First Comes Love (21 page)

Then, like a record screeching to a halt, the next words out of Nolan's mouth are, “Just think. You could be a stay-at-home mother with complete freedom.”

I give him a blank stare, thinking that there is pretty much
nothing
liberating about staying home with Harper all day, every day. And that, as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I would probably rather bill hours than be trapped at home twenty-four-seven.

“And then…” he says with a slow smile. I hear a dramatic drumroll in my head before he finishes his sentence exactly as I predicted, “we can have another baby.”

My heart sinks, confirmation that something is very wrong in our marriage, and that I must tell Nolan how I feel. I almost pull the trigger right there at Cracker Barrel, but tell myself we need to get back on the road. Then I tell myself that Nolan needs to concentrate on driving. Then we arrive at Blackberry, and we're too busy unpacking. Then Nolan wants to go for a quick run and we both have to shower and get ready for the evening. Then we're on the back patio, sitting on oversize wooden rocking chairs, sipping organic martinis as we watch the sun set behind inky blue mountains—too serene a moment to taint. Ditto to our exquisite five-course dinner at The Barn, the award-winning, romantic restaurant on the property. Then, once back in our room, we both crash, too full of fine foothills cuisine and wine pairings to even stay awake, let alone have a big talk.

B
UT THE FOLLOWING
morning, after I wake up in the high four-poster antique bed and take a few seconds to process where I am and what day it is, I know it's finally time, that I am out of excuses. I roll over and look at Nolan as his eyes flutter halfway open.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep.

“Good morning. Happy anniversary,” I say, even though I have the sinking feeling that neither will be good or happy.

“Happy anniversary,” he says through a big yawn and stretch. “What time is it?”

“I don't know,” I say, squinting at the window. Sunlight is working its way through the closed blinds, but it's not very bright yet.

Nolan rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Wow. It's almost eight-thirty,” he says. “I slept like a rock.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Did we fall asleep with the lights on?”

“Yeah. I woke up around two and turned them off.” He smiles, then says, “Wow. No alarm. No Harper. Nowhere to be.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling myself tense as he shifts a few inches toward me, one leg slung over the covers, the other still tangled up in the sheets. I glance down and see his standard morning erection making an appearance in the opening of his green gingham boxers. Although it crosses my mind to
just do it,
so to speak, I clear my throat and issue a preemptive, foreboding statement. “We need to talk.”

Nolan nods, pulling me toward him, looking into my eyes. If we were any closer, we'd see each other in double. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and say, “Remember yesterday at Cracker Barrel? When you were talking about me quitting and us having another baby?”

“Yes?” he says, looking so hopeful that I fleetingly consider changing course. Saying
anything
to avoid hurting his feelings. “You think it's a good idea?”

I slowly shake my head, the high-thread-count pillowcase smooth under my cheek. “No,” I say. “I don't.”

“Oh,” he says. Then, after a long pause, “And it's not the job, is it?”

“No,” I say again, this time in a whisper.

“It's us, isn't it?” he says.

“I don't know,” I say, my heart starting to race.

“Yes, you do,” he says softly. “You
always
know.”

He's right, at least this time, so I take a deep breath and make my confession. “Yes,” I tell him. “I think it's us.”

When he doesn't reply, I continue, starting at the beginning. “Do you remember when you asked me to marry you? In the dugout?”

“Of course,” he says, his brow furrowed.

I brace myself but keep going. “I had no idea you were going to propose,” I tell him. I've said this before, many times, but have always couched it in terms of a wonderful surprise instead of shock bordering on dismay. “I really wasn't ready for that….I almost said no….”

He frowns, then says, “So why didn't you?”

I take another deep breath, then push up onto my elbow, still meeting his gaze. “Because of Daniel,” I finally say.

“What?”
he says, abruptly sitting up and leaning against the headboard. “What does
that
mean?”

I sit up and face him, searching for the right words, wanting them to be honest but gentle. “I just mean…we were there on that field, the two of us, alone….But it was like Daniel was there with us…and I just felt…” I shake my head, my voice trailing off because there is simply no gentle way to put it.

“You felt
what
?” he asks.

“I just felt that I
should
say yes. Because of Daniel,” I say again, knowing we are going in circles. “Sort of in his memory.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nolan says, putting both hands to his temples like his mind is being blown. “You're telling
me
that you
married
me because your
brother
died
in a car accident?”

“That's not what I said,” I stammer, but then realize that he has accurately paraphrased my answer, boiled things down to their essence. If Nolan had popped the question while my brother was still alive, off doing his residency somewhere, then he probably wouldn't have entered my head at all. Nor would I have considered my parents, who had also factored heavily into my answer.

