by Roxy Reid
It’s so heavy the table wobbles.
“What’s that?” I ask, in spite of myself.
“That,” Clara says, “is the big book of romantic gestures. Think of it as love life CPR.”
“I really don’t need—”
Clara looks at me over the top of her glasses. “How badly did you fuck up?”
I kept our relationship a secret, asked her to lie to her brother, wrongly accused her of sabotaging my company, didn’t try to stop her when she walked out, and waited until she’d been gone for weeks before I realized I love her.
I drop the briefcase and sit down.
Clara slides the binder across the table to me, and I start flipping.
An embarrassing amount of time later, I slump back in my seat. “None of these are right. I don’t want to do something with doves.”
“Don’t be silly,” Clara says. “There’s other options. Horses, for example.”
I groan. “None of them mean anything. Not to Stella.”
Clara crosses her arms in her chair, and surveys me. “Ok then. Back to basics. Every big romantic gesture comes down to two questions: Why does this Stella think you can’t be together? And what are you going to do to fix it?”
I blink. “That’s it. That’s it, Clara. I could kiss you!”
“Please don’t.”
I grab my briefcase. “And don’t forget what I said about Jamie’s Diner. Best milkshakes in town.”
“Lee and I will try it out this weekend,” she promises, but I’m already rushing out the door, and out toward my car.
Stella thinks we can’t be together because she doesn’t want to be a secret. So that’s my answer. I tell the secret. I tell Duke.
I get in the car, and take out my phone. Here goes nothing.
“Hello?” Duke says. There’s the dulcet tones of swearing and honking in the background, which means he’s heading home from work. “Dude, you never call—”
“I’m dating Stella.”
The line goes silent. Well, as silent as a line can go when someone’s standing on the sidewalk in New York City.
“Say something, Duke.”
“… I thought you were in love with this other girl? I know you and Stella get on great, but I don’t want her to be your rebound.”
I press my fist to my forehead. “There is no other girl. The person I’m in love with is Stella.”
“Oh. Ok.” There’s a strained pause. “I guess that’s great, if you’re both happy … hey, hold the fuck on. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I wince. Knew that was coming. “I wanted to wait until we knew it was serious.”
“Why? Stella’s a grown up, she can date whoever she wants—”
“You say that,” I say, “but name one of our friends who dated Stella that you actually stayed friends with after it ended.”
“Oh, come on! If someone breaks her heart, I’m on her side, always.”
“I know that! That’s why I didn’t … that’s why I didn’t want to tell you until I thought it wouldn’t end. ‘Cause I … I care about you, doofus. And I didn’t want to lose you.”
I sit motionless in my seat, waiting for him to answer. On the other end of the line, someone yells at Duke to check where he’s fucking walking.
Duke must be really thrown for a loop, because for once in his life he doesn’t swear back at the person, just apologizes absently.
I wait, barely breathing.
“Huh,” Duke says at last. “You and my sister.”
“Yeah.”
“You love my sister.”
“Horribly.”
“Poor bastard. Well, welcome to the club,” he says, and I laugh.
“And I wouldn’t care if you guys broke up,” Duke adds, indignantly. “I’m not a teenager anymore. I know life’s complicated. And anyway, you’re my best friend, dude.”
I’m starting to relax, not really believing how easy that was, when Duke makes a horrified gasping sound. “Oh God. My mom’s going to be your mother-in-law. You poor fucking bastard.”
I groan, then slump deep into my seat. “Unfortunately, that’s uh … a little premature.”
“Dude. You just said you’re in love. You don’t think it’s going to end. And you’re into all that picket fence shit.”
“Well, that’s …” I blow out a breath. “Sort of why I’m calling.”
“What do you mean?” Duke asks.
“It already ended.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And then, “You fucking bastard.”
“See! I knew you’d react like that!” I slam my fist on the steering wheel. “You fucking hypocrite.”
“I’m not a hypocrite.”
“‘I’m not a teenager, life is complicated,’” I mimic.
“I … ok, yeah,” Duke admits. “But you know what, love isn’t.”
It’s an unusually deep thing for my bro-y friend to say, and it takes the wind out of my sails. That’s the thing with Duke. He tells the truth. Normally it’s Strippers are hot and Concussions are a bitch.
But sometimes. Sometimes it’s love isn’t complicated.
“No,” I finally agree. “No it’s not.”
He sighs. “I guess this is where a good friend would ask for your side of the story.”
I snort. “My side of the story isn’t going to make you feel better. We had a fight. I fucked up. And she left. But one of the things we fought over was me not wanting to tell you we were dating. So I’m telling you now. And then I’m going to hang up the phone and drive to her place tell her that I told you, and that I love her, and ask her to take me back.”
Duke lets out a low whistle. “Dude.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s terrifying,” he adds.
“I know.”
“Stella’s going to stab your heart with little drumsticks.”
I laugh, then groan. “Probably. Oh God, probably. But I can’t stop myself.”
