Except get married. I just couldn’t.
So much about my life had spun off track. In the last couple weeks, I'd had to scrap every plan and dream I’d had for myself. I'd had to accept a completely new reality, map out an entirely different future. It made the ground feel slippery under my feet. Like nothing was certain. Was it too much to ask to hold on to some part of my former life, some piece of my former self?
And wasn't it enough that we were together now? That I felt more for her than I ever had for any woman? That I, Nate Pearson, divorce attorney and commitment-phobe, was in a relationship? I'd told her things last night I’d never told anyone. She knew more about me, the real me, than any human being on the planet. I trusted her. And I was trying hard to be the kind of person she wanted me to be. Wasn't all that enough?
Not to mention the fact that I knew how unlikely it was that a marriage would last, and I’d seen firsthand how shitty divorces could be. They were soul crushing. Heartbreaking. Embarrassing. And really fucking expensive. Frankly, I had no idea why people still bothered to get married in the first place. It's not like you needed the certificate to have kids if you really wanted to. And I didn't want any more kids, anyway. One was plenty.
I glanced over at Emme, who was stone-faced as she stared out the windshield. She probably wanted kids of her own, maybe even two or three of them. And before that, she'd want the big wedding with five hundred guests and twenty-seven bridesmaids and five circus tents and a partridge in a pear tree and whatever other nonsense brides could dream up. I knew that about her. I had always known it.
But I wanted to be with her.
So now what? Did we need to talk about this? Did I owe it to her to make sure she knew how I felt? But what if that was a deal-breaker? What if she broke it off? The chocolate milkshake I’d drunk with my lunch seemed to curdle in my stomach.
I didn’t like thinking about my life without her. I didn’t want to go back to one-night stands with women whose names I could barely recall. And when I thought of her with someone else—my hands tightened on the steering wheel—I wanted to fucking put my fist through the windshield.
I couldn’t lose her. I needed her.
Especially now, when I was turning onto my old street and my nerves were already tying themselves into knots. What would my mother’s mental state be? How would she handle meeting her grandchild? Which version of her would greet us today, the angst-ridden agoraphobe who'd never recovered from the tragic loss of her younger son, or some semblance of the mother I'd once known, who baked amazing chocolate chip cookies and wore a perfume called Happy and laughed at all of Adam’s terrible jokes?
I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, but didn't turn off the engine.
Emme looked over at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah.” I cleared my throat, which felt tight and scratchy all of a sudden. “Coming here is sometimes difficult."
"I get it."
Of course you do. My throat tightened even more. Why did I feel like I owed her an apology?
Maybe it was the house messing with me. I looked at it through the driver side window, a red brick center entrance colonial with black shutters and white trim. The hydrangea bushes on either side of the front door still had dead brown leaves, but I knew they would bloom bright pink and blue this summer. If I squinted, I could still see my mother cutting them back, my dad mowing the front lawn, my brother and I racing down the driveway on our bikes, our capes flying behind us.
My mother appeared in the living room window. She'd moved the curtain aside and was peering out intently, like a lonely old lady looking for some neighborhood gossip. I couldn't tell if she was wearing gloves or not.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Might as well go in.”
Emme covered my hand with hers for a moment but didn't say anything, and I felt a rush of gratitude.
I looked at our hands. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me too. Do I get to see your old bedroom? Are there, like, posters of Cindy Crawford on the walls?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “You’d be more likely to see nineties movie posters, but I’m pretty sure my mother has taken them all down.”
A few minutes later we approached the front door, which opened before we even stepped onto the porch. My mother stood twisting her hands together, her expression a bit anxious, but at least she wasn’t wearing gloves. She was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and her hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, which had been about two months ago. It used to be dark and thick and she’d worn it long when I was a kid, but now it was much thinner, almost entirely gray, and barely covered her ears.
“You’re here,” she said, looking frantically from me to Emme to Paisley in her car seat, which I carried in one hand.
“Hi, Mom. We’re here.”
“I was getting worried. It’s such a long drive, and there’s that one stretch that’s really long without any exits from the highway.” She covered one hand with the other and switched repeatedly. They were pink and chapped from so much handwashing. “I always dread that part of the drive. Sometimes I dread it so much I have to turn around and come home.”
“I know. But we were fine.” I nodded toward Emme. “This is my friend Emme.” And because I knew what her next question was going to be, I added, “She’s not the baby’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pearson.” Emme smiled warmly.
“Hello.” My mother gave Emme a quick nod before looking at Paisley again. “And that’s the baby?”
“This is Paisley. Can we come in?”
“Oh! Yes, of course,” she said, almost like she was surprised, as if maybe she hadn’t planned on actually inviting us into the house. She backed away from the door, and I gestured for Emme to go in before me. Once we all stood in the front hall and the door was closed behind us, my mother seemed to recover some of her manners. “Can I take your coat?” she asked Emme.
“Sure.” Emme took off her denim jacket and handed it to my mom. “Thank you. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you, dear.” She hung the jacket in the front hall closet. “It’s really too big for only one person, but I’m so used to it. I just don’t think I would like a new house.”
I set the car seat and diaper bag down on the floor and crouched down to unbuckle Paisley, who was starting to wake up. “Hey you,” I said to her. “Want to meet your grandmother?”
“Oh my. Oh my goodness.” My mother came a little closer. “She’s so small.”
I unsnapped Paisley’s coat and carefully took her arms from her sleeves, then I scooped her up and stood so my mom could see her.
“Oh, look at her.” She reached out almost like she might touch Paisley’s foot but changed her mind. “I haven’t been around a baby this young in a long time. She’s so cute.”
“She is.” I felt proud of my daughter. “Would you like to hold her?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I should.” She shook her head as she backed away, repeatedly covering one hand with the other again. “I went to the salon a few days ago, and I’m telling you, everyone in there was sneezing and coughing and blowing their noses. I’m sure I picked up something terribly contagious. I wouldