Josh asked if he could order me a car. I shook my head.
“See you Monday,” he said. He sounded almost cheerful. I imagined him then, calling Emily. Telling her it had gone surprisingly well. I imagined her telling him to come over, quickly. All the lust and longing they’d buried down deep coming to the surface now. The relief they’d feel at finally getting to be together again. Heady, urgent kisses.
I had known, of course I had. I saw the paper. But time had gone too quickly. Six months into five minutes. I hadn’t been paying attention. And then, I hadn’t been ready.
I wasn’t used to not being chosen, and I hated it. I hated feeling like someone else had the answers. Here, now, Josh had known things I didn’t. It had only ever been the other way around.
I quit the following week—contracts are only good for problems in vacuums—and the start-up went belly-up the following year. I knew because I kept tabs on Flext and Josh—checking Instagram, googling keywords. Everyone was shocked and disappointed: the company that had shown such promise was dead in the water.
But a month after the dissolution of Flext, there was a wedding announcement: Josh and Emily had gotten married. A small outdoor ceremony at the bride’s parents’ house in Marin County. Only immediate family and a few close personal friends. A violinist played “Over the Rainbow” and Emily wore yellow flowers in her hair, per theNew York Times. They looked radiant. In the attached photo, he was kissing her open palm.
I thought about what it would feel like to be that cherished, to be that chosen, and for the first time in my life, I knew I wanted it. I wanted epic love, the kind that’s reserved for the movies. I wanted someone to speak about me the way I knew Josh spokeabout Emily. I wanted rooftop nights and mornings in bed and the feeling of belonging. I wanted yellow flowers in my hair. I wanted everyone to look at me and him and say, “Isn’t it ideal?”
But acknowledging a desire means acknowledging the what-if of that want. I wanted it, and that meant I was terrified—of never having it. Of never getting there.
It’s a cliché to say you are scared of getting hurt. But what if the papers weren’t just doling my life out in increments of time but also protecting me? From the pain of being blindsided. From never again having to sayI didn’t see it coming.
After Josh I vowed to be better about trusting the papers. If they did not say forever, I wouldn’t invest. I would stay cautious, aware.
I would believe them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A month after our engagement Jake tells me he thinks we should have a September wedding. We are sitting outside Alfred’s coffee shop in Melrose Place, an upscale enclave that houses designer boutiques and way too many green-juice storefronts. All around us people in expensive activewear walk their midsize dogs. I’m drinking an iced oat milk latte, and Jake has a chagaccino—their signature drink made with monk fruit and mushroom. It’s actually excellent, but some primal force makes me refuse to order it. A little too Live Laugh Love.
“Jake,” I say. “That’s less than four months.”
The sun is strong overhead, and we both have our sunglasses on. I’m wearing denim shorts, an oversize white T-shirt, and Birkenstocks. I wiggle my toes against the leather straps.
Jake shrugs. “Does that seem too soon?”
“What’s the rush?”
Jake takes a long sip. And then he folds his hands on the table. “I want to have a conversation I think we’ve been avoiding.”
I press my palms around the plastic cup. I can feel my stomach start to hollow. “Yes?”
He exhales. “I want to talk about kids. I think we should.”
When I told Jake about my heart, he had questions. I tried to answer them as honestly as possible, but the baby thing is hard. It isn’t off the table, but it’s also not advisable. And that’s just from a medical perspective. There are many ways to have a child, I just never believed I’d make that choice.
“OK.”
Jake takes my hand. His is cold, but so is mine. “This is not a pressurized conversation. At all. And we don’t have to decide anything today. We can have another twenty of these.”
“Sounds fun.”
Jake remains serious. “I want you to be comfortable, Daphne. And I want us to be honest.” He pauses. “But the truth is I need to better understand where you’re at.”
“With being able to do it?”
“With wanting it.”
A twentysomething girl and guy walk up to the counter to order. She leans into him, checking her phone. It looks so uncomplicated, so easeful. I envy it.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of decided it wasn’t possible, and then I put it in a box, and I’ve never taken it out to think about whether I actually want it or not.” I look down at my cup. The ice is melting, creating a translucent layer of dirty water at the top. “I’m not sure the answer is yes.”
I don’t look at him, but I feel him react. Because here’s the truth, the thing neither of us is willing to say: Jake should be a father.
