He padded downstairs in his socks, saw his filthy work boots where he’d left them beside the front door, and considered slipping them back on and just taking off. That was probably what would happen anyway, he reasoned. Why sit through the painful conversation they were bound to have if the endgame would be the same regardless?
“I’m going out back. I’ve got your wine,” her voice called from the kitchen, and instead of taking the cowardly route and leaving—which she’d no doubt ream him for anyway—he moved toward the kitchen. He’d miss this place, he realized with a twist of something new in his gut, something sharper than the churning that had been his constant companion.
The screened porch was empty, but beyond it, at the far end of the garden, came the bright flare of a match, followed by the glow of lanterns being lit. By the time he’d crunched his way over the flagstones and past the chicken coop to the back of the yard, she had a few of those tiki things going, the flames mesmerizing in the night.
“Never been this far back,” he said, checking out the seating situation. “Smells like lemon.”
“Citronella. Against the mosquitoes.”
“That shit actually work?”
She shrugged, the movement barely visible in that enormous T-shirt she hid beneath like a tent, but he could see her lips, plush and sweet, turn up in a smile. “Even if it doesn’t, I like the smell. And the idea.”
He nodded, leaned forward to take his wineglass off the low metal table between them, and peered around. “Nice out here.”
“It’s where I come to think,” she said, sounding dry and sad.
“Is that a fountain?” he asked, latching on to anything besides the pain in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Hardly hear it with that ruckus.”
“The cicadas, you mean? Do they still upset you?”
Clay considered her question. Did the bugs upset him? He hated them and their constant racket, but he wouldn’t say they upset him. And then he remembered the night he’d come out here with her, the overwhelming swimming-in-it shrieking in his ears, so shrill it had rattled his veins; how happy the stupid things had seemed to make her—how completely overwhelmed he’d felt by it all. By her, more than the bugs.
And now, today… “No,” he answered in surprise. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the little bastards.” Something sparked in the air above him, and Clay blinked. “Whoa.”
At George’s raised brow, he asked, “You didn’t see that?”
Her head turned in the dark, seeking out whatever it was, and finally came back to him. “Fireflies?”
“That was a firefly?”
“You’ve never seen one?”
“Guess not,” Clay said, taking a gulp of wine and sitting back. I don’t belong here, he thought with an unexpected jolt of pain. “Look, I’m sorry about the condom. I…I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I—”
“It’s not about you, Clay.” George took a deep, audible breath, then leaned back to look at the sky. Above her head, stars—actual stars—twinkled, and something swooped by. “I’ve been on hormones for a couple of weeks now.” She did a weird laugh that came out small and choked. “So I could have my dead husband’s baby.”
Clay almost dropped his glass. He almost stood up, almost stalked right out into the woods behind the house, away. But he didn’t. He held on; he listened.
“Tomorrow, I’m supposed to have IUI. Intrauterine insemination. A very expensive procedure during which they insert the semen right into your cervix. It…ups the chances.” He watched her swig back her wine and fill her glass again. “He died ten years ago, and this month, his semen reaches its sell-by date. Labs won’t keep it longer than ten years. Well, some will, but we took the cut-rate option back then, assuming he’d survive the cancer, but now…”
Another sigh, another long, deep look at the stars, and Clay followed an unexpected instinct—he stood, dragging his chair along the flagstones to where she sat, settling in beside her, giving her his warmth or presence or something. He hesitated before putting an arm around her, but once he did, her head settled into the crook of his armpit, and he didn’t regret it. How could he regret this feeling?
“Now, I’m supposed to get…fertilized.” Christ. Clay stiffened and swallowed. “Like a barren piece of land or something. I’ve been prepping for it, so my body’s this hormonal, egg-making machine, my ovaries are like grapefruits inside me, I feel bruised, and here I am, such an idiot, having…having intercourse with you. At first, I thought my attraction to you was from the…the treatment. But I didn’t start ovulating until today. Right on schedule.”
“We did use—”
“That’s not the point, is it, Clay? I mean, yes, we used a condom. The fact that it broke is…” She stopped, eyes shut tight, and sucked in a shaky, painful-sounding breath before going on. “I loved Tom. He was the funniest, most sarcastic…” She sighed again, and this time, he could feel the weight of everything she carried with her. But he was jealous too, which made him feel like a complete ass.
He tightened his arm, and she went on. “We froze his sperm right after we found out about the…cancer. We figured we’d have it. For later, you know, depending on how treatment affected his body? He signed the papers, and we went on, dealing with things. But…he didn’t. Get better. Well, he did, and then it got worse, and then…” She swallowed, hard. “Then suddenly, one day, he’s gone. And he’s left me all alone. All by myself.” Those last words, the way she said them, came out quiet but angry.
“I’m sorry, George,” said Clay, feeling completely inadequate.
“Oh, you don’t have to be. I mean, thank you. But…” She opened her eyes and turned her sad smile at him. It looked thin around the edges, but even sad, she was so fucking gorgeous it hurt. He cleared his throat but couldn’t seem to dislodge whatever stayed stuck in there. “I’ve spent the last ten years being sorry enough for both of us. Anyway, I forgot about Tom’s…Tom’s semen, until… Maybe a year or so later, I got this letter in the mail, addressed to him. That happened sometimes. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d sent out a notice to all the companies that send you junk mail, you know? Like, ‘My husband’s dead, so please don’t send him anything because it Breaks. My. Heart.’”
