“I’m mostly just thinking about this potentially-becoming-a-father thing.”
What was he supposed to do with this impending news, finally get that six-pack he’d always wanted? Run a half-marathon? Download a chess app and get obliterated by eleven-year-olds from Germany? No. Self-improvement would have to wait.
“There’s gotta be something. Maybe this could finally be the year you make some progress on grad school?”
“I have been making progress. I’m just going at my own pace.”
“You narrowed it from, what, ten schools down to eight? You’re a machine.”
“Yes. And I’ll whittle it down further when I’m good and ready.”
“Oh, classic Arthur,” she chuckled.
She didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it. Wren liked to do things willy-nilly, off the cuff. For example, she never took a list when it was her turn to grab groceries, which was lunacy to him, and exactly how they ended up with so many gimmick foods in the pantry and fridge—things like Cool Ranch Oreos, Dunkaroos-flavored coffee creamer, Sour Patch Kids–infused wine. He shopped the sales and made an attempt to considerthe entire spectrum of nutrients the human body needed; Wren shopped on vibes and vibes alone. She went with her heart and her gut, and he loved those things about her. But going back to school to get his master’s was not a willy-nilly decision. He wanted to make the right choice, not to mention make sure he got the timing just right. His future depended on it. Their future.
But before he could think about it any further, a sigh of relief came from Wren. A moment later, she flushed the toilet and stepped out, dark hair clinging to a slightly damp forehead. Her usually pale cheeks lit up with just the faintest bit of red. Her skin freckled with goose bumps. She was frazzled but silent.
Come on, out with it, woman!he thought.
“So?” was all he could think of to say. He was suddenly warm, his skin all tingly. If there were any more words in him, they were all stuck in his throat.
“It has to bake for a few minutes.” Right. Of course. He knew that. “You want a drink?”
She pushed past him and crossed the small living room, which didn’t take long, and curled around the wall and into the kitchen. The entire apartment was only a handful of strides long, covered in thick, stiff carpeting that had apparently been the victim of a horrible glue spill at some point. In certain spots, it was hard enough to break skin. Arthur followed, carefully.
In the kitchen, Wren whipped the fridge open and grabbed a beer (Natty Boh, the city’s official beer even though it wasn’t technically made there; it was all Wren ever bought) and shoved it into Arthur’s chest.
“What’s this for? How long do we need to wait?”
She moved to the microwave and set a timer for threeminutes, pressing extra hard on the finicky buttons, the thin protective layer of plastic meant to protect them from splatters bubbling and peeling off in chunks, then turned back and took a deep breath.
“I have to tell you something before we look. You know, just in case.”
Now he was the frazzled one.I have to tell you something.Right now? It had to be bad. If the adrenaline hadn’t gotten to him yet, it was happening now. His heart began to thud and he felt sweat quickly pooling in all the most embarrassing places.
“OK,” he said. The beer hadn’t seemed appealing or necessary at first, but now he suddenly found himself taking a long pull.
She took a breath, as if gathering herself, and he prepared for the worst. Maybe there was a baby, but it wasn’t his. Or maybe, and more likely, this was just the catalyst she needed to realize that she didn’t love him. Wasn’t in love with him, anyway. Not anymore.I’m having your baby, and also I’m leaving you, he imagined her saying. And why not? The noticeable hotness differential between them had always made him a little uneasy. Wren was edgy, with piercing blue eyes and an “I woke up like this” beauty that any living human, man or woman, would kill for. In photos, Arthur often felt like the bafflingly average-looking boyfriend draped on the arm of an A-list celebrity, the one who people figured had to be a rich producer or something. Nerdy but not in the sexy way, thin, a beard that didn’t look quite right at any length.
And, though they had been together for about eight years, give or take, they weren’t married.
He began to strategize: What would he do if this was the day he’d always feared might come? What would he say if—
“Arthur?”
“Hey,” he said, snapping back to the moment, embarrassed at how quickly he had spiraled just now. It was just the nerves chattering inside him, that was all. He had to suppress the urge to draw finger guns in order to show her how cool and casual he was.
“Yeah, hi. I said I need to tell you something. And since the test will be fully baked in about”—Wren looked at the microwave clock—“two and a half more minutes, you’ll have a limited amount of time to be mad at me, so here goes.”
He gulped, braced himself as if about to be hit with hurricane winds.
“I kind of…quit my job.”
“Oh,” he said, instantly feeling ridiculous but not fully processing the words at all, only feeling relief that his imagination had been lying to him.
“Oh?”
“Oh. Oh?…OH!” Now he was beginning to understand. “Wait, you what?!”
