by Emily Giffin
“Were you not there witnessing the same ordeal last night?” he asked. “What do you think? Something is going on?…No. No! She’s my friend, Sondrine…. She doesn’t want to stay over there…I don’t know—would you like to ask her?”
The conversation went on like that for some time, until he said he had to go. When he hung up, I opened one eye and saw him in the doorway, his hair messy, sticking up all over the place like a Native American headdress. I asked if everything was okay.
“Yeah,” Ethan said, but he looked agitated as he crossed the room to his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a navy roll-neck sweater.
“Is Sondrine mad that I’m staying here?” I asked.
“No. She’s cool with it,” he lied. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, but I have to go pee.”
Ethan nodded, looking nervous. We both knew what I really had to do: check for blood. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for me. A moment later I returned and gave him the good report.
“All clear,” I said, giving him the thumbs-up signal.
He smiled and told me to get back in bed. I did.
“Now,” Ethan said. “What can I get you for breakfast?”
I didn’t want to be any more trouble than I already was, so I said instant oatmeal would be great, even though I was really craving eggs.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
After he left I flipped through my When You’re Expecting Twins book, which I had conveniently left next to his bed several weeks earlier. I studied a graphic on weeks of gestation and head circumference, determining that my babies’ heads were currently the size of lemons. If I reached my goal of thirty-six weeks, they would grow to the size of grapefruits. I told myself I could do it.
Moments later Ethan returned carrying a wooden tray. On it was a plate of scrambled eggs, sliced tomatoes, and wheat toast, all beautifully presented with a sprig of parsley. “I overrode your cereal order. You need protein.” I sat up and straightened my knees as he placed the tray as close to me as my stomach would allow—which wasn’t very close. He sat down next to me on the bed.
“Thank you,” I said. “Where’s your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said. “But I’ll just keep you company.”
I smiled and took a bite of my eggs.
“Do they need more salt or pepper?” he asked.
“No. They’re perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”
As I took my first bite, I felt both babies move simultaneously. Baby A jabbing hard under my rib cage, Baby B swimming calmly below, creating his standard rippling sensation. Of course, it could have been one baby, waving an arm as he kicked. But I didn’t think so. It felt like both of them in tandem. I was starting to believe I could actually distinguish their movements, and from this, I read things into their personalities. Baby A seemed more assertive. Fittingly, a Type A. He’d be my athlete, my go-getter. Baby B seemed mellow and easygoing. The tenderhearted artist. I imagined them together, spilling off the school bus, identical figures from a distance. One bouncing his basketball, the other swinging his trumpet case.
No matter what their interests, I just hoped that my sons would be good, happy boys who would always have the wisdom and courage to follow their hearts.
For the rest of the day, except for a five-minute shower interrupted by Ethan who kept knocking on the bathroom door and yelling at me to hurry up, I stayed horizontal. I napped, read my Twins book, and flipped through my accumulation of Hello magazines. Mostly, though, I just thought about Ethan, imagining what it would be like to share a slow, passionate kiss with him. To make love to him. To hear him introduce me as his girlfriend, and then his fiancée. I briefly questioned whether this wasn’t just one of my challenges, if it wasn’t about my needing to have every man love me.
But I knew, deep down, that it had nothing to do with any of that. For the first time in my life, I was truly in love. It wasn’t about what Ethan could give me or how we would look together as we walked into a room. It was just about Ethan. Good, quirky, adorable, passionate, smart, witty Ethan. I was crazy about him, and so revved up with emotion that I had to resist calling him back to the bedroom as he had insisted I could do anytime. Instead, I patiently waited for him to take breaks from his writing and poke his sweet towhead into the room to check on me. Sometimes he’d just say a quick hello or get me a water refill. Other times he’d bring me plates of wholesome snacks: cheese and crackers, sliced pears, olives, homemade pasta salad, and peanut butter sandwiches cut in quarters. He’d always talk to me while I ate. And once, in the late afternoon, when it was raining really hard outside, he climbed under the covers and took a short nap with me. He fell asleep first, which gave me the chance to study his face. I loved everything about it. His curly, full lips, his long, sandy eyelashes that grew straight down, his regal nose. As I admired his features, his mouth twitched in his sleep, his lone dimple making a flash appearance. In that second, I knew what I really wanted for my boys. I wanted them to have Ethan as their father.
Thirty
Over the next week, I relished my cozy existence with Ethan while tolerating the seemingly incessant interruptions from Geoffrey. He phoned every few hours and visited daily on his way home from work. Sometimes he’d bring dinner, and I’d be forced to spend the evening with him instead of Ethan (who would promptly depart for Sondrine’s). Other times I’d pretend to be sleeping, and he’d simply leave me a note on his personal stationery, which, incidentally, was adorned with an engraving of his family coat of arms. It was the sort of touch that would have been right up my alley in the Alistair-fantasizing days. But now I preferred Ethan’s no-nonsense, ruled yellow notepads. Now I preferred everything about Ethan.
