I laugh. “Does anyone do that anymore? That’s so…fifties.”
“Please forgive my gender stereotyping…especially given Diane’s remarkable career….Do you know it’s harder to become a vet than it is an MD?”
I roll my eyes at her transparent attempt to make me jealous. “Hmm, yes, I’ve heard that. Go on.”
“Right. So Diane drops by to borrow a…Phillips screwdriver. Her washing machine is on the fritz….”
“Pity,” I say.
“Yes. So Nolan finds one in the garage, then offers to take a look. While you stay home with Harper—in mid–temper tantrum—Nolan and Dr. West depart together.”
“And then what?” I ask, smirking. “Wait! Lemme guess….Do they have sex atop her broken washing machine?”
Amy doesn’t react. “No. Not as far as you know, anyway. He simply returns over an hour later, mission accomplished. The machine is all fixed….”
“Nolan’s good deed of the day,” I say, rearranging the loose pillows behind me and shoving one against my stiff lower back. “Good for him. Good for her. All’s well that ends well.”
“Yes…Yet you also notice that his teeth are a bit red…stained from a glass of pinot noir. She happened to have a bottle open….”
“Nolan doesn’t drink red wine.”
“Fine. Then you note a trace of bourbon on his breath. She poured him a glass while he worked. One for herself, too. She loves whiskey. They toasted the fixed machine and finished their lively discussion about thoroughbreds.”
“How lively?” I ask, still more amused than jealous.
“Very lively. He finds her work—and her rapport with such large animals—fascinating.”
“Actually, I think he does,” I grant her. “He’s mentioned it more than once.”
“Right,” she says, nodding. “So then it doesn’t altogether surprise you when Diane begins to drop by on a fairly regular basis. Just to say hello. Always when Nolan’s home. Often when you’re not. One evening, she drops by with a book. The one she told him about. The one she promises he will love…She casually touches his arm, but looks a little too comfortable in doing so….” Amy cocks her head and bites her lower lip suggestively.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “I get your point.”
Amy nods vigorously, smugly, as if we’ve just had a major breakthrough when what I’m really feeling is standard-fare competition with another woman. “So I don’t want my husband to cheat on me,” I say. “So what? Who would want that?”
“Some women do,” Amy says.
“Why’s that?” I ask, although I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“So they have an out,” she says. “So they can do the same thing, guilt-free. So their situation becomes black and white, and they can get out of their marriage.”
“Well,” I say. “I don’t want that.”
“You don’t want Nolan to fall in love with Diane West?” she says. “Or you don’t want to get a divorce?”
“Neither,” I say firmly.
She nods, then writes one word on her tablet. I strain to see it, but can only make out a capital D.
“What did you just write?” I ask. “Divorce?”
“No,” she says. “Diane.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Nothing is going on with Diane! Or anyone else, for that matter,” I say, now full-fledged perturbed, which happens about once a session, to Amy’s clear satisfaction. “Why are you trying to scare me?”
“Are you scared?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not. I mean, nobody wants to be the fool. Nobody wants to be deceived. And I like to think that the father of my child has more integrity than to cheat on me. Or have some meaningless affair—”
Amy cuts me off, which she seldom does. “Okay. Well, let’s make it a deep emotional connection….But they never cross that physical line, both of them too principled to cheat.”
“I’d still be hurt,” I admit. “Is that what you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say anything,” Amy says, which for the most part, I believe. “I simply want you to understand your feelings on this subject.”
“Okay. Well, I would be very upset if Nolan cheated on me, whether physically or emotionally,” I admit, just before I let the word but slip out of my mouth.
“But what?” Amy’s expression is misleadingly placid.
“But if he simply wanted a divorce…without an affair…or another woman involved…I could probably live with that,” I say, wondering why I feel so tricked into this admission. I remind myself that Amy is on my side, or at least neutral. Besides, she’s a professional secret keeper—and certainly not in the business of judging.
“So you could live with it,” Amy says. “But it isn’t what you want?”
I say an emphatic no, it isn’t what I want.
“Do you ever think about divorce? What it would be like?”
I say no, not really. I tell her my thoughts mostly consist of how to get through the day.
She stares at me, perfectly still, a wax therapist statue.
“But if we got a divorce, I think it would be fairly amicable. I don’t see us fighting over money or things. Over really anything,” I say, talking quickly now, words spewing out of me. “Except maybe time with Harper…though I would be willing to share custody fifty-fifty. I think that’s only fair, really. To him and to Harper. He’s such a good father—and she loves him so much….I think she’d be resilient….It would kill my parents, though. And his. Especially mine. Our friends would be shocked, too….Everyone thinks we have the perfect life. Once we have that second child, that is.” I stop suddenly, Amy familiar with the controversy over a second child.
“Have you made any progress with that?” she asks.
“No. I’m still not ready,” I say, the statement suddenly ringing hollow, the word ready a farce. You get ready for a vacation, or a job interview, or a move. You even get ready to actually give birth to a baby. But do you really get ready for pregnancy? Especially a second pregnancy? Or do you just take the leap and do it?
