What a Girl Needs Read online

  What a Girl Needs

  By Kristin Billerbeck

  What a Girl Needs By Kristin Billerbeck Copyright © 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Other books by Kristin Billerbeck

  Connect with the Author

  Chapter 1

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  “Marriage won’t solve your problems. It will only highlight them.” My mom used to tell me that and I’d laugh. I mean, seriously, she married my dad. What did she expect? Roses and serenades from the balcony? One can hardly expect romance from a man who grunts the vast majority of his words. Let’s not even bring up the fact that he thinks it’s appropriate to unzip his pants after a big meal—regardless of who is present. Clearly, romance wasn’t a priority to my mother, so I wasn’t inclined to take her advice in this arena.

  “You’ll see,” she’d say, then grin at me like I didn’t possess a brain cell. Her condescension infuriated me, and I’d follow her into the kitchen, determined to tell her my future didn’t look anything like hers.

  “I won’t marry a man who isn’t romantic. You won’t catch us reading the paper at the breakfast table. That’s so depressing when couples do that, like they’re just not interested in one another at all!” At this point, I’d get a little heated. I’ll admit it; I took it personally when she’d tell me romance was a myth.

  “Well, I hope you meet this Prince Charming, Ashley. May the enchantment and lingering gazes over the scrambled eggs last forever.” Mom would then roll her eyes and set the breakfast dishes in the sink.

  As I’m about to celebrate my second anniversary to Prince Charming, I have to admit, there may have been a little truth in my mother’s words. Just a smidgen. We still don’t read the paper over breakfast, but I’d be lying if I said my expectations weren’t the slightest bit dashed. I thought the daily rejection that was my single-life existence would end at marriage. I mean, someone basically signed a contract to not reject you, am I right? Three years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be married. And now? Now I just want a husband who is home once in a while…

  * * *

  I, Ashley Stockingdale Novak, did marry my real-life Prince Charming. Amazingly, he was available in human form: Dr. Kevin Novak, Resident Pediatric Surgeon. I used to be a leading patent attorney working on the latest technologies in Silicon Valley. We left the area, and my career behind, for Philadelphia, so that my husband could further his profession in the renowned neonatal surgical unit with preemies.

  Patents on the latest integrated circuit seemed insignificant by comparison. I mean, Kevin isn’t just a doctor, he’s like Superman and Mother Teresa rolled into one amazingly hot package… And I’m…well, outside of patents, good at shopping. If I have other skills, I have yet to discover them.

  It certainly isn’t cooking.

  When I dwell on the humanity chasm that looms between my husband and me, it becomes overwhelming. While he disappears off to the hospital to save someone’s precious child, I tell myself that it’s enough to be at home as his support system. I tell myself that it’s a godly thing to be satisfied with being his helpmate, that there’s honor in being Robin to his Batman. Or am I Alfred the butler?

  Every day I start with prayer and good intentions. Today I’m going to bake cupcakes and have a three-course meal on the table when Kevin returns from his arduous day. Only, I’m not such a great cook, and while shopping may be a specialty, grocery shopping is like browsing for a casket. You might HAVE to do it, but does anyone really want to? Maybe foodies who watch the Food Network. But two channels over on QVC they’re selling Chi hair straighteners on EasyPay. I ask you, where would your attention go?

  When you’re lacking a set schedule, the day begins to get away from you, and before you know it, you’ve lost an entire day and can’t account for it. Being unemployed, for me is like being on a drunken binge. At least, what I imagine a drunken binge to be like.

  I’m in Philadelphia, but my life is still back in Silicon Valley, where I left my job, my friends, my family and my church. It all seemed so reasonable and self-sacrificing for love—it was romantic. Except the reality is that I’m bored out of my skull. I should be content. The operative word being should, but I’m bored out of my skull.

  I still have my patent license, but I’m not legally allowed to work for a law firm in Pennsylvania without passing the bar. So I can do my job, but no one will actually hire me to do it. In this state, I’m only qualified to be a patent agent, so I’m relegated to consulting occasionally on patents for the kind of chintzy gadgets sold on late-night television. A monkey could write these patents.

  “You’re an intellectual snob,” my friend Brea told me. “You’re not the belle of the ball in Philadelphia and you can’t handle it.”

  Perhaps, but eventually, you have to own your truth. And here it is: I need more mental stimulation than writing patents for the “finger-mounted fly swatter” and making dinner every night.

  At some time in the last two years, I stopped finding joy in shoes and that’s when I knew I was in trouble. As a patent consultant, I rarely had reason to leave the house. Let’s face it, you don’t need schematics and design engineers to describe “The ABC Banana Peeler” in graphic detail. Forget the fact that this is what opposable thumbs are for. This kind of patent work can be done over the phone or by email. Or in crayon scribbled on a piece of binder paper.

  There was intrigue in the fact that patents I worked on were at risk of being stolen by foreign countries—it brought this whole espionage thing to the table that made me feel like a female 007. Countries that are tempted to steal the next iPhone design couldn’t care less about Junko’s latest weight-loss gimmick. Without an office and a steady stream of work and compliments on my shoes, my joy in fashion lost its power.