“Well, then. Please explain,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“C'mon, Nolan,” I say, going on the offensive. “Are you honestly going to sit there and tell me that you would have dated me if Daniel hadn't died?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think I dated you out of
pity
?”

“Not pity,” I say. “But…” I look up at the ceiling, trying to articulate what I've always felt to be true.

“But
what,
Meredith?”

“I just think we got together because of Daniel.”

“What does that
mean
? ‘Because of Daniel, because of Daniel,' ” he says, imitating me, his voice growing louder. “You keep saying that, but I have no idea what that means!”

“Yes, you
do
!” I say, raising my voice back at him.

“No! I
really
don't, actually.”

I swallow, breathe, and try to calm down before I explain. “Well. For starters, you wouldn't have played golf with my dad that day you picked me up from the airport…or asked me out…or slept with me that next night…or flown up to see me a week later….None of that would have happened if Daniel had been alive.”

“But, Meredith, that's just…
circumstances,
” he says. “That's like saying that a married couple who met in a bar wouldn't be together if one of them hadn't gone to the bar.”

I shake my head. “No. It's not the same thing at all.” I bury my face in my hands and catch my breath, before looking back up at him. “I think we were both searching for meaning.”

“Oh, Christ, Meredith. Is this Amy talking? Or you?”

“It's both,” I say. “I said it first, but she agrees with me….You asked me to marry you, and I said yes, because we both wanted the silver lining to a terrible tragedy. Daniel's best friend marries Daniel's sister. Happily-ever-after can't ever happen—not with him gone…but this is the closest we can come—”

“That's
horseshit,
” he says, cutting me off, roughly throwing aside the covers, then getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

He slams the door, but I can still hear him urinating, then flushing, then running water. A long minute later, he emerges, wearing workout clothes. The neck of his T-shirt is wet, along with his hairline, and I can tell that he's just splashed water on his reddened face.

He looks at me for several long seconds, holding on to the bedpost, then says, “I asked you to marry me because I loved you.” His voice is low and calm, but unsteady. “Not because Daniel died.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you.”

“Well, that strategy isn't working,” he says, dropping his hand to his side. At first I think he's referring to how upset he is currently, but then he clarifies. “You don't say yes to a marriage proposal because you think saying no will upset someone.”

I try to interrupt him, but he continues. “And you don't say yes because you happen to share a tragic story with someone, either. In fact, most people who share a tragic story end up splitting. Look at your parents.”

“I know, Nolan. I'm really sorry. I just thought I should tell you…I thought you should know….”

“Okay, Meredith. Well, now I know,” he says. “So what am I supposed to do with this information? More than seven years later? What do
you
want?”

“I want…Daniel back,” I finish, suddenly hating myself more than Nolan ever could.

He throws up his hands in utter disgust. “Well, we can't have that, Meredith. So short of a resurrection—or…or going back to 2001 in a time machine, what do you want?”

“I want to figure this out,” I say as meekly as I've ever said anything.

“How?” he shouts.

“I don't know,” I say, wincing. “Please stop yelling at me.”

He blows into his hands, as if he's warming them on a cold day, before turning, walking over to an ottoman, and sitting down to put on his socks and running shoes.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“For a run.”

“May I come?”

He looks up at me. “Because you
want
to come? Or because you think you
should
come?” he says, his eyes narrowing and flashing. “Or because you think I
want
you to come?”

“Because I
want
to,” I say, but I hear my voice rising in an unconvincing question.

Nolan hears it, too, because he stands, shakes his head, and says, “Actually, Meredith, I think
I
want to be alone for a while.”

A
fter our second date/nondate, Pete and I text and talk daily, sometimes more than once. During one flirtatious late-night exchange (in which he jokingly offers his services to impregnate me “the old-fashioned way”), it flits through my mind that there might be romantic potential between us. But for the most part, our interaction remains platonic—and I stay focused on my goal, determined not to lose more precious time, waffling and stalling, looking for excuses not to go through with my plan, whether using Pete's sperm or an anonymous donor.

At certain moments, the whole process reminds me of adopting Revis. First, I had to decide that I truly wanted a dog—
any
dog—and that the pros outweighed the many cons. Then I had to choose my
actual
dog. For months, I tirelessly researched breeds and breeders, while also pulling up images of homeless pups on various pet finder websites. I drove all over Georgia, visiting shelters, and I frequented the Humane Society on Howell Mill Road to such an extent that I became a de facto volunteer. Eventually I ruled out a purebred, feeling compelled to rescue, and then eliminated all puppies after discovering that they have a much easier time finding homes than adult dogs. But I still remained paralyzed by indecision, reluctance, and endless second-guessing, always focusing on the particular drawbacks of individual dogs. Some barked too much; others shed excessively; many simply had a notoriously aggressive breed in their mix—like pit bull or Rottweiler. (I hated to be prejudiced against a breed, but my sister was adamant that I not take the chance with Harper, and ultimately I agreed with her.)