One afternoon during my thirty-first week, Geoffrey paid me a surprise visit during his lunch break. I had fallen asleep reading an Us Weekly that Annalise had so thoughtfully sent me from home along with a tin of her famous oatmeal raisin cookies and a bottle of antistretch-mark body oil. When I awoke, there was Geoffrey perched oddly in a straight-backed dining chair pulled up next to the bed. I could tell by his expression that he felt the way I did whenever I watched Ethan sleep, and I knew that it was time to end things.
“Hello, darling,” he said as I stretched and sat up. His voice was low and nurturing. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Just tired and generally uncomfortable,” I said.
“Did Mr. Smith stop by this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Love the house calls doctors make in this country.”
“And?” Geoffrey asked. “What did he say?”
“He said everything still looks good.”
He nodded. “Good. Any cramping or spotting or contractions since then?”
I shook my head.
“Good girl.” He reached out and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. Then he gave me a tiny, mysterious smile and said, “I’ve got something for you.” He handed me three real estate flyers featuring wondrous, spacious flats in posh neighborhoods. The stuff of my dreams upon my move to London. My eyes lingered on the descriptions: five bedrooms, terrace, park view, working fireplace. I forced myself to hand them back to him. I couldn’t wait another moment, couldn’t risk letting those brochures reel the old Darcy back in.
“You’re not in the mood to have a look?” Geoffrey asked.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea,” I said.
“Is something wrong?”
He knew there was. People always know. I searched for the right words, compassionate words. But it is very hard to sugarcoat a breakup when you’re in another man’s bed wearing his plaid pajamas. So I just blurted it out, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid: “Geoffrey, I’m really sorry, but I think we need to break up.”
He shuffled the flyers and glanced down at the one on top, showcasing a flat in Belgravia that looked exactly like the block where Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin resided. I felt a pang thinking
that if I stayed with Geoffrey, I could be one of Gwyneth’s gal-pals. I pictured sharing her clothes, her linking arms with mine and saying, “What’s mine is yours.” We’d be photographed together in Hello. As a huge Coldplay fan, Ethan would benefit too. I saw my boys in a playgroup with young Apple. Maybe one of them would someday marry her. I’d plan the rehearsal dinner, Gwynnie would do the wedding. We’d phone each other daily, discussing flower arrangements, cake tastings, wine selections. I snapped back to reality. Not even the lure of Gwyneth was enough to change my mind about Geoffrey.
He finally spoke. “Is it Ethan?”
I felt caught off guard and nervous hearing Ethan’s name. I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I finally said, “I just don’t have the right feelings for you. I thought I did…but…I’m not in love with you. I’m sorry.”
The straightforward, dressed-down words sounded familiar, and I realized how close they were to Dexter’s breakup speech with me. It suddenly occurred to me that no matter when his affair with Rachel had begun, she hadn’t been the cause of our breakup. Dex and I had split because we weren’t right for each other, and because of that fact, he had been able to fall in love with her. Had we been on solid ground, Dex wouldn’t have cheated on me. The realization was somehow freeing, and it enabled me to let go of another sliver of resentment toward both of them. I’d think about it more later, but for now, I refocused on Geoffrey, waiting for him to respond.
“That’s okay,” he finally said with an elegant wave of his hand.
I must have looked confused by his nonchalance because he clarified. “You’re just in a very difficult situation right now. Being in bed like this is bound to confuse you. We can sort it out later—after the babies arrive. And in the meantime, I really want to take care of you. Just let me do it, darling.”
Coming from most men the words would have sounded either condescending or pathetic—a last, desperate attempt to hold a relationship together at its seams. But from Geoffrey it was just a dignified, pragmatic, and sincere declaration. For one beat, I was sold. After all, he was my ticket to staying in London for the long term. But even more important, Geoffrey was my emotional security blanket. It is impossible to overstate the unique brand of vulnerability that comes with pregnancy, particularly the circumstances of my pregnancy—and Geoffrey assuaged much of my anxiety. He was a good person who took excellent care of me, and implicit in his every touch was the promise that he always would.
But I wasn’t in love with him. It was that simple. The concept of being with a man strictly for love used to seem naïve and high-minded, the kind of thing I used to scoff at Rachel for saying, but now I subscribed to the notion too. So I forced myself to stay on track.
“That is really very sweet,” I said, reaching out to take his hand. “And I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your kindness, everything you have done for me. But we have to break up. It just isn’t right to stay together when my feelings aren’t there…”
Then to reinforce the point, I told him that I would miss him, although I knew I’d miss the fringe benefits that came along with him a bit more than I’d actually miss him. I let go of his hand.
Geoffrey squinted. His eyes were sad but dry. He said, without a trace of bitterness, that he was very sorry to lose me, but that he understood. He swung his briefcase onto his lap, snapped it open, and tossed the glossy brochures inside. Then he stood and headed for the door.
“Can we still be friends?” I called after him, feeling slightly frantic after his easy surrender. I worried that the question emanated from the old Darcy, the needing-to-be-worshipped-at-any-cost Darcy. Maybe I just wanted to retain control over Geoffrey. But as he turned to look at me over his shoulder, saying that he would like that very much, I knew that my intentions were pure. I wanted to remain friends with Geoffrey because I liked him as a person. Not because I wanted a single thing from him.