  And in essence, so have I.

  It appears, and this totally surprised me, but it appears as though I am not all that good at sacrificial living. I may even be…gasp…slightly selfish. However, after two years of living in this interim mode, I’ve finally worked up the courage to tell Kevin that I need more from life. California doesn’t share reciprocity with Pennsylvania, so I either need to get licensed as an attorney in Pennsylvania, or find meaningful work to do while Kevin saves lives. Since Kevin’s position wasn’t permanent, it seemed silly to get licensed when we might move again soon. So I waited. And I bought more shoes. And I became this cardboard cutout of myself.

  No more.

  Ashley Stockingdale Novak is back, and I plan to be better than ever and rekindle the romance of life tha
t makes it worth living.

  Kevin’s and my second anniversary falls on a Monday night, and I plan to use the occasion to tell him my truth. I smooth my electric blue skirt in the mirror and practice what I’ll tell him. “I’m so proud of you Kevin, with all you do to save babies who wouldn’t stand a chance without you. You’re so selfless and awesome, but—”

  And this is where I stop. But what? But I’m too shallow to sit home while you save babies all day? I must write patents the way Dickens had to churn out words, what?

  The doorbell rings, and I slide into my strappy, silver sparkle Sergio Rossi heels. There’s a lot of money in Philly. So much money in fact, that you can buy designer heels for nothing at consignment shops. I never saw myself as a “used” shoe kind of girl, but when what I could afford on Kevin’s salary became obvious, I became frugal.

  Giving up my job didn’t prepare me for what I’d actually have to surrender: Shoes, clothes, coffee shop soy lattes on a regular basis…it’s like being in college without the work to take your mind off the sacrifice.

  I open our front door, and Kevin is standing in a charcoal suit with a cobalt-and-red tie I bought him back when I had a job. He looks as if he’s stepped out of a Nordstrom window and I’m taken aback by the warmth in his eyes. He holds up a bouquet of red roses. “Happy Anniversary.” He puts the flowers on the table by the doorway and envelops me in a hug. He kisses my neck and whispers, “I love you.” With a small growl, he suggests, “We don’t really need to eat now, do we?”

  “You made reservations. We’re going to be late,” I say in obligatory fashion, but the idea of a quiet evening at home sounds like absolute bliss. His work is constantly on his mind, and the notion of having his full attention burrows in deep and finds a warm spot in my heart.

  “I did make reservations.” He helps me with my coat and opens the door wider and leads me outside. “C’mon, sexy. The sooner we go to dinner, the sooner we’ll get home—”

  I hang onto his solid bicep as he shows me to his waiting white horse: A Dodge Stratus. He tells me about his day and the surgery he performed until we arrive at the Society Hill restaurant. He pays for valet, which thrills me, since the Sergio shoes are not comfortable, and I’m out of practice in heels. I’m fumbling about like Bambi getting the feel for new legs. Gone is the confidence dressing up once gave me—now it’s as if I’m wearing my mother’s heels and padding about awkwardly. If, in fact, I had a mother who ever wore heels.

  Kevin places his hand at the small of my back, and we enter into the romantic dim lighting. The restaurant is everything I do love about Philadelphia. It is filled with history, from its beamed ceilings and exposed brick walls to its underground tunnels. Everything in the city seems to have a story, and running my hand along the brick wall I wonder what it could tell me if it could speak.

  Kevin checks in with the maître d’ and we are seated at an intimate table in the wine cellar, which is candlelit and ours alone. The music from the piano bar above wafts in and echoes off the brick walls, and the ambiance is everything I might possibly hope for.

  “I knew my mother was wrong about romance ending.” I smile across the table.

  Kevin is as gorgeous as the day I married him as he looks deeply into my eyes. “Are you happy, Ashley?”

  “Do you think anyone was Shanghaied in these tunnels?”

  He gives me that look. “Really Ashley?”

  And I feel slightly ashamed of myself for missing the moment, but I’m captivated by the arched concrete over our heads. Or maybe I just don’t want to answer his question. Because if you can’t say anything nice…

  “Well, it’s totally romantic for us, but don’t you wonder what happened here in another era? I mean, someone could have been captured and held hostage down here, and we’re preparing for a culinary feast and feeling romantic. But what if they got sent through the tunnel to a boat waiting offshore and were taken from the only life they’d ever known?”

  “Correction,” Kevin says. “It was romantic.” He clasps his beautiful, knotty surgeon’s hands on the table, and his slightly narrowed eyes tell me he knows I’m trying to divert his attention. “I asked you if you’re happy.”

  “Happy?” I close my eyes for a moment and contemplate that perhaps it is me who turned into my father. What if I’m the one doing the Stockingdale male equivalent of sitting at the table with my pants unbuttoned? “All right. Reset.” I stare at him and try to forget the neurotic voices in my head. “I love you, sweetheart. It’s been two years, but it seems like yesterday that I walked down the aisle toward you. I remember it was near impossible to walk slowly because all I wanted to do was get to you, for fear you’d run off before I reached the altar.”

