by Emily Giffin
I shrug, trying to brush it off. “The doctor-jock combo is certainly annoying,” I say with a smile.
“So just the standard postbreakup pang?” he asks.
“More or less.”
“But you don’t want him back, do you?”
I think of my talk with Jess at Temple Bar. Then I think of the reason Ben and I broke up—and how nothing has changed since then. I think that I certainly know what the answer should be. But I still shock myself when I say, “Well, yeah. Sure I want him back. In theory.”
“So go get him back, then,” Ethan says matter-of-factly.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Sure you can.”
“It’s too late. He has a girlfriend. And, you know, there’s the whole baby issue.”
“Both are surmountable obstacles.”
“Not really…I mean, who knows about Tucker? But the baby issue certainly isn’t surmountable.”
“Yes it is.”
I look at Ethan, processing what he is saying. He is, more or less, telling me to have a baby to get Ben back. It is just about the worst advice I’ve ever heard—akin to Jess’s dishonest attempt at entrapping Trey.
I shake my head and say, “I can’t have a baby just to get Ben back.”
“Well, then,” he says slowly. “I guess he’s not your soul mate…So that should be a consolation when you’re looking up their future marathon results.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask, feeling oddly defensive. As much as I want to feel okay about Ben in the present, I don’t like the implication that what we had wasn’t, at one time, the real thing.
“Well, because,” Ethan says, “you’d do anything to get a soul mate back, right?…I mean, that’s the nature of soul mates. You know, Romeo and Juliet swallowed poison to be together…So if Ben were really the one for you, don’t you think you’d go ahead and have his baby?”
Twenty-Four
I don’t think Ethan intended to make a profound or lofty statement. Nor do I think he was trying to offer any relationship counsel. Rather he seemed simply to be throwing out his offhanded two cents about the nature of true love. Essentially, he was just saying what we’ve all heard a million times—love conquers all.
So I’m not really sure why his words affected me. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t giving me preachy advice. Maybe it was the parallel to his book—the recognition of art imitating life imitating art. Maybe it was the clarity of hearing something from a relatively random messenger, a player uninvested in your life, someone outside your inner circle.
All I know for sure is that Ethan’s words cut straight to my heart and made me see my relationship with Ben in the least complicated, most stripped-down terms. I saw the bare essence of our breakup. The hard truth of the matter. I realized, almost in an instant, that I no longer bought all the propaganda about relationships ending because of bad timing and incompatibility and outside influences, like wanting or not wanting a baby. A baby is huge—it doesn’t get much bigger than that—but so is religion and age and geography and being married to other people and feuding houses and so many other seemingly insurmountable factors that couples encounter and defeat when love is true.
So, right there in my office, I decide that as simplistic and naïve as it may sound, I do believe that true love conquers all. Therefore, one of two things must also be true: either my relationship with Ben was not what I believed it to be, or our breakup was a big, horrible mistake.
It has to be one or the other.
I know where I’m coming out in the matter. I only hope Ben feels the same way.
Later that afternoon I call Daphne and ask her if I can come and spend the night.
“Sure!” she says. “Tony’s going out with the guys, so it’s perfect timing.”
“Don’t cook,” I say. “We’ll order a pizza, okay?”
“Papa John’s?” she says hopefully.
Papa John’s versus Domino’s is a raging debate in her house, with a multiple-prong analysis—cheese, crust, sauce, delivery time, value for money.
“Perfect,” I say, feeling a wave of affection for my sweet suburban sister.
I return to Jess’s apartment and quickly pack an overnight bag. As I’m retrieving my toothbrush from the bathroom I hear the unmistakable, distinct sounds of my best friend having sex with an equally expressive, not-so-gentle man. There are few things as unsettling as hearing a close friend having sex (only slightly less disturbing than hearing your parents doing it). But what makes the symphony of groans more offensive is that I recall that Trey is in town. I am filled with something close to rage—at him for toying with her—but more at Jess for being so stupid. She damn well better be using a condom, I think, as I hurry out the door during a long, drawn-out moan.
About two hours later, I arrive at Daphne’s and walk in her side door without knocking. She is sitting on the floor on a large throw pillow, grading tests in flannel pajamas and Snoopy slippers.
“Hey, there! Pizza just got here!” she says. “I got pepperoni. Hope that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I say.
I put down my bag and have a seat beside her, picking up a paper from the marked pile. It belongs to Annabel Partridge, who earned herself an A+ and a “Fine job” with three exclamation points and a smiley face.
“Wait,” I say. “Isn’t Annabel ‘Bigghettobooty’?”
Daphne laughs and says, “Yup.”
“Man. An A-plus with that sort of extracurricular activity…That really is an anomaly, huh?”
“Yeah,” Daphne says, shaking her head. She flips to the bottom of the stack and produces Josh McCall’s paper, covered with red marks, a big D, and a “You can do better” (with one exclamation point and a frowning face).
“Her guy?” I say.
“Uh-huh,” she says, shaking her head and putting the stack of papers down. Then she clears her throat and says, “Look, Claudia, I know what you came here to tell me…”
“You do?” I say.
