First Comes Love

  I give him a quizzical look even though I know exactly what he’s asking me. “About not wanting another baby?” he says. “I heard you talking to Ellen.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. I feel myself tense, but keep my voice light, a tried-and-true strategy to avoid a serious conversation about family planning or our marriage or sex life—questions that often come after Nolan’s had a few beers. I’m not sure whether they make him more philosophical or simply more talkative, but heart-to-hearts are almost inevitable on the heels of his drinking.

  “You sounded very…definitive,” he says, frowning before offering me an out. “Was it just the mood you were in?”

  “Yeah. Just the mood I was in,” I echo with a little shrug.

  “Well, can we talk about it? Another baby?” he asks, his voice tentative.

  “Sure,” I say, glancing over at him. “You start.”

  “Okay,” Nolan says. He takes a deep breath, stretching his neck to the left, then the right, making a crackling sound.

  I wince. “Don’t do that. It can’t be good for you,” I say, although my main reason is simply that the sound grosses me out.

  Nolan sighs loudly, then says, “So. I’ve been thinking…about where we are….I mean, we have Harper, and she’s awesome….And if that’s all we could have, I would accept it….But I just don’t feel like our family is complete. I want another baby. I’d actually love two or three more—”

  “Three more?” I say, cutting him off. “You’d be happy with four kids?”

  “Yeah. I would,” he says, kicking off his leather flip-flops. His big toe angles toward mine, and I meet him halfway, our feet now touching.

  “I think big families are awesome,” he says. “I always hated being an only child. Still do. It’s a lot of responsibility to shoulder—you know, with the family business…and now my parents getting older….Besides, it’s just kind of lonely. Sad.”

  “Harper doesn’t seem to mind,” I say. “She’s never asked for a baby brother or sister. I think she likes getting all the attention.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a problem, too,” he says. “You say yourself we spoil her too much. Another baby would fix that….Only children have issues.”

  “You don’t,” I retort. “You’re very normal.”

  I catch my tone of voice just as he does. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” he asks.

  “I didn’t,” I say, even though I know I did—and that sometimes I equate normal with boring. Why do I consider my husband boring when he is frequently the life of the party? Other people always laugh at his jokes, especially women.

  “Well, putting aside the pros and cons…I just want another one. I mean…God forbid…what if…” His voice trails off and I give him a horrified look.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Okay,” he says, confirming that he was actually going to suggest a second child as an insurance policy against losing Harper. “But you know what I mean….”

  “No,” I say, appalled. “I don’t. That’s not a reason to have another baby.”

  “All right, what is a reason, then?” he asks, taking a tactful turn.

  “Because you actually want one,” I say.

  “Right,” he says. “And as I said…I do.”

  I nod as he has made this quite clear for two years now, maybe closer to three. I know the first time he made the suggestion I was still nursing Harper, and had to resist the strong urge to throw a bottle of freshly pumped breast milk at his head. “Got it,” I say.

  “So, tell me. Where do you stand, exactly? Did you mean what you said to Ellen today? Or not?”

  I swallow, tip my head back to look at the ceiling, then close my eyes. “I don’t know, Nolan….Right now, I guess I don’t want another….”

  “But Harper’s four—”

  “I know how old she is,” I snap. “But I’m just not ready.”

  “Okay. But do you think you’ll ever be ready?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not.” I open my eyes, look at him, and make myself tell him the truth. “Probably not. No.”

  He looks stricken, maybe even devastated, and I suddenly hate myself, not for what I’ve just admitted to my loving husband and the amazing father to our child, but for what I’m not telling him. My full answer.

  “Well,” Nolan says, releasing my hand and slapping his thighs before he abruptly stands. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I say softly, looking up at him.