As if reading my mind, Amy asks the exact question Nolan posed to me. “Do you think you’ll ever be ready?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think so. At some point. Maybe.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to have sex this morning?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m on the pill….I didn’t want to have sex with him this morning because I didn’t want to have sex with him this morning.”
“Fair enough.”
“But regardless…I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having just one child.”
“Of course not.”
“There are actually advantages to being an only child,” I say.
“Certainly,” Amy says, knowing a smoke screen when she sees one. I wait for her to call me on it, get back to the real subject at hand, and when she doesn’t, I’m almost disappointed.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, knowing that it has nothing to do with the pros and cons of being an only child.
“Okay,” Amy says, nodding, her hair swinging again. “I was wondering whether you love Nolan….”
The question, veiled as a statement, is so simple that it catches me off guard. Yet my answer is easy, automatic. “Of course I do. He’s a good man. A great father,” I say, thinking that we’ve covered these points exhaustively—along with our history, the fact that Nolan was Daniel’s loyal and kind best friend. That he was there for me and my family. That now he is my family.
“Yes,” Amy says. “I know that you love Nolan and care for him as a person and a partner and the father of your child. But are you in love with him?”
I stare at Amy, feeling rankled over what, for years, I’ve told myself is an adolescent distinction. The fact that my heart doesn’t race over Nolan, and I never feel overwhelmed by lust, and I don’t melt when our eyes meet across a crowded room (hell, I seldom even look for him in a crowded room), doesn’t mean I don’t love him or
that I’m not committed to our marriage.
Yet deep down, I know what she’s asking me, just as I know the answer, and have since that day in the dugout. It is an immutable fact, the same as Daniel being dead, impossible to change simply by wishing things were different. So I finally make myself confess the truth. I am telling my therapist, but as these things go, I’m really telling myself.
“No,” I say aloud. My voice is soft and low but clear and very, very certain. “No, I am not in love with my husband.”
chapter thirteen
JOSIE
I’ve never understood precisely what Murphy’s law is, but I’m pretty sure it applies when I finally break down and go out with Pete the PT for the second time, this time to Bistro Niko, an upscale French restaurant, wearing the same dress and shoes I had on at Open House, and spot none other than Will and Andrea Carlisle, enjoying a cozy steak dinner. It doesn’t help matters that Pete just got a self-proclaimed bad haircut that approaches a buzz, and is wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, the combination evoking a door-to-door missionary. Nor does it help that Will is sporting my favorite look—jacket and no tie with jeans—along with a sexy five o’clock shadow.
As the hostess leads us right past their table, I avert my eyes, praying that we’ll go undetected, but then hear Andrea calling my name over the dull din of diners. With Pete trailing behind, I stop abruptly, feign surprise, and say, “Oh, hey there!”
“Hey!” Andrea says as I notice that she got her hair colored, the grays eradicated, her rich golden highlights fully restored. “Nice to see you again!”
“You, too. Recognize the dress?” I let out a nervous laugh, regretting the comment immediately.
Andrea blinks, playing dumb, which I find mostly kind, but also annoying since I’m then forced to say, “I had it on the other night.”
“Oh, yes! I do remember it now,” she says, nodding effusively. “It’s such a pretty dress.”
“Thank you,” I say, allowing myself a quick glance at Will, who peers up at me, his dark eyes shining in the candlelight. I can’t read his expression, but his half smile makes my chest ache.
“Hi, Josie,” he says, then shifts his gaze to Pete, now directly beside me. When Andrea does the same, I feel forced to make an introduction.
“Pete, this is Andrea and Will. I teach their daughter,” I say as succinctly as possible.
Pete nods, smiles, and says, “Ah. Nice.”
“So?” Andrea asks with a girlfriendy lilt. “Are y’all on a date?”
I say no just as Pete replies yes.
Andrea manages to wince and smile at once. “Oops. Sorry. None of my business!”
“No. It really isn’t,” Will mumbles into his wineglass. His tone to his wife isn’t exactly rude, but it is slightly reprimanding, evoking his subtle but pervasive sense of superiority, something I had forgotten or, more likely, buried. I think of how he’d nudge me under the table when I said something he perceived as inappropriate. Sometimes he was right; usually it felt like needless nit-picking. The memory is a slight comfort, offsetting those damn brown eyes.
“No worries,” I say, entirely for Andrea’s benefit. “It’s sort of a date—but we’re really just friends.”
“Yeah, technically this is our second date. But because we had no chemistry on our first date, Josie’s already given up,” Pete says, trying to be funny, but making everything exponentially more awkward. “I still have hope, however.”
Andrea nods earnestly and says, “Yes, these things sometimes take time.”
“Was that how it was for you two?” Pete asks, as I stand there in disbelief that this conversation is actually happening.
“Um. Not exactly,” she mumbles, as Will calmly cuts his next bite of steak, raising his fork to his lips.
The opposite of love is indifference, I remind myself, but feel an intense wave of bitterness.
“Not exactly?” I say with an acerbic laugh. “Not at all. Andrea and Will got engaged very quickly. Immediately after he and I broke up, in fact.” I snap my fingers for dramatic effect.