Later that night as Ethan lay next to me reading an article in National Geographic on global warming, I told him that Geoffrey and I had broken up that afternoon. I told him everything except Geoffrey’s question about him.
Ethan listened, eyebrows raised. “Wow. I didn’t even know you two were on shaky ground,” he said, but his tone gave him away. Like Geoffrey, he wasn’t all that surprised.
I nodded. “Yeah. I just wasn’t feeling it.”
“Was he okay?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“And you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel guilty after all he’s done for me. And I guess a tiny bit sad too…But mostly I think it’s a good thing, even though it means I’ll have to move back to New York sooner than I’d like.”
Ethan blinked. “What?”
“I said I feel guilty—”
“No. The part about moving back?”
“I don’t have a job, Ethan. I’ll probably have to go back to my old one after the babies are born. I just don’t have the money to stay here.”
“You can stay here for as long as you want,” Ethan said.
“I can’t do that. I’ve been enough of a burden…And it’s not like you’re rolling in it.” I smiled.
“I love having you here, Darcy. I can’t wait for those babies to get here. I’m unbelievably pumped. Don’t let money constraints force your hand. We’ll work it out. I have money saved.”
I looked at his earnest face and had to swallow back the urge to confide my feelings. It wasn’t that I was afraid of rejection. It was more that for once, my feelings were selfless, and I didn’t think it was fair to Ethan to unload everything on him. He was already in a relationship. He didn’t need the pressure of worrying about me and how hurting my feelings might impact my pregnancy.
So I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Ethan. We’ll see what happens.”
In my mind, though, I knew that my time in London, as well as my time with Ethan, was running out.
Thirty-One
The next day I hit the thirty-two-week benchmark, significant according to my Twins book in that my children would be “unlikely to suffer long-term health consequences as a result of their premature births.” This felt like an enormous hurdle, which seemed ironic considering that I had achieved the goal by doing absolutely nothing but hanging out in bed, reading magazines and snacking.
To celebrate the milestone, Ethan surprised me with a homemade chocolate cake, bringing it back to the bedroom on his wooden tray. The cake was decorated with thirty-two blue candles, one for each week of my pregnancy, which he lit while singing, off-key, “Happy birthday, Baby A and B!”
I laughed, made a wish, and blew out the candles in two tries (which he said counted as I was having two babies). Then he cut the cake and served us each a big slice. I had seconds and then thirds, praising his baking efforts, especially the icing. When we finished eating, he cleared our plates and the tray and returned with a big box wrapped in mint-green and white polka-dotted paper.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said, hoping that he hadn’t spent too much on the baby gift.
He ceremoniously rested the box on my lap. “I didn’t…It’s from Rachel.”
I stared down at the package. Sure enough, the present-wrapping was unmistakably Rachel: perfect and pretty, but restrained enough not to look professionally wrapped. I observed her neat corners, the short strips of tape all parallel to the edges of the box, and her full, symmetrical bow. For some reason, that package unearthed all kinds of good memories, moments shared with Rachel over the years.
Ethan shot me a furtive glance. “Are you upset? Should I not have given it to you? I debated it for some time…”
“No. It’s fine,” I said, my hand running across the wrapping paper. Rachel’s hand had touched this box, I thought, and I was overcome with the most absurd sensation that I was connecting with someone from the dead.
“Are you going to open it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“She sent it a few weeks ago, but she wanted me to wait until closer to you
r due date. I thought today was good…because I’m not worried anymore. Your babies are going to be fine.”
My heart pounded as I carefully untied the white bow, peeled back the paper, and opened the box to find two white receiving blankets trimmed with light blue silk. They were the softest, most sumptuous things I had ever touched. I remembered that Rachel had given Annalise a similar blanket at her baby shower, but mine were even nicer. After a long moment, I removed the card from the envelope. It was letter-pressed with two baby carriages. I opened the card slowly and saw her familiar, neat cursive. I could hear her voice as I read silently:
Dear Darcy,
First, I want to tell you how sorry I am for everything that has happened between us. I miss our friendship, and I regret that I cannot share in this very special time in your life. But despite the distance between us, I want you to know that I think of you often. Many times a day. I am so pleased to learn from Ethan that you are happy and well. And twins! It is so you to turn an already wonderful event into something doubly exciting! And, finally, I just want to wish you heartfelt congratulations as you embark upon motherhood. I hope someday to meet your sons. I know they will be beautiful, amazing little boys, just like their mother.
Best wishes and much love always,
Rachel
Still clutching the card, I leaned my head back on my pillow. For months now, I had been waiting to hear something from Rachel, but I didn’t realize how much I wanted to hear from her until I read her card. I looked up at Ethan. His face was placid, patient.
“Huh. Imagine that,” I said, filling the silence.
“What’d she say?” Ethan asked.
I downplayed my emotion by rolling my eyes. Then I twisted my hair up in a knot, secured it with an elastic band, and said nonchalantly, “Let’s just say, she is trying to make a comeback.” My words were cavalier, but the catch in my voice gave me away. And against my best efforts, I could feel myself softening. I tried to mask my feelings by flinging the card his way, Frisbee-style. “Here you go. Read it for yourself,” I said.