She nods and says, “You don’t want to be our egg donor, do you?”
There is nothing accusatory or bitter in her words or expression. To the contrary, she looks as if she feels sorry for me. That she understands my decision completely—and even, in some small way, agrees with me.
I lean over and hug her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—I just can’t do it.”
“We figured as much,” she says. “It’s okay, Claudia. It really is.”
“Can I explain?” I say.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“Is it just too weird for you?” she says.
I exhale and rub my eyes. “I guess that’s part of it.”
“Like you feel like you’d be having a baby with Tony?” she says, trying to smile.
“Well, maybe,” I say. “Maybe a little…”
“I know,” she says. “I think Tony felt that way, too. I didn’t see it until he asked me how I’d feel if the tables were turned and we were using my egg and his brother Johnny’s sperm. I was like, ‘That’s so not a fair comparison. Claudia’s beautiful and brilliant, and Johnny’s a mean-spirited fuckup who had a really low SAT score’…but I still got his point…And I certainly don’t want to do something that you—or Tony—might regret. This is too important.”
“Thank you for saying that about me, Daphne,” I say. “That’s really nice. Thank you.”
“Well, you are,” she says. “And I don’t think you’re selfish for this decision. I don’t.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling even worse because of how understanding she’s being. “I just…I feel like I’m really leaving you in the lurch. What are you guys going to do?”
“We have other options,” she says. “We know we’ll have a baby. And we’re going to have the baby we’re supposed to have. Whatever baby we end up having will be the right baby. Our baby. And we know that we’ll hold that child and think, ‘If our journey had been easy, we wouldn’t have you.’”
“That is so true,” I say, feeling incredibly proud of my sister. I ask her if they’re considering adoption.
“Yeah,” she says. “We started researching some domestic adoption agencies this week…And my friend Beth just returned from China with the most beautiful little girl…and we’re also looking into this really cool program called Snowflake. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head.
She explains that it’s a program where a couple can adopt an embryo remaining after the genetic parents have a baby through in-vitro fertilization. “It’s sort of a controversial Christian organization,” she says.
“Why is it controversial?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess because these parents essentially believe that the embryos are children. Which is why they call it ‘adoption’ and not ‘donation’…But Tony and I don’t really care what they call it.”
I say, “Well, that sounds like a great option…And then you could still experience pregnancy and childbirth.”
“Yeah,” she says. “For some reason, carrying the baby is more important to me than the DNA…So we’re really optimistic and excited about moving forward, somehow.”
“I’m glad, Daphne. Thank you for understanding.” Then I hesitate, knowing that there is no taking back what I’m about to say next. But I want Daphne to be the first to know.
“What?” Daphne says.
“Well…I…I just wanted to tell you there’s sort of another reason I didn’t feel right about being your egg donor…”
“What’s that?” she says.
“Well, I think…I think maybe I should have a baby of my own, after all.”
She stares at me, her mouth dropping open. “You want a baby?”
“I want Ben.”
“So, what? Are you guys getting back together?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s all I want.”
“And then you’d have a baby?” she says.
“If that’s what it takes,” I say. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Ben back.”
Twenty-Five
I plan on going straight to work the next morning from Daphne’s house, but I left my bra at home. I would go without one, but I’m wearing a tight sweater that is on the thin, almost sheer, side. Daphne jokingly offers up one of her bras but we both know that’s not an option. Her boobs are significantly bigger than mine. So I head home to finish dressing, hoping that I don’t run into Trey.
Fortunately, I don’t.
I do, however, run into Michael, standing in front of the television with a remote in his hand, in all of his naked glory.
“Shit!” we yell in unison.
“What are you doing here?” I say, realizing how dumb the question is. I mean, he’s certainly not here just lounging around in the buff, watching SportsCenter. I avert my eyes, but not before I catch an unwitting crotch-level shot of Michael that is sure to be emblazoned in my head forever. I combine the image with the sound effects from last night and think, Wow, Michael. And I thought you were nothing but another pretty-faced publicist.
At this point, Jess emerges from her bedroom, looking smug. “Have you two met?” She tosses a towel to Michael, who quickly wraps it around his waist.
“Yeah. We’ve met a few times,” I say, smiling.
Michael smirks back at me and says, “We thought you were at Richard’s.”
“I was at Daphne’s actually,” I say, taking my coat off, remembering my bra situation one second too late.
“Nice tubes, Claudia,” Michael says. “Guess it is show-and-tell at Elgin Press today. Or at least show. We can talk about it, though…If you want.”
I put my jacket back on and say, “Forgot my bra. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Michael says.
Jess gives him a playful, but strangely possessive, jab, which tells me that this might be a dash more than an isolated hookup. At least in Jess’s eyes. My instinct is to leave the room and get the separate scoop from both parties later in the day, but then I figure that I might as well just ask the question now. So I say, “What’s going on here anyway? How long have you two been creeping around like this?”
Jess slides her arm around Michael and says, “Since you were in Italy, and I found my sperm bank.”
