Our First Million

“Here’s to our first million!” The words jump out of me, as I gaze across the table at the wonderful woman who has stuck with me for the last 20 years, waving a check in one hand and a glass of freshly-poured champagne in the other before clanking them together in a triumphant toast. Looking into her beautiful, emerald green eyes, she appears more radiant today than ever before. How could she not be? We’ve finally made it!

After all these years, I’ve done something to make her proud. Who would have thought, out of all the songs I’ve ever written, one would become a number-one hit? Every radio station keeps playing it, and everyone keeps singing it.

And the money is coming in!

I think about all the things we can finally do. “New bathroom? We can put in the hot tub we always wanted," I say.

“New house,” she quips, with a knowing smile. She's always thinking bigger than me. That's the kind of encouragement I need—the kind of encouragement she always gave.

Her exuberance draws me in. Yes! Of course! A new house designed the way we want. “Remember our first little apartment? With the 80s dark-dungeon look in the kitchen?” I ask.

She lights up and says, “I always loved that style. Those dark brown, wood cabinets with brass handles; dim, recessed lights; the faux-brick backsplash that always looked dirty, no matter how often I cleaned it.”

“Let's do it!” I hate that style, but it's not for me. It’s for her. After putting up with me, she deserves whatever she wants. “A house that makes us happy,” I say.

“We’ll be happy no matter what.” She’s right, of course. Any place with her will be a happy place. “What about something out in the country?” she asks.

“You really want to get away, huh?”

“It’s time to leave,” her voice goes dim. “The memories here were…” She pauses as her eyes flick back and forth, scanning the ceiling before landing on me. “They weren’t always happy. I was sick for most of our time here. Even after the cancer went into remission, those sour memories made it hard to feel at home.” I understand her. This place isn’t her place. It probably never was. I was the one who picked it, the one who insisted it be near a recording studio. If she wants to leave, we leave. After all, none of this would have happened without her.

Before "For You, For Love" became a hit six months ago, I’d submitted song after song to agent after agent. Songs about fights. Songs about rough childhoods. Songs about beautiful places. None of them landed. Then I used her as my muse, and boom! A young pop group snatched it up and took it to the top.

Now, here we are, planning one of those futures we'd talked about right after college. One of those futures we couldn't afford. I remember sitting under the stars one night, shortly after graduation, telling her how I wanted to buy her a new Nikon D2H camera, the one that shot an astounding 8 FPS. I couldn't afford it then. Now, it's obsolete. Now, I can buy her something better.

“What about trips?" I ask, trying to match her big-house energy. "We had so much fun spending summers in the Adirondacks. We’d hike until the sun went down, you’d snap pictures of the mountains, and we would barbecue all night long with our of friends. How about doing that in the Alps this year?”

“The Alps were always my dream!” Her eyes widen, and her smile deepens.

I say, “A dream we can make happen! We can go anywhere you want. We can start packing today!”

“We don’t need to rush,” she says, before taking a momentary pause. Although she keeps her smile, I see something else behind it.

I study her in that moment. There's a shadowy glimmer in her eyes. It's layered, multifaceted: it's not only the wonder of our future, but also anguish. The anguish isn't salient; it’s beneath the surface. When you’re with someone for 20 years, through ups, downs, and all the chaos in between, the subtle things are conspicuous, as if they're glaring right at you.

“What’s wrong?” I blurt out, worried that I already know the answer.

She hesitates. Perhaps she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, or worse, she thinks I won’t listen to her. Truly listen to her, as was often the case in the past. She’d pour her heart out to me in those vulnerable moments in waiting rooms while my mind was flirting with the next unsung lyric.

“I—” She halts. Her eyes lock onto mine, holding me hostage. “Do you ever wish we had children?”

This question had probably been lingering for some time. “We have money now. We can have kids, if we want," I say.

“We’re in our late forties now.” She lowers her eyes to the table, staring at nothing in particular. Something about the way she said that word: forties. It felt cold. It felt empty. Her eyes rise up and meet mine again. “We’re past having children.” My heart sinks.

“It’s not too late. Lots of people wait until they’re older,” my words sound hollow because they are. She's right, as always. It is too late.

“It's not just our age. We've missed out on so much in this," she fishes for the right word for but a moment, and then it pops out like an epiphany, "Pursuit.”

There it is. It's not only about the children. It’s also about the countless hours I spent away from her, pursuing a future for me. Like when I rushed through our 10th anniversary dinner so that I could meet with an agent about a song that ultimately amounted to nothing. A wasted moment that couldn't be brought back. She had to endure so much. And so much of it she had to endure alone. I regret the parts of it that were my fault.

“I wanted life to be better for us,” the words sputter out like an old car on its last leg.

She shoots me a glance I’ve seen before: her eyes narrow slightly, while her mouth curls in a way that’s both a smile and a frown woven into one. It’s her tenderness, her warmth, her understanding—but also her sorrow—wrapped into a single, soul-stirring expression. "When you were out those late nights, I know you weren’t trying to hurt me." She lets out a short, heavy breath, and says, "But it did hurt. I went to bed alone many nights, so that you could pursue your dream. I'm not sure I ever had time to pursue mine."

Now I hurt.

Rightfully so.

She continued, "I always liked taking pictures. Pictures of life. Real life. Those pictures of you writing in the office were some of the best I’ve ever taken. I could’ve taken up photography. Maybe even published my own work."

She focuses her gaze past me. I don't turn. I know what her eyes caught sight of: her dusty camera sitting on a shelf in the living room. After what strikes me as a lifetime, though it was only ten seconds, her eyes return to me. Without warning, she reaches across the table and wraps my hands in hers. They’re cold and wispy.

Before I'm able to say something stupid, the corners of her mouth pull apart, and she gives me an understanding and forgiving smile. No more hidden anguish. “Don’t feel bad. I love you, and I love that you always wanted to build a better future for us. But perhaps you do owe me the dungeon kitchen.”

“I do,” I say.

Her hands warm up, matching her smile. Her wonderful, perfect smile.

“At least we have the time now,” she says.

“Yes. We have time now,” I say. It's an admission of guilt, though, and it hurts like hell. I want to tell how sorry I truly am, how much her life means to me. But I don't. It might come out as more hollow words if I do. Instead, I try to lighten the mood and ask, “What’s first? House or a trip?”

“A trip," she says with no hesitation.

I like it. We can explore the world now and buy a house when we return. If we return. Maybe we’ll become one of those couples who travel all the time; the only place we’ll call home is the open road.

“Let's do it!” I say, my excitement spilling out.

There’s a moment of beautiful silence between us.

“Was it worth it?” she holds her smile. That warm, loving smile.

That's the real question. But a strange answer slogs out of me, "I just wish..."

“You don’t have to wish anything,” she interjects, the smile slowly fading.

The light is pulled back; her warmth is gone.

“I just wish you were here to see it."

I gaze at her. At the real her. Not in a chair, but on the table, in a little mahogany box; dark brown, like the cabinets she loved and I hated. The spot she’s rested for the past year, finally settling down, while a song about losing the only person you ever loved was given a pop beat. Millions of teenage girls thought it was about a bad breakup.

If only that were the case. Because in the end…It wasn't worth it.

"Here’s to our first million,” I say, wiping my eyes and staring across the table at her heartbreakingly beautiful little box resting in front of an empty chair, lifting a beer bottle in a sad little toast with one hand, while flicking the check onto the table with the other.