First Comes Love (17 page)

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.”

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 can
not
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.”

L
ATER 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 considering 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.

“You think it's weird, don't you?” I say, wondering why I want his approval.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not at all.”

“Do you like the sound of his essay?” I ask a bit eagerly.

“Well, sure. He sounds nice…very compassionate and principled….” He takes a sip of his wine, then adds, “Maybe a little extreme, though?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I admit, because Gabe and I thought so, too. “But he was the best of the bunch….And I like that he's not donating for money. Many seem to be, though they try so hard to disguise it….”

“Money? Or an egotistical need to spread their seed across the planet?” Pete asks, smiling.

“Gabe said the same thing. Is that the way you guys really feel?”

“I guess. Kind of,” Pete admits. “Not enough to donate my sperm, though.”

We stare at each other an awkward beat before he cracks up.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing…I was just thinking that your ex choking on red meat might be a sign to go with the raging vegetarian.”

“Maybe so,” I say with a smile.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT,
Pete and I leave the restaurant in a shared Uber car. When we pull into my driveway first, he leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

“That was fun. Thanks.”

“It was,” I say, smiling at him. “I'm glad you were persistent.”

“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me.

I turn to open the car door, and he stops me with his hand on my arm. “Wait.”

I laugh and remind him that he's paying by the minute here.

He nods, then clears his throat. “Any chance of you inviting me in for a nightcap?”

“A
night
cap?” I say, laughing. “You sound like my dad.”

“Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”

“He's sixty-four. You sound sixty-four.”

“C'mon. Invite me in. I just want to talk some more. That's it.”

I hesitate and smile, wondering what our driver is thinking. Surely he's heard this conversation before, though he's politely pretending not to listen.