Page 44 of That's Not a Thing

“So,” he says, as he approaches from behind me and puts his hands down on either side of me on the desk. He kisses the side of my head mildly. “How about if I take you out for Thai food? We can give Wesley a little privacy to settle in, and I can get some date time with my girl?”

“Yeah, that sounds great.” Breathing some air outside of this hotbed of awkward sounds just right. “Give me five minutes to change.”

WHEN WE SITdown at a quiet table in the Golden Lotus, our favorite neighborhood Thai place, I can tell that Aaron is excited to discuss something. He’s practically glowing as he unfolds his cloth napkin and places it on his lap. I hope it’s not the Wesley effect. He can do that to people, pump them up, invigorate them with the force of his own internal energy. I can imagine why Aaron would be juiced up after a few hours of basking in Wesley’s attention.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he starts, and I know that, unfortunately, he’s referring to the arrangement with Wesley, not the fact that we’re eating Thai food together, which is something we do all the time. “I’m not going to lie. It’s weird, and I’m not sure whether I’m comforted or annoyed to see that Wes is actually a pretty stand-up guy.”

Wes. Aaron is calling him Wes now? What the actual fuck is happening in my life?

“If things were different,” he continues, “I could see myself being good friends with the guy.”

“Except that he doesn’t make good friends—he doesn’t do that whole thing.” I notice that my voice is snippy, that I’m feeling annoyance and jealousy that I can’t quite contain.

“Right. Well.” He sounds nonchalant, unaffected by my attitude. “It gave me a crazy idea, this whole day, this whole chapter of our existence ...” He’s interrupted by the waitress who comes over to take our order. “The usual?” he asks me, and when I nod, he rattles off our standard choices: vegetable spring rolls, green papaya salad, chicken pad Thai, and beef satay. A beer for him. A house red wine for me.

“So ...” he starts again, slowly, after the waitress walks away, like he’s trying not to spook me. “Here’s a thought. Just something I was toying with. What do you think about having a baby?”

I lower my eyebrows in a lack of understanding before I answer.

“You know I want kids. We’ve talked about it a million times.” I can’t imagine why we are revisiting the topic at this moment.

“No, I mean have a baby now.”

“Now?” I ask. I glance over at the round table of older women beside us, smiling women in their seventies, and I wonder if everything is easier for them, if they are finished with all the drama that pervades the younger years. I wonder if you ever grow up enough that the tensions and complexities abate, that you can get through one freaking meal without having to consider the lifelong implications of your every action.

“Yeah, now. Just hear me out. Being around Wesley has made me realize how short life is, how unpredictable. One of the experiences I’ve been looking forward to the most is getting to be a parent with you. I know it feels like we’re just starting out and there will be plenty of time for all that, but what if there’s not? Maybe we should be taking our opportunities while they’re there for the taking.”

“You do know you’ve gotten the progression wrong, the standard sequence? It’s supposed to go marriage first, then kids.” I still don’t really believe he means this, and my flip response shows him as much.

“I’m not kidding around. It can take couples a really long time to get pregnant, and then, after you wait out the whole pregnancy, babies die. I hate to be morbid, but I see it all the time, babies that lose their grasp on life within just the first few days, the first few hours, couples who decide to start over. We might be able to have a baby nine or ten months from now, but it could just as easily take us years before we actually become parents. Why should we wait—when we know we love each other, when we know we’re in it for the long haul and we have the same end goal?”

As I breathe in the restaurant’s pervasive smell of peanut sauce, I digest that Aaron actually means what he is saying, and I wonder at his motivation. Is he trying to mark me, impregnate me with his seed, so to speak, in reaction to having Wesley so nearby?

“I guess what you’re suggesting is kind of sweet,” I say as I parse through ways of firmly closing the lid on this ludicrous idea, “but I don’t think you’ve really given this thought. The logistics of it all. I mean, what, am I supposed to get a maternity wedding dress?”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “You’ll look hot no matter what we do.”

“No.” I shake my head and then say it again. “No. I’m shutting this down. It’s an interesting idea, and I applaud you for your creative thinking, but I’ve spent too many years avoiding that whole unwed-and-pregnant thing. I’m not going to change my approach now.”

This is definitely not something I would ever agree to. I have a quick flash forward to what my poor mother’s face would look like as her daughter walked down the aisle with a big bulge under her white wedding dress. It probably wouldn’t even be white. They’d make me wear red or something, to mark my shame. I bristle, thinking that Aaron clearly doesn’t know me at all if he thinks he could convince me to do something so avant-garde. How can it be that the man I’m meant to marry is so oblivious to who I am?

“Okay, fine,” he says. “I know this is not something you would ever normally go for, that you’re never the first one to get in line for the unconventional.”

Oh.

“But having Wesley move in with us is pretty unconventional, isn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Just keep it in the back of your mind,” he suggests. “Let it simmer.”

With that, he changes the subject and starts telling me about the latest political saga at the hospital. Two of his fellow neonatologists, Dr. Pam and Dr. Spencer, as I call them, are always bickering, angling to get the better, more prestigious surgeries in their rat race to be the next department head. If I had to guess, though, my money would be on Aaron getting the spot when it opens. Present impulsive suggestion aside, he is generally the most level-headed doctor in the group, and completely meticulous—not to mention, he’s totally brilliant. Every time I voice my opinion that I think he’ll be the next chair, he waves my comments away. He’s not gunning for it, like his peers. He’s happy with the position he has now, content to be doing a job he loves and improving the outcomes for as many infants as he can.

When we walk back into the apartment, it’s only a little after 9:00 p.m., but the lights are off and Wesley’s door is closed. When Aaron hits the switch to illuminate the hallway, I see a sticky note hanging on Wesley’s door.

A loose scrawl reads, “Turned in early. Thanks again for everything.”

I’m surprised. Wesley was always a night owl. But things change, I remind myself. His condition must take a lot out of him, and he needs a different kind of rest now. I try not to think about it. I don’t want to spend every waking minute being sad about Wesley’s fading vitality. Aaron and I head into our room quietly, closing the door behind us.

And then, without any sort of prelude, he’s all over me. His hands are in my hair, and he’s pushing me up against the wall as his mouth descends on mine. I didn’t even have a chance to turn on a lamp or anything. I kiss him back, enjoying the feel of his warm tongue, the faint taste of mint lingering. I know that having Wesley in the apartment has done something to Aaron, made him more aggressive, almost feral, like he can’t possess me hard enough. It’s like he’s intoxicated by me when he starts in like this, and I can’t deny that I dig it.

He rips his mouth from mine to step back and lift my blouse over my head. I comply, eager to get back to him. When he pushes me back against the wall again, I bump the bookcase beside me, knocking several books to the floor with a loud thud. I laugh for one second, and then I remember Wesley in the room across the hall, and I freeze.