  “For letting me be the second person to know. Just after Ellen,” he says, then walks over to my neatly organized baskets, picks up the pink elephant, and drops it into its proper container.

  chapter eleven

  JOSIE

  The following Tuesday night, I drive back over to school for our annual Open House, the night when parents meet their child’s teacher, visit the classroom, and hear an overview of the curriculum. Afterward, everyone convenes in the auditorium, where the headmaster and a few other administrators give a spiel about how amazing our school is in order to inspire parents, already paying thousands in tuition, to open their checkbooks and donate a few dollars more.

  I always dread the parental interaction the night entails—without a doubt, it is my least favorite part of teaching. This year is worse than usual, for obvious reasons, and as I pull into the faculty parking lot, I have the distinct feeling that I might actually pass out from nervousness over seeing Will again. It doesn’t help that it’s god-awful hot and humid out—or that I’ve been juicing for forty-eight hours straight in an attempt to fit into an ambitious size-six dress purchased specifically with this evening in mind.

  I park my car, unfasten my seatbelt, and blast myself with AC before calling Gabe for a final dose of moral support. When he doesn’t answer, I fight the temptation to call Meredith. We haven’t communicated at all since she left my house in a huff, and for once I’m determined not to cave first.

  Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I carefully apply a fresh layer of lip gloss and mascara as Sydney Swanson, my fellow first-grade teacher and closest colleague, pulls into the spot beside me, making a fish face through her window. Sydney is one of the sunniest, most upbeat women I know, which is especially impressive given that she’s thirty-nine and in my dismal relationship boat. She also happens to be six feet in flats, further narrowing her dating pool thanks to her nonnegotiable he-must-be-taller-than-I-am-even-in-heels criterion.

  We both step out of our matching Jettas (purchased at the same dealership on the same day for a better deal) as she surveys my outfit, then whistles.

  “Whoa! Eat your heart out, Will!” she says a little too loudly, exaggerating her Texas twang for effect. Everything about Sydney is big—her eyes and lips, her hot-rolled hair, her saline-filled breasts, her brash personality—and although I normally embrace her larger-than-life attributes, there are times, like now, that I wish she could be a little more discreet.

  I shush her, nervously glancing around the parking lot.

  “Re-lax, sister,” she says. “You got this.”

  I tell her I think I might faint.

  “You do look a little…ill.”

  “Ill?” I say, feeling queasier by the second. “Oh, great.”

  Sydney grabs my hand, stops in her tracks, and forces me to look at her as the new choral director, whom we haven’t quite determined whether we like, passes us with a terse hello.

  “Okay. Listen to me,” she says, her voice finally lowered. “You look absolutely fantastic. And skinny.”

  I thank her, even though I know she doesn’t mean skinny—just skinny for me. I’ll still take it.

  She continues, “How many pounds have you dropped since Friday?”

  “Six. But they’ll all be back tomorrow,” I say, putting on my Ray-Bans even though we’re steps away from the entrance and already in the shade of the building. “Plus one or two, knowing me.”

  “Well, we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,” she says, summing up her phi
losophy of life as we enter the building and wave hello to a half dozen colleagues. “And seriously, Josie, that dress is killer.”

  Promptly worrying that “killer” isn’t really the look you want on Open House Night, I furtively ask if it’s too short.

  “Maybe too short to play hopscotch in,” Sydney says with a laugh. “But it will certainly make Will’s wife jealous.”

  “Um. That’s actually not my goal here, Sydney,” I say, knowing that such a thing is impossible anyway. Not only does Andrea have Will and his two children, but she also happens to be prettier, younger, and thinner. The damn trifecta. I tell myself there’s a decent chance that I’m funnier or smarter or nicer.

  “And remind me?” Sydney says. “What is your goal, again?”

  “I don’t know….I guess I’d like to make him a little…wistful. Maybe give him a small, nostalgic pang,” I whisper as we round the corner, then glance down the corridor at a sea of smartly dressed parents, some making effusive small talk while others diligently fill out their name tags at the check-in table.

  “Do you see him?” she asks, scanning the crowd along with me.

  I shake my head.

  “Maybe he got fat and bald,” Sydney says. “Look for a fat, bald version of him.”

