“I guess you can’t blame them for wishing that, one day, we’ll wake up and realize how wrong we’ve been.”
“Can’t I?”
“No,” I say, “because that’s exactly what we wish aboutthem.”
Vanessa offers me a half smile. “Leave it to you to find the only thing I have in common with Pastor Clive and his band of merry heterosexuals.”
She walks into the kitchen, and I assume she’s getting the wine out of the fridge. It is a tradition for us to unwind and tell each other about our days over a nice glass of Pinot Grigio. “I think we still have some of the Midlife Crisis,” I call out. It’s a wine from California that Vanessa and I bought just because of the name on the label. While I wait, I sit down on the couch, in the spot Max vacated. I flip through the channels on the television, pausing onEllen.
Max and I sometimes watched her, when he got home from landscaping. He liked her Converse sneakers and her blue eyes. He used to say that he wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with Oprah, because she was intimidating—but Ellen DeGeneres, she was someone you’d take out for a beer.
What I like about Ellen is that (yep) she’s gay, but that’s the least interesting thing about her. You remember her because she’s good at what she does on TV, not because she goes home to Portia de Rossi.
Vanessa walks into the living room, but instead of bringing a glass of wine, she is carrying two champagne flutes. “It’s Dom Pérignon,” she says. “Because you and I are celebrating.”
I look at the bubbles rising in the pale liquid. “I had a patient die today,” I blurt out. “She was only three.”
Vanessa sets both glasses on the floor and hugs me. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
You know someone’s right for you when the things they don’thaveto say are even more important than the things they do.
Crying won’t bring Marisa back. It won’t stop people like Max and Pauline from judging me. But it makes me feel better, all the same. I stay this way for a while, with Vanessa stroking my hair, until I am dry-eyed and feeling only empty inside. Then I look up at her. “I’m sorry. You wanted to celebrate something . . .”
Color rises to Vanessa’s face. “Some other time.”
“I’m not letting my crap day trump your good one—”
“Really, Zo. It can wait—”
“No.” I turn on the couch so that I am cross-legged, facing her. “Tell me.”
She looks pained. “It’s stupid. I can ask you later—”
“Ask me what?”
Vanessa takes a deep breath. “If you meant what you said yesterday. After we ran into Max at the grocery store.”
I had told her that I wanted to be with her forever. That forever wasn’t long enough.
And in spite of the fact that this is never how I imagined my life—
In spite of the fact that there are people I have never even met who will hate me for it—
In spite of the fact that it has been only months, not years—
The first thing I do every morning is panic. And then I look at Vanessa and think,Don’t worry; she’s still here.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Every word.”
Vanessa uncurls her fist. Inside is a gold ring with a constellation of diamonds dotting its surface. “If forever’s not long enough, how about the rest of my life?”
For a moment I cannot move, cannot breathe. I am not thinking of logistics, of how people will react to this news. All I am thinking is:I get Vanessa. Me, and no one else.
I start crying again, but for a different reason. “A lifetime,” I say, “is a decent start.”
I am surrounded by clouds. They brush the toes of my sneakers. They litter the floor. I might go so far as to say I’ve landed in Heaven—except that I’ve been dragging my feet to avoid shopping for a bridal gown, which makes this whole experience a little more like Hell.
My mother is holding out a gown with a sweetheart neckline that dissolves into a skirt of feathers. It looks like a chicken that ran into a combine. “No,” I say. “Emphatically no.”
