Page 79 of Office Hours
She exhales, slow and controlled. “Because you wanted a family.”
“No,” I say, voice cracking just a little. “Because I wanted you. The rest was noise. I just didn’t know how to say it until I’d already broken everything.”
She sits on the arm of the sofa, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her middle. “I don’t know if I can trust you, Liam. You used my body as an excuse and then threw it in myface when it was convenient. That’s not love. That’s…” She trails off, unwilling to say the word.
I move to the coffee table, pick up the top file, and walk it over to her. “I withdrew my surrogacy applications,” I say, holding out the packet. “Every application, every email. I shredded the forms, deleted the drafts. I can’t undo what I said, but I can promise you I’m not looking for anyone else to fill some fucked up hole in my life.”
She takes the file, flips through the pages, then lets it fall shut. “So now what?”
I laugh, soft and ugly. “Now I beg you to forgive me. Or at least, to let me spend the rest of this year proving I’m not the piece of shit you have every reason to think I am.”
The room is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. She stands, walks to the window, stares out into the suburban blackness. I follow, not too close, and wait.
After a long moment, she says, “You really loved me?”
I nod, feeling the truth land somewhere deep in my chest. “Still do.”
She turns, eyes bright with unshed tears. “If you ever, ever try to use my body against me again, I’ll ruin your fucking career. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” I say. “You have all the power now. I’m okay with that.”
She wipes her eyes, then laughs, the sound sharp and a little deranged. “I don’t want power. I just want you to treat me like I matter.”
“I can do that,” I say, and mean it.
She sets the file back on the table, hands trembling. “You’re lucky I’m an optimist,” she says, her smile crooked and sad. “Otherwise, I’d set fire to your house and dance on the ashes.”
I let out a breath, a small, nervous laugh of my own. “I believe you would.”
She stands there, uncertain, and for a second I’m terrified she’ll just leave. Instead, she sits down on the couch, legs curled under her, and pats the cushion next to her.
I sit, careful not to crowd her.
We don’t touch. We just sit, side by side, listening to the clock tick and the fridge buzz and the world turn outside.
After a minute, she says, “You need therapy.”
“I know,” I say.
She nods, then leans her head on my shoulder, just for a moment. “So do I.”
We sit in silence, two broken people in a house that finally feels like it belongs to both of us.
For the first time in months, I don’t want to leave.
For the first time, I believe she might stay.
There’s a pause,and then there’s a chasm. I can feel the next words in the room, coiled and waiting, a rattlesnake in the slipstream of our silence.
She looks at me, her head tilted, eyes sharp behind the remnants of tears. “Why did you want to do it that way, anyways?” she asks, voice so even it almost sounds bored. “Surrogacy. All the contracts, all the egg donor packets. Why not just—” she gestures at the universe, “—do it the regular way?”
The room contracts to a single point. I stare at my hands, counting the red marks on my knuckles, then force myself to look at her. The answer is a nest of knives, but she’s owed it.
“I never wanted to talk about this,” I say, and already my mouth tastes of metal. “But I will.”
She waits, gaze unflinching.
“After my divorce, I lost my mind for a year or so.” I say this like I’m reciting from an outdated CV, a bullet point of shame. “I think I told you that Sandra was my first love, so I never really dated anyone else. As a result, after the divorce, I went buck wild. I drank. I fucked around. I tried to pretend I was immune to consequences. Then I went to a conference—one of those poetry symposiums for academic types—and I met Lyra and Natalie. Both grad students. Both brilliant, both impossibly young. We ended up together. All three of us.”