“Wade …” he trails off.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Now that I’ve gotten the big confession over with, I’m anxious to get going. It’s like every cell in my body is buzzing with the need to get to Stella.
And I really don’t need an anti-pep-talk from Duke.
“What?” I say at last.
Duke hesitates. “It’s just, you’ve never done anything like this for a girl before.”
My heart thumps. Another one of Duke’s truths.
“It’s never been like this before,” I say. Then add, “It was never Stella before.”
“Wow,” Duke says. “This is actually happening. And to think I thought this was going to be a normal Wednesday.”
I laugh, and it hurts, but it’s good. I know exactly what he means.
“Well. Fingers crossed dude,” my best friend says.
“Yeah. Fingers crossed.”
I’m about to hang up, when Duke adds, “And Wade? We can still be friends. Even if she shuts the door on your sorry ass.”
“Some consolation prize,” I tease, but I’m grinning, and he’s laughing. I immediately feel better. I’m still all sorts of knotted up over Stella, but it doesn’t feel as lonely as it did before.
Does telling Duke count as a grand gesture if it was this good for me?
Duke hangs up, still laughing.
I punch in the GPS to Stella’s apartment.
Ok. This is it. I’m really doing this.
I put my key in the ignition, take a deep breath, and drive to Stella.
15
Stella
I’m feeling surprisingly on top of it as I drive to the clinic. Turns out me and T.L.D.—The Little Dream, as I’ve taken to calling it—lucked out. One of nine clinics in the entire state of North Carolina is in Winston-Salem. But my good mood takes a hit when I have to make it through a small crowd of protesters to get to the clinic.
Strangers yelling at you when you’re already feeling alone and rickety will do that to you.
; The bad mood persists in the waiting room, where everyone’s running late, and into the examination room, where everything has that sterile hospital smell.
“Maybe when you grow up you can invent a way to fix hospital wait times,” I mutter to T.L.D.
The doctor is nice enough when she finally arrives, but I don’t think there’s enough nice in the world for Yes, You’re Definitely Pregnant With Your Ex’s Kid, Mazel Tov!
But all that fades away when they do the ultrasound. The doctor explained it’s not necessary for a few more weeks, but I can do it now if I want.
And I want.
“Yep, everything looks like it should,” the doctor says. “Only one, so definitely not twins–”
Oh God. I hadn’t even thought to be worried about that.
“And, oh look. There’s the heartbeat.” The doctor breaks into a grin. “You can’t always see it this early.”
I swallow, and stare at the screen. It’s like an abstract painting. I don’t really know what I’m looking at, but I know what I feel. This rush of tender wonder, and optimism, and determination.
T.L.D. is going to be a person. I’m going to grow a person. I’m going to have a little kid.
I wonder if it will be a short, angry extrovert with fluffy blonde hair like me, or a kind, serious, dark-haired, crazy-tall brainiac like Wade.
The thought hurts, so I shove it aside.
Besides, this kid’s not going to be me, or Wade. It’s going to be its own person. And that person is going to be marvelous.
So fucking marvelous.
The doctor passes me a tissue, and I realize I’m tearing up.
“I think I love it,” I say, swiping at my cheeks. “I think I love it already. Is that weird?”
“No,” the doctor smiles gently. “That’s not weird.”
I rub my heart. It’s so full. Aching, but full. Still broken from Wade.
But big enough to hold this new love too.
I look at the doctor. “Thank you,” I say. “This helped a lot.”
I’m not just talking about the medical side of it, and she smiles gently like she knows that.
“You’re welcome, hon. It’s what I’m here for.”
I’m still looking at the ultrasound photos as I walk across the grass to my apartment building, when a shadow falls across the papers, and I look up to see Wade.
“Jesus!” I say, the papers flying everywhere. I dive to get them all before he can see them, then stuff them in my purse.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Wade says.
I put my hands on my hips, my heartbeat slowly settling back to its normal pace.
Well. As normal as it ever gets around Wade.
My eyes drink him up like he’s precious. Strong and good and irreverent and everything I want out of life.
He’d make such a good dad.
The thought springs to my mind, unbidden, and it’s a spur in my side. I need to get him to leave. For my heart, but also because no court in the world would turn down sole custody if he wanted it.
I don’t think he’d do that. I would bet my life that Wade wouldn’t do that.
But it’s not just my life anymore. And I can’t risk losing T.L.D.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, shouldering past him to my door.
“I came to talk,” Wade says.
“Then you can leave,” I say. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
And isn’t that the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life.
I stick my key in the lock, not trusting myself to look at him. I try not to think of that moment, here in the doorway, when I goaded him into kissing me. Into losing control, for once in his life.
He still owes me a bed. We never did get around to picking one out.
“Stella, please look at me,” Wade says.
I don’t.
“I told Duke.”
I fumble and drop my keys.
This time Wade’s faster than me, ducking to grab them for me, kneeling at my feet. It’s hard not to think of the other reason men normally kneel at women’s feet.
He passes me my keys, but he doesn’t stand up. Maybe because I’m finally looking at him.