Then, one day after work, I decided it was time to pull the trigger. So I drove over to the Humane Society, walked into the adult big-dog room (always less crowded than the puppy and small-dog rooms), and spotted Revis, a new resident, staring adorably up at me from the corner of his cinder-block kennel. A three-year-old black Lab–collie mix, he was larger than what I ideally wanted, with loads of fluffy black hair that I knew would end up on everything, particularly in my all-white bedroom. Two strikes. Then I read his story, typed up and posted on his kennel, about how his former owner had dropped him off, unable to deal with Revis's “separation anxiety”—which I knew was a nice way of saying he destroys shit when left alone. Three strikes.

I almost kept walking, headed for a gnarly-looking but very sweet beagle-retriever mix named Betty, also a new resident. But something made me stop and kneel down before Revis.

“C'mere, boy,” I called out softly. “C'mere, Revis.”

Revis gave me a skeptical stare before standing, wagging his fluffy tail, and trotting over to me. He pressed his pink and black mottled nose against the Plexiglas partition, staring into my eyes.

A moment later, I had retrieved the key to his padlock and was letting him lead me around the courtyard outside the shelter. He was attentive, alert, and good on a leash, and as we sat in the shade, quietly bonding, I whispered into one cocked ear, “Hey, buddy. Are you my dog?” Revis looked up at me, right into my eyes, and I swear he smiled and nodded. I was smitten.

Of course even then, when I was utterly convinced he was the dog for me, it still took me another ten days, two additional visits, and an introduction between Revis and Gabe (after which Gabe voted an unequivocal no, wary over the “separation anxiety” description) before I finally paid my fee, signed the papers, overrode Gabe's veto, and made it official. That was three years ago, and despite what a giant pain in the ass Revis can be, I have never once, even fleetingly, questioned my decision to adopt him, rescue him, make him mine.

When I draw this comparison to Gabe one evening, he looks up at me from his book. “You're comparing having a baby to getting a dog?”

“No, I'm comparing Pete to Revis,” I say, sitting on the chair across from him.

Gabe closes the book, marking his spot with his thumb. “Look, Josie. Don't make me go all Meredith on your ass.”

I shift in my chair, and give him a sheepish smile. “I just mean…I
have
to make a choice. I have to just
do
this. And the more I shop around, the more confusing it gets. And maybe I should just go with Pete—”

“
Shop
around?” he interjects, tossing his book onto the coffee table. “Do you know how that sounds?”

“Shop. Look. Research. It's all the same thing,” I say. “It's just like Petfinder or Match—no matter how you try to sugarcoat it, I'm
shopping
for sperm. Just like people shop for pets or spouses.”

Gabe nods, surrendering the point in a way that makes me feel jubilant. But then he says, “Okay. Maybe so…but I still think this Pete thing is a terrible idea at best.”

“And at worst?”

“A really,
really
terrible idea.”

“See that?” I say with a smirk. “You thought Revis was a really,
really
terrible idea, too.”

Lying on the floor between us, Revis hears his name and glances over at me without lifting his head.

“He
was
a terrible idea,” Gabe says, pointing at the leg of the coffee table that Revis recently gnawed during a thunderstorm. Gabe tried to sand it down and camouflage it with a brown Sharpie, but the shades of brown don't match.

“But you love him,” I say.

Gabe raises his brows at Revis, then shakes his head, having learned not to be sidetracked by my meandering debating style. “Okay. But are you really comparing the father of your child to a mutt you rescued from the Humane Society?”

I stare back at him, a stubborn standoff ensuing. Several seconds later, after Gabe blinks first, I say, “Would you at least meet him? Tomorrow night? I invited him over for dinner.”

“Are you just trying to get me to cook?” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Maybe,” I say. “But we could also order a pizza.”

“I have plans with Leslie,” he says.

“She can meet him, too.”

“So now you're taking a poll?”

“No, I'm not taking a
poll
. I don't care what Leslie thinks,” I say, already tired of hearing her name, at least the way he says it, so reverently. “I want
your
opinion as my best friend.”

He folds his arms across his chest and takes a deep breath, but I can tell I've reeled him in with this last line. “Is Pete aware that he's being interviewed?”

“Interviewed? No. Because he's not. Is he aware that I want him to meet my best friend? Yes. He is, and he wants to meet you, too.”

