buy a new refrigerator. Our new house came with a built-in fridge, so Phillip put the one from my condo in the garage, dubbing it his beer fridge. But, as of yet, it’s only had a few random Coronas and some Miller Lite cans in it.
I pull into the garage and get to work, readjusting the refrigerator shelves to allow for three rows of bottles. I then organize the fourteen different types of beer I bought into perfectly neat rows. The cans get put into the produce drawers, and the door shelves are filled with back stock.
I stand back and admire my work.
I can’t wait for him to get home! He’s going to be so excited!
I grab my purse and tote out of the car and head into the house. Phillip’s mom is in the kitchen, surrounded by flour, and has my new mixer—which I’ve yet to use myself—running.
“Oh, hey,” she says, wiping her hands. “I have a surprise for you!”
She gestures toward the breakfast room where, in front of the bay window overlooking the lake, a white wooden kitchen table sits with six shaker-style chairs surrounding it.
“What’s that for?” I ask. I can’t say much else. I can’t even begin to describe all the ways in which this table is completely wrong for the room.
I want to cry.
She’s ruined my kitchen—my beautiful, modern kitchen. Even though I don’t want to get closer to it, I’m drawn toward the offensive table and realize it’s even worse than I thought. Not only has she ruined my kitchen aesthetically, but she’s also added insult to injury by choosing a table made of pressed wood.
“It’s similar to the table at our house,” she says, “but I got white, so it would match your house better. Surprise! Now, you don’t have to sit at the bar.”
I tear my eyes away from the train-wreck table to look at her.
She’s smiling, happy, and still speaking, “Phillip has always loved our table. I have so many good memories of him and Ashley and often you eating around it.”
“Your table is solid oak,” I manage to mutter, my mind a blur of worry. “It was really nice of you …” I start with a compliment, hoping to ease the blow. “But Phillip and I have already picked out a table.”
“Well, now, you don’t need it,” she says firmly.
I rush into my bedroom. I can’t look at the table. I can’t pretend to be excited about it. How do I ask her to take it back? To get the hideous thing out of my house?
I hear a car, rush to the window, and see Phillip pulling into the driveway.
Thank goodness he’s home. Maybe he can tell his mother we will not be keeping the table. He’s her son. Even if she gets mad at him or gets her feelings hurt, she’ll get over it because she loves him.
I don’t want her to hate me, especially now. Lately, she’s made me feel like I’m not good enough for Phillip. My house is dusty. I don’t cook five-course meals every night.
I don’t have a kitchen table.
I hear Phillip’s heavy footsteps coming down the hall, so I rush in my closet and rip off my clothes, so he’ll think I’m just changing out of my work clothes and not hiding in the bathroom, freaking out.
“Hey,” he says, peeking around the corner as I’m pulling on a pair of yoga pants. He comes into my closet and gives me a kiss.
I expect him to say something about the table, but he doesn’t.
Maybe he already handled it, and she’s moving it to the garage as we speak.
That’s probably wishful thinking.
“So, uh, did you see what your mom bought?” I ask.
“Yeah. What do you think of it?”
“Um, what do you think of it?”
“It reminds me of when we were kids. Mom suggested we cancel the table we ordered. It’d definitely save us some money.”
My mouth falls open, and my eyes widen. I’m holding back tears and unable to comment.
Phillip twists his mouth. “You still love the table we ordered, right?”
“Yeah, it’s the perfect table for our future family.”
He frowns. “My mom made me think you’d decided against it. I was surprised by that.”
“No, Phillip,” I say, letting the tears fall. “We love that table. It’s what we want. You have to tell her she needs to take her table back.”
“I’m not telling her that. It will hurt her feelings, and she’s all excited about it.”
“Phillip, it’s hideous.”
He gives me a look.
“Okay, so it’s not hideous on its own. It just looks hideous in our modern house. I wanted to cry the second I saw it.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That it was sweet of her to get but that we’d found a table.”
“What did she say?”
“That we didn’t need it now. Phillip, you have to do something.”
He mutters something unintelligible as he goes to change out of his suit.
I consider refusing to even sit at the table, but when I go out to the kitchen, Phillip’s dad is sitting at it, and dinner is spread across it.
After dinner, I’m hiding in my office, sketching in my dream-house book. I found out today that not only is Phillip getting a bonus, but I am, too. Part of a company-wide profit-sharing plan. And I know exactly how I’d like to spend it. I want to work toward finishing our dining room. Because we already have the expensive furniture pieces, it won’t take much. All it really needs is two wingback chairs, curtains, fabric to reupholster the dining chairs, and a great piece of artwork.
I want to get Phillip on board, so I’m doing a rendering of how the room will look. And I’m really excited by how it’s turning out.
I print off a photo of the glossy pale gray-metallic leather wingback chairs—which are highlighted by silver nailheads that accentuate its modern lines—and glue it to the page along with a swatch for the menswear-like gray velvet pinstriped fabric for the curtain panels and dining chairs. I add to that a traditional wool rug in muted tones and a funky silver and crystal chandelier.
It’s surprising really that someone who always hated to shop for clothes found out during a college interior design class that she was good at putting rooms together. Interior design is like a puzzle to me. A fusing of elements to create the perfect feel, the perfect look. I actually considered switching majors during my junior year, but my advisor suggested that having the ability to do both structural and interior plans would enhance my résumé. That it would allow my aesthetic ideas to be incorporated into the elemental design of a building. That’s part of why designing the Mackenzies’ new building was so fun. It had to incorporate the modern, luxe feel Phillip’s dad wanted with the required space, functionality, logistics, and security needed for transportation, warehousing, offices, and their call center.
Phillip strolls in with a beer in his hand and a big grin on his face. “I like what you did with my beer fridge. Are you working on more plans for our house or doing work?”
“House. I just finished with the dining room. Want to see it?”
“I’d love to,” he says, sitting on the floor across from my drafting table.
I sit next to him and spread the book across our laps.
“So, I found—”
Phillip stops me with a kiss.
“You taste like beer,” I tell him after a steamy make-out session.
“You’ve been craving beer,” he says with a grin.
“I miss it. I hope Baby Mac appreciates my sacrifice.”
Phillip laughs, but then he cradles my face in his hands. “I know I do. You’re being incredible with everything. Seriously, you amaze me. After all that Danny has been going through with Lori’s pregnancy, I’ve been expecting the worst. But I should have known pregnancy wouldn’t change you.”
“It is changing me though, Phillip. I can cry at the drop of a hat. I’m hungry all the freaking time.” I look down at my stomach. “And I’m starting to show.”
“You seem happy.”
“I am happy.”
“I’m about to ask you to do something that won’t make you happy.”
“What?”
“I can’t tell my mom to take the table back. She’s so excited about it. What if we keep it until ours comes in and then move it somewhere else?”
“Phillip, it looks awful.”
“Please?”
“I want to be proud when our friends see our house. That table doesn’t make me proud. And I don’t want them to think I chose it.”
“Then, you tell her. I’m not.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest and pout. “I’m giving away all the micro-brewed beer in your fridge and filling it with wine coolers and off-brand cans.”
Phillip kisses me again. “You play rough. Why don’t you show me your dining room plans and maybe we can negotiate?”
I wake with a start, quickly realizing I was dreaming. A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly five a.m.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. I just know it was bad.
And, when I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, all I see is the red from my dream, running like a current.