Michael laughs and says, “Don’t listen to her. We use condoms.”
Condoms, plural, I think, as Jess laughs and says, “I’m talking him into it, though,” she says, laughing.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Seriously,” Jess says. “He has good genes, you know.”
I look at Michael, a man who can’t even commit to giving a woman a key to his apartment. He smiles and shrugs.
“But we’re also in love,” Jess says. “So it’s all good.”
“That’s true,” Michael says. “I love her.”
I study their matching inscrutable expressions. They are thoroughly amused with themselves but also strangely serious.
I shake my head and say, “This is too fucking weird.” Then I head to my room to get a bra.
That afternoon, I am trying to work, but mostly contemplating how I should get in touch with Ben, when there is a knock on my office door. I assume it is Michael who has yet to show his guilty face.
“Come in!” I say, leaning back and mentally preparing my one-liner.
The door opens and Richard appears, sporting my favorite literary look: tweed blazer, turtleneck, and glasses. I am happy to see him—and still quite attracted to him. But overriding this is a sense of awkwardness due to the fact that in the ten days since our return, this is our first face-to-face interaction.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“Reading glasses,” he says, taking them off and slipping them into his jacket pocket.
I smile and motion toward my guest chair. “Have a seat.”
He closes the door to a crack and sits down.
“So, Parr? What’s the deal?” he says. He gives me a little smirk that doesn’t completely mask a dash of hurt pride. I am pretty sure that Richard is not accustomed to being blown off in any manner. “You didn’t like Lake Como or what?”
I clear my throat and stammer, “I’ve just been busy…But no, I had a lovely time at Lake Como.”
“Lovely, huh?” Richard says with an amused expression.
“You know what I mean. I had a great time,” I say more sincerely. “Thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” he says. “No need to say it again.”
We smile at each other for what feels like ten minutes, but is probably only about thirty seconds. In that brief window, it becomes absolutely clear, if it wasn’t already, that our affair is over. I know Richard has no deep feelings for me—and I’m almost as sure that he has at least one other woman in his rotation, and a few on the back burner. But I still feel compelled to give him an explanation. So I say, “Listen. I feel really pathetic telling you this, but—”
Richard interrupts and says, “Careful. Pathetic can be charming on the right woman.”
I laugh and say, “Not in my case.”
“Let me guess,” he says. “You’re still in love with your ex-husband?”
I look at him, wondering how he knew. I can’t think of a single time I’ve brought Ben up since Raymond Jr.’s baptism. Then again, maybe that’s precisely how he knew. I consider a full explanation, but instead I say offhandedly, “I told you it was pathetic.”
Then I reach into my top desk drawer for my cocktail ring. I can’t return the trip to Italy—and it would be way too uncomfortable and gauche to offer up money for my half of our travel expenses. But I can symbolically return the ring. I say, “I feel weird about keeping this.” As I attempt to hand it back to him, I have an unexpected jolt of being in high school when I returned Charlie’s letter jacket to him upon our departure for college.
Richard waves me off and says, “Oh, for God’s sake, Parr. It was nothing. It wasn’t even that expensive.
Keep it.”
“Are you sure?” I say.
He gives me an exasperated look.
I put the box back in my drawer and say, “Okay…thank you. I really do love it.”
“Well,” he says, standing. “That was the point, ya know.”
He stands as I feel a mix of relief and regret. I am relieved that the conversation was so painless, and that I have no sense that working together will be awkward moving forward—which is obviously the biggest fear with any office romance. But I feel regret because I like Richard and will miss hanging out with him. And frankly, I will also miss sleeping with him. The thought of being thirty-five, at my theoretical sexual prime, and abstinent is not one that I relish. I know that I’m at risk for being completely alone. Richard turns to leave and then looks back at me with a trace of a smile. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just call me. No strings attached.”
After he is gone I replay his words and decide that although he meant it as a selling point, there is something almost tragic about a no-strings-attached kind of life.
Of course there is also something really sad about the opposite sort of life, too—a life where people stay together because of strings, I think, as Maura phones me from the parking lot of Zoe’s ballet practice and says, “Well. He’s doing it again.”
I know right away that she is talking about Scott. He is cheating on her again.
“Could you be wrong?” I say. “Remember that one time you were wrong—and he really was just working late?”
I hear her inhale and then say, “I hired someone to follow him. I have him on tape.”
“Oh, God, Maura…I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make me cry.”
I try to switch out of sympathy mode and deal with facts instead. “Tell me what happened,” I say.
Maura says that she started suspecting Scott of having an affair based on the same tired patterns: working late, flowers sent to appease her, distracted behavior, ceaseless voice-mail checking. She says that the worst part has always been the wondering, so last week she opened the yellow pages and called the first PI listed, a guy named Lorenz whom she describes as a “Sopranos outcast type who cleans up well enough to look like a legitimate businessman.” She says she paid him a one-thousand-dollar cash advance and in five days he had proof—a blurry video of Scott meeting his woman in a bar in Battery Park City. They had three drinks each and got cozy in a corner booth.