  “No. I’ve seen a recent photo in The Atlantan. He’s definitely not fat or bald.”

  “Damn. Too bad.”

  “God, Sydney. I really don’t know if I can do this,” I say, my voice as weak as my knees.

  She looks at me with genuine worry, which only heightens my fear. “C’mon, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Follow me and try not to make eye contact with anyone.”

  I nod, letting her whisk me past the parents, then down a flight of stairs to the first-grade wing. When we reach the safety of my classroom, which is diagonally across the hall from hers, she closes the door, then bolts it shut for added protection. “Sit down,” she says, striding over to me. “Right there. On the floor.”

  I follow her orders, plopping down onto the braided rug, then lowering my forehead to touch my knees.

  “I see London, I see France,” she’s unable to resist.

  I reply with a faint groan.

  “What have you eaten today?” she asks, sitting beside me and reaching over to rub my back in small, soothing circles.

  “Just kale juice and a little black coffee,” I confess.

  “That’s it?” Sydney says, aghast. She pulls a PowerBar out of her bottomless bag. “Here. Eat this. At least take a few bites.”

  “I can’t,” I say, refusing it. “I’d rather pass out than puke.”

  “Good point. Puking would be mortifying.” She lets out a laugh. “Can you imagine?”

  “Sydney! That’s not helping,” I say, feeling kale rise in my throat.

  “Sorry, sorry. You’re right….” she says. “Just breathe, honey….In through your nose…Out through your mouth.”

  She demonstrates, and I follow her lead, the oxygen expanding my lungs and lowering my heart rate. “What time is it?” I ask, after a few minutes of silence.

  “Almost six-thirty. They’ll be coming down soon.” She’s referring to all the parents, but I only picture Will and Andrea—who right now might as well be the royal Will and Kate. “You gonna be okay?”

  I peer up at her and nod. “I think so.”

  “Just remember,” Sydney says, “she doesn’t know you’re single. And neither does he.”

  I nod again, thinking of how often I’m told that men can, in fact, sense when you’re desperate. But maybe that doesn’t apply to the married ones who have already dumped you. Besides, I’m no longer desperate, I remind myself. I have a game plan, finally, which I’ve already confided in Sydney, too.

  “And remember—you only have to get through the next hour or so,” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to get through the next nine months.”

  Sydney’s eyes widen, her thick fake lashes at attention. “What? Wait! Are you already pregnant? Is that why you’re sick?”

  “No, dummy. I meant I have to get through the school year,” I say.

  “Oh. You will. No problem,” she says. “Just stand up straight and smile. And wipe the lipstick off your front tooth.”

  I rub my teeth with my finger and thank her, wishing she were my sister. Hell, if that were the case, I’d actually be the responsible one in the family.

  On her way to the door, she glances over her shoulder, gives me a thumbs-up, and says, “No matter what happens, that dress was a great fucking call.”

  —

  OVER THE NEXT ten minutes, my classroom quickly fills with parents, filing in two by two. Meanwhile, I focus on breathing and smiling, scanning name tags and shaking hands. Once I have that down, I graduate to autopilot small talk, working the room like it’s a cocktail party minus the flattering lighting, music, and cocktails. Hello! Welcome! It’s so nice to meet you! You’re Lucy’s mother? My goodness, I see the resemblance! The summer sure did fly by! I’m so excited for the school year!

  As the last few stragglers enter, and the slightly slow wall clock over the dry-erase board clicks to six-forty-five, Will and Andrea have yet to arrive, and I start to become hopeful that they won’t be coming at all. It could happen. Maybe they had a previous engagement. Maybe one or both had a non-life-threatening but contagious and unsightly illness like, say, hand, foot, and mouth disease or pinkeye. Maybe, just maybe, they got into a huge fight over me. One could hope, I thought, as I tried to imagine the accusatory eruption on their way out the door. You still have feelings for her, don’t you?!…No, I swear I don’t!…Then why are you wearing cologne?