“Why? Because he likes you? Or because he's seriously considering donating his sperm to you?”

“Are they mutually exclusive?”

“They should be.”

“Okay. The latter, then,” I say. “In fact, this whole thing was actually his idea.”

“It's called wanting to sleep with you, ding-a-ling.”

“No,” I say. “It's not like that. We wouldn't have sex….We'd go through the proper channels….”

We have another staring contest, and this time Gabe wins. “So if he randomly donated to a sperm bank…you're telling me that his jizz would be your first choice?”

“Please don't call it ‘jizz,' ” I say, cringing.

“Okay. His
seed
. His
sacred
seed.”

“Yes. It might be, actually. Hence, the reason I want you to meet him….You read the essays—so what's the difference?”

“There's a big difference,” Gabe says. “But okay. I'll screen this dude for you.”

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT,
Leslie and Pete arrive at the same time, and are introducing themselves as I open the door. They are both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, though Leslie has on crazy high sandals and her hair looks suspiciously blown-out.

“Hey! Come in,” I say, feeling genuinely happy to see Pete and only a little annoyed to see Leslie.

Pete gives me a slight grin, followed by a friendly, one-armed hug. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Yes, thank you,” Leslie says, handing me a bottle of red wine with a funky Andy Warholesque label. “This'll go with pizza, right? Gabe says we're having pizza?”

“Yes, we are,” I say. “And yes, anything goes with pizza.”

I smile, and she smiles back at me, but there is something about her expression that seems insincere. It's almost as if she thinks she's doing me a favor by hanging out tonight—which I guess, in a sense, she
is
. But I don't think she's earned the right to feel that way, still in a trial period herself.

“Your hair looks great, Leslie,” I say, as Gabe walks into the foyer behind me.

“Thanks,” she replies so flatly that I decide to call her out in front of her new beau.

“Did you get a blowout?” I ask casually.

The question catches her off guard, and she hesitates before mumbling yes, she just didn't feel like doing it herself so stopped in at Drybar.

Feeling a tad guilty for breaking at least a footnote of the girl-loyalty code, I smile and say, “Oh, yeah. It's such a pain to do it in this humidity.”

She murmurs her agreement, then looks past me, her face lighting up as Gabe steps forward to kiss her on the lips, making that gross
hmmm
food sound, like the one Aidan used to make on
Sex and the City
every time he kissed Carrie. As their faces separate and he slips his arm around her waist, I make a mental note to tell him never to make that noise again unless he's eating insanely good chocolate cake, and maybe not even then.

“Pete. This is Gabe. My best friend in the
world,
” I say as much for Leslie's benefit as Pete's. They shake hands as I continue my introduction. “And, Gabe, this is Pete.” I pause, then add, “My newest friend—and potential sperm donor.”

Everyone stares at me with identical expressions of surprise, which I take secret delight in.

“She's all about shock value,” Gabe says to Pete.

“I can see that,” Pete says with a laugh as Gabe turns, now taking Leslie's hand, and leads us into the kitchen, where he's prepared a simple spread of blue tortilla chips and homemade guacamole.

“Margaritas, anyone?” he asks.

We all say yes.

“Salt?”

Pete and I say yes, and Leslie says no, which I find a bit predictable and irritating. We watch as Gabe artfully runs a lime wedge over the rims of three glasses. He then presses them into a coaster of coarse sea salt and pours four glasses from a pitcher with bartender precision.

“Help yourselves,” he says with a flourish.

We each take a glass, murmuring our thanks, as I warn Pete and Leslie of the potency of Gabe's recipe.

“They're pretty much straight tequila,” I say. “With a little lime juice.”

Gabe winks (which I've only seen him do about twice before), then lifts his own glass eye-level, his face somber as he delivers an unexpected toast (Gabe gives toasts about as often as he winks).

“To new relationships,” he says. “And all that they may hold in store.”

We clink our glasses together as I roll my eyes. Gabe gives me a sheepish shrug.

“So,” he says, turning to Pete. “Josie says you're from Wisconsin?”

Pete nods, easy small talk ensuing about the Midwest, specifically camping and skiing, two passions they share. This, in turn, leads to a conversation about college, work, even politics (Gabe and Pete are both self-proclaimed libertarians). Leslie and I interject along the way, while I make a point to ask her polite sidebar questions, but I try to let Pete and Gabe bond as much as possible. By the time we finish our margaritas, I can tell they genuinely like each other. At least I can tell Gabe likes Pete, which is what really matters here.

“You two are a lot alike,” I remark not so subtly during one lull. “I knew you'd hit it off.”