I’ll never have the keys to the age-zero-to-seven years.
As I watch him, though, I remember what January said the first night we slept together—write our own narrative.
Make up a new story.
Invent something fresh.
I draw a deep breath, imagining the years I missed.
And trying, trying so hard, to let them go.
Later that night, after I’ve put Ethan to bed, Kerri rings. “So, how’s that money tree working out in your backyard?”
“Oh, it’s fantastic. I just go out and shake it all the time.”
“You know, everybody hates you.”
I laugh as I sink down on the new couch, the one January assembled. I slide my hand along the cushions as I talk, thinking of her. “You hate me because I didn’t actually have to use a dating app?”
“Yes. We hate you because of that.”
“Who is we exactly?”
“All women who don’t get to pluck men off trees in the yard. I speak for them.”
“But you’re happily married,” I say, my brow knitting.
“I still hate you for it. Now tell me all about her. I’m dying to know the details of the woman who’s captured your affections,” she says.
I grin, all too eager to tell her. “She’s wonderful and fantastic. Smart and kind. Funny and sarcastic, and she has the hugest heart.”
Kerri sighs happily. “Am I meeting her at Ethan’s party this weekend?”
“I hope so. I’ll ask her to be there.”
“Excellent. Dare I say it?”
“Say what?”
“She sounds like the one.”
My heart pinches, a sharp pang winging through me. “She does sound like it, but I don’t think she wants that, Ker.”
“She doesn’t want to walk down the aisle and pop out babies with you?” she asks, more serious now.
“I don’t think she does.” I frown, wishing things were different.
“Oh.” My sister is quiet for a long beat. “I mean, every woman should make her own choice, and good for her and all. But how is that going to gel with what you want?”
Scrubbing a hand across my jaw, I shrug, my whole body weighing a thousand pounds. “Don’t know.”
She allows a comforting silence to pass, then says, “I hope she changes her mind. For your sake.”
I sigh, not sure what to say.
“Or that you change yours.”
But change it about what? That’s the thing—I don’t know. I came to California so certain about what I wanted, and now I feel lost, like I’m wandering through the woods without a map.
Like I’m in IKEA without January.
After we say goodbye, a text from Oliver flashes on my screen, asking if life in California is perfect.
I write back, sort of lying, sort of telling the truth.
* * *
Liam: It’s fantastic.
* * *
He sees through me immediately.
* * *
Oliver: That means you’re getting your knob wet.
* * *
I have a laugh at his crude turn of phrase but expect nothing different from my cousin—in a good way.
* * *
Liam: Is that the only reason a man can be happy?
* * *
Oliver: No, but it certainly helps. So, is it the fox who assembled your furniture while you were at work?
* * *
Liam: Yes. I’ve been seeing her a lot.
* * *
Oliver: So, it looks like you found Ms. Right. Good on you.
* * *
But that’s not the case at all. My shoulders slump, impossibly heavy, heavier, even, than when I was speaking to Kerri. The truth seems even starker now as I share it with Oliver.
* * *
Liam: That’s the trouble. She’s not interested in that.
* * *
Oliver: Oh. Can’t you convince her? Have you lost your touch, coz? Are you no longer convincing?
* * *
But what do I really need to convince her of? To be serious? To be a partner? To want more, so much more?
And if you can convince someone, is that person agreeing to have a family just for you? Is it fair to even ask that of someone?
Why can’t it be easy, finding the right person at the right time?
But it’s not, and asking for what you want is harder than fixing a dog’s leg.
I wince as I imagine trying to say those awkward words to January. Want to be mine all the time, build a life together and maybe, just maybe, a family?
Trying to string together the words to convey my desires ties me in knots.
Knots I never quite expected.
But . . . what are my desires?
Are they still the same?
Because as I lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering about my future, the next few months, the next few years look muddled.
For the first time in ages, I’m not even sure of what I want.
And I don’t know how to turn the glass half full.
All else aside, the first thing I need to convince January of is coming to Ethan’s birthday party. When I see her the next morning on the sidewalk, I ask, “Would you like to come to Ethan’s birthday party this weekend?”