  Whatever the explanation, though, it is time to get started. Tugging nervously at the hem of my dress, I clear my throat and say hello, my smile feeling frozen. The room instantly quiets, everyone on their best behavior, the Pavlovian response to being back in a classroom, no matter what your age.

  “Welcome! Welcome, everyone!” My voice sounds unnaturally high, like that of a sorority rush chair who has just downed a Red Bull. I swallow, making a concerted effort to lower my voice an octave, along with my eyebrows, which feel maniacally raised.

  “Thank you so much for being here tonight,” I continue, sounding a bit more normal. I glance at the door, praying that it doesn’t open, and move on with my script. It’s only been a couple of weeks, and already I can tell what a wonderful group this is. It’s been such a pleasure getting to know your children—and I’m thrilled to meet you all. This evening, I’m going to briefly go through the curriculum for the school year—some of the fun things we’re going to cover in reading and math, as well as our specials, which include science and social studies. Please take this opportunity to explore the classroom, visit your child’s cubby, perhaps leave him or her a little note for tomorrow. And of course, feel free to ask any questions you may have. Remember, as I tell your children, there are no stupid questions—and my door is always, always open!

  Then, as my Charlie Brown teacher voice drones on, it happens. The door swings open, and in walk Andrea and Will. As everyone turns to look at the latecomers, I make the shocking observation that the perfect couple is not only late but also flustered and slightly out of breath. At least she is—I won’t let myself look directly at him. Andrea still qualifies as beautiful, but to my relief, she isn’t quite as perfect as I remember from my Whole Foods sighting. She has gained a few pounds and her hair is overdue for color, a dull brown stripe streaked with gray at the crown of her otherwise golden head. More satisfying are the sweat-soaked armholes of her marigold-yellow silk blouse. Rookie move wearing silk on a day as hot as this one, I think, as she makes furtive eye contact with me and whispers, “Sorry we’re late.”

  I wave off her apology with the same magnanimous smile I’d give to a child who has just wet his pants (which still occasionally happens in the first grade). “You’re totally fine,” I say, my heart flutteri
ng in my chest, my role as scorned ex-girlfriend suddenly supplanted by my position as poised, punctual, and most forgiving educator.

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, the exhausting dog-and-pony show is finally over, and I make an announcement that everyone can head toward the auditorium unless they have any remaining questions. After a mass exodus, only two pairs of parents remain: (1) the Eddelmans, who have asked roughly sixty percent of all questions tonight, most of which are completely specific to their child, Jared, who, we have all learned, has a nut allergy, a latex allergy, a phobia of birds, and a propensity for nosebleeds; and (2) Will and Andrea.

  I take a deep breath and address the Eddelmans, who give me a three-minute monologue about Jared’s EpiPen, while, from the corner of my eye, I watch Andrea and Will inspect Edie’s cubby. I nod earnestly, reassuring the Eddelmans that I am very well versed in life-threatening allergies but also fully confident that parents will respect the strict no-nut policy.

  “We are very, very careful,” I say, acknowledging their concern. “Please rest assured that Jared will be safe at school.”

  Finally appeased, the Eddelmans thank me and move along, leaving only Will and Andrea. My heart is in my throat as I turn to them.

  “Hello,” I say, my fake smile back in full force. I focus solely on Andrea, glancing at her gray roots, feeling grateful that I’ve yet to find one on my own head. A small victory.

  “Hi, Josie. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Andrea,” she says. She gives me a genuine smile as she starts to shake my hand, then stops, perhaps because her hands are as clammy as mine.

  I take a deep breath and tell Andrea that it’s very nice to meet her, too. At this point, I decide that I can no longer delay making eye contact with Will, so I force myself to meet his gaze. I feel a stab of pain in my chest. He is as perfect as I remember. Even more so. “Hi, Will,” I say. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Hi, Josie,” he says.

  I drop my gaze to the two open buttons of his teal checked Vineyard Vines shirt, and remember how soft his chest hair used to feel against me when we were making love.