  “I would have waited an eternity.”

  “The beat of that wedding march is ridiculous. They should speed it up.”

  “But are you happy?” he repeats.

  Notice, I didn’t quite answer the question. I don’t know how to answer because Kevin delights me. I regret nothing, and I’d marry him over and over again, but my current life is not enough – and for that reason, I feel like I’ve betrayed him. I search for the words to tell him that I need more, and that it has little to do with him.

  “I feel like a failure,” I say.

  “A failure? Ashley, you accomplished more in your short career than most people accomplish in a lifetime. How many patents did you secure?”

  “Accomplished. Past tense. As in, I’m over. Finished. Shouldn’t I have something to look forward to at this age? I mean, I’m too young to be looking backwards, am I right? You’re just getting started in your career. You have so many babies to save, and I have—what? Another pair of shoes to buy?”

  Kevin’s expression drops, and once again I’ve changed the mood—just like my dad taking it one portion of his zipper at a time.

  “I didn’t realize that’s how you felt. I knew you weren’t your bubbly self, but I suppose I didn’t fully realize how miserable you really were.”

  My shoulders slump as I see how I’ve let him down. “I’m a failure as a Christian wife, Kevin, don’t you see? Cooking, caring for others—it should make me happy and fulfill me, but it doesn’t. What’s wrong with me? I make dinner, and I try to find pleasure in it like Nigella Lawson does—”

  “Who?”

  “She’s a famous chef. But she puts love and joy into her food. I feel like I put bitterness with a side of resentment into it. I abhor cooking and I want to find pleasure in it.” I frown. “But I don’t.”

  Kevin taps his finger on the dark table as if searching for the answer to the universe. I pick up the scents of Italian food between us. There’s the pungent odor of garlic mixed with the heady scent of red wine and the sweet wax from the candle at our table. My husband is silenced. I’ve silenced Kevin. I have that ability to shut people down because they don’t know how to answer me. I don’t know when to be quiet. Just like my father doesn’t know when to keep his pants zipped.

  “I’m ruining the romance. I shouldn’t have said anything,”

  The waiter comes and brings us waters with lemon in it. He reads off the specials, but I’m not listening. My eyes are trained on my husband who wants to fix my mess that isn’t his to fix. It’s not his job to put me back together again.

  “May I get you started on some beverages?” The waiter rattles off wine selections, but Kevin and I don’t drink. Nobody wants his or her surgeon to drink, and me? Well, it goes without saying that I don’t need alcohol. I’m more than enough for most people perfectly sober.

  The waiter finally leaves us alone in the wine cellar, and rather than romance, there’s this heavy air hanging between us. Kevin takes my hands in his.

  “Just because you don’t find fulfillment in darning my socks doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, Ashley. This may be hard for you to believe, but I never imagined you as much of a housewife.”

  I grimace. “I could do it if I wanted to.”

  “Dom
esticity is not your strong suit, honey. That’s why you lived with Kay.”

  “It is not!” But I slink a bit in my chair. “Okay, it probably is, but there’s nothing wrong with taking pleasure in what Kay enjoyed. She enjoyed the house as her castle.” Why do I feel like my anniversary is suddenly a critique on everything I’m not?

  “There’s our house,” he says. “It doesn’t feel like home to you and I know that’s true because when you lived with Kay you made the parts of it that were yours, truly yours. You decorated. You bought a fancy bedspread that matched the curtains—”

  Kevin’s parents bought our house. It was a wedding gift. A really crappy wedding gift, if you ask me. Because people, no matter what their budget, should have a choice in the kind of life they want to live. I didn’t, and every time I enter the house, I think of it as Kevin’s mother’s house – not my own.

  “I knew who I was then. I was the woman who liked 500-thread count sheets and Sheridan bedding with bright colors to match my mood. I’m not about anything anymore.” The realization hits me like strong drink. “I used to sing in the choir and help Kay organize parties for the singles’ group. I used to write patents and travel all over the world. Now, I can’t get a job. The new church choir is full with singers, and our house is a dump that I don’t have the energy to fix because even when it’s done, it will just be lipstick on a pig.”

  As all of these truths spew out of me, Kevin’s face looks more horrified, and he understands that he may be married to a curmudgeon. A young, well-dressed curmudgeon.

  “I’m a has-been.”

  “Maybe this is a good time to give you my anniversary present.” He drops my hands and reaches into his jacket pocket.

  “I wish I could take back everything I’ve said tonight, Kevin. I’ve ruined our anniversary.” I look down at the linen napkin in my lap. “I’ve become my father.”

  “Not at all, Ash.” There’s an edge to his voice, something I don’t recognize. “In fact, you’ve only confirmed that I bought you just the right gift to cure what ails you.” He looks at me expectantly while he hands me an envelope. “Happy Anniversary, baby.”