Pete laughs, then realizes I’m not kidding, his expression mirroring Andrea’s—something between pity and discomfort. Meanwhile, Will begins to cough. The three of us glance at him with mild concern, as the coughing quickly escalates to a disturbing choking sound.
“Honey? Are you okay?” Andrea asks.
Will answers with a loud gasp, then goes silent, his eyes wide, watery, and panicked.
“Will!” Andrea shouts, rising from her seat as the hostess steps toward our table and the couple next to us begin to stare. “Will? Can you breathe?”
He doesn’t reply—because clearly he cannot breathe—as Andrea yells, to no one in particular, “He’s choking!” She looks around the restaurant and shouts, “Is there a doctor? Does anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?”
“No. That’s not recommended yet,” Pete says, holding his hand up to calm Andrea while stepping toward Will, intently watching him.
“He’s in the medical field,” I tell Andrea, hoping that physical therapists are trained in choking first aid.
“Try to cough,” Pete calmly instructs Will. “Can you cough at all?”
Will shakes his head, making a faint wheezing sound. Andrea continues to yell for help. I watch in horror, picturing a gruesome image: Edie standing beside her daddy’s casket.
“Okay. Stand up, man,” Pete says, helping Will out of his seat, bracing him with his arm around his waist as he strikes Will’s back with the heel of his hand three times in a row. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Nothing happens, except I notice Will’s lips start to turn a tinge blue. Then, with the fourth hard, loud blow between his shoulder blades, Will heaves the stringy bit of red meat out of his mouth. It lands on the white linen tablecloth, just past his plate. I stare at it, marveling that it could have been as lethal as a bullet to the head, while diners around us begin to clap and cheer. Will gasps for breath.
I watch Andrea put both hands over her heart and rush to her husband’s side, throwing her arms around his neck. He allows a brief embrace, then says something to her under his breath, before pulling away and sitting back down.
“Oh my God, thank you so much,” Andrea says, turning to Pete, tears in her eyes.
Pete modestly shakes off her gratitude and asks Will if he’s all right.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine….It just went down the wrong pipe,” Will sputters, before taking a long drink of water. As he puts his glass back on the table, I watch his expression of relief morph into one of mortification.
“You can sit down now,” he mumbles to his wife, as I think how much he’s always hated a scene. Andrea takes her seat, still profusely thanking Pete.
I watch as Will tries to discreetly scoop the glob of meat into his napkin. It takes two tries and to my secret satisfaction, leaves a telltale stain on the tablecloth, almost as red as the hue of Will’s neck and ears. Only then does Will reach up to shake Pete’s hand and thank him for the first time.
“No problem, buddy,” Pete says. “Happy to help.”
—
LATER THAT EVENING, after Will and Andrea send a bottle of wine over to our table, Pete begins to laugh.
“What?” I say.
“That guy really dumped you and married her?”
“Yes,” I say. “What, exactly, is so funny about that?”
“Well, talk about revenge. You almost made him choke to death.”
I smile, shrug, and say, “No. Happiness is the best revenge.”
“Trite but true,” Pete says, nodding. “So are you? Happy?”
“I’m working on that,” I say. Then, lest he get the wrong idea, I give him the update on my single motherhood research, telling him all about my checklists on issues like finances, childcare options, health insurance coverage, and maternity leave. I then go on to tell him about the essays by sperm donors that Gabe and I spent hours reading together. “Of course, we narrowed it on the basis of health first…only consider
ing donors with a stellar medical history.”
Pete listens intently, then says, “Do you have a front-runner?”
“Maybe,” I say, then reach into my purse and hand him the essay by a donor named Glenn S. that I printed last night.
I watch as he unfolds it, raises his brow, and begins to read:
I am a 27-year-old straight male, documentary filmmaker. I attended Cal Berkeley for my undergraduate degree where I majored in communications and ran track—mostly middle distances. I am fit, slim, healthy, and eat a completely plant-based diet. My eating habits are a result of three factors: first and foremost, a compassion for animals and a desire to avoid contributing to their suffering; secondly, a lifelong interest in health and nutrition; and finally, for environmental reasons, as meat and animal products are the number one cause of destruction of our planet. My recipient need not share my beliefs, but should be happy to know that her donor is both compassionate and healthy. Currently I am working on a documentary film about the visceral reaction most humans feel when they see animal suffering, and the disconnect and rationalization they engage in when continuing to eat and wear those same animals. I decided to be a donor because I do not believe in the societal norms that mandate that I raise a family, nor do I want to contribute to the further destruction of the resources of our planet by having my own child. However, I do have a great deal of compassion in my heart for women who want to be a mother and cannot, for whatever reason. If someone is determined to bring a new life onto our planet, I would rather that life come from intelligent, compassionate genes.
Pete finishes reading, his brows raised. “That’s from a sperm donor?”
“Yes,” I say, taking the paper from him and putting it back into my purse. “My friend Gabe helped me select him.”
Pete nods, then asks if I know what he looks like.
“His baby picture was cute. That’s the only photo you get,” I say. “But his description sounded good….Blue eyes, light hair, athletic, six feet tall.”
Pete smiles and says, “Sounds great.” Something about his voice sounds fake, though—or at least hesitant.