He told Duke. After all his protests. He said he didn’t want to tell Duke in case we broke up. And then we did break up. So why …?
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t want to be a secret. So you’re not.”
“I’m also not dating you anymore. Why would you—”
Slowly he stands, and I’m reminded again of how tall the man is. They say C.E.O.s are disproportionately tall, because people wrongly associate height with leadership ability. Only in Wade’s case, it’s actually true.
“I did it because I want you back,” he says with a quiet firmness that send butterflies racing through me, and reminds me of exactly who I’m dealing with. “And I need you to believe me, when I say I’ll do whatever you want to make it work. Tell Duke. Tell the whole world. Whatever you want, Stella.”
I swallow. I feel like I need to pinch myself.
Before I knew I was pregnant, I fantasized about him showing up and saying exactly this.
But that was before.
“Wade, I can’t—”
“Please listen. Just this once.” Wade takes my hands like they’re precious. Like I’m precious. “Stella, you make me so incredibly happy. And I think I make you happy too, right?”
“You do,” I admit. “But—”
“But it’s more than that,” Wade continues. “You make the world settle into where it’s supposed to be. You make it so I can breathe. You make every place you go a place I want to be.”
“Wade,” I beg, throat tightening against tears, but he doesn’t release my hands. And I can’t make myself ask him to. I know exactly what he’s talking about. Every place he goes is a place I want to be.
God, he’s killing me.
He releases my hands to cup my face. I’m staring deep into his eyes, and I can’t breathe.
“I love you,” Wade says, and his voice breaks. “I love you, Stella. I think I always will. Please give me another chance. I’m so sorry.”
I kiss him. I throw myself at him, arms around his neck, leaning up on tiptoe. I kiss him with my whole heart, my whole self, and he responds, fierce, clutching me too him. I kiss him like I’m never going to kiss him again.
Because I won’t.
I make myself break away when Wade reaches to open the door to my apartment building.
“No,” I say. Quiet. Firm. Surely it’s another woman’s voice coming out of my mouth, because inside I’m sobbing. “That was the last time.”
His hands tighten on me reflexively, and there’s a part of me that wants Wade to dig his fingers in so tightly I bruise, to never let me go. Screw dignity. Screw needing to know he’d pick me forever, even without T.L.D. Screw needing to protect him from feeling trapped, unhappy, like he told me he did when that pregnancy scare ended his last relationship.
But I can’t get over that last fear. I couldn’t bear to have Wade look at me and feel trapped. Long-term, forever unhappiness like that? That would be more than I can carry without breaking.
“Stella,” Wade says, and his voice is so soft and deep I can feel it on my skin, in my bones. “Please,” he begs. “I’ll do anything.”
I know I’ll remember this moment until the day I die. The fresh cut grass, the late sun, the jagged turmoil inside me.
And Wade, standing before me. Holding me as much as he dares. Waiting.
I draw on strength I didn’t know I had, and I say it.
“No. It’s too late.”
Wade closes his eyes, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man in so much pain. “Are you sure?”
That one’s easier. “Yes. I’m sure.”
Slowly, Wade lets go of me, with all the reluctance of a man dangling from a cliff, forcing himself to let go.
I step inside the apart
ment before I lose my nerve.
“See you around, Wade,” I say, but he doesn’t speak.
Instead he just nods once, to show he heard me.
When I close the door on him, it feels as loud as a thunderclap.
There, I tell myself. What’s done is done.
Only it isn’t, because that night, I can’t get the hurt on his face out of my mind. I can’t think of anything else, knowing Wade’s hurting.
Why did you have to fall in love with me, you idiot? We’re not good for each other anymore. We can’t be.
I reach for my phone, not sure what I’m doing, but knowing anything involving phones and heartbreak and 1:00 a.m. is probably a bad idea.
I call up the last text he sent me. Stella, can we please talk?
And then today. See you around, Wade? What was I thinking?
These can’t be the last things we say to each other.
I start and stop at least ten texts. Finally, I just write Are you okay? and hit send.
I see the little dots flickering across the screen. Then stop. Then start again. I’m fully prepared to get blasted with a message telling me I’ve lost the right to ask that, and to leave him alone.
Finally, his message pops up.
It’s fine, Marigold. Are you okay?
I curl up in a ball around my phone. Wade hasn’t answered my question, but it’s so good to have even this little piece of him to hold on to. And he called me Marigold.
I will be, I text back. Thanks.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. See, this is a much better note to leave it on. I roll to put my phone on the ground next to my mattress, when it buzzes again.
Text me tomorrow? he asks.
My heart leaps. I shouldn’t. If I don’t make a clean break, we’re just going to land back in this place where we keep hurting each other.
My phone buzzes again. I know you’re not changing your mind. But we can still be friends, right?
It’s a bad idea for a million reasons, the most obvious being that if we stay friends, at some point he’s going to want to see me in person, notice I’m pregnant, and do the math.
But I’m weak. And the idea of checking in with him tomorrow night? That makes tomorrow morning a lot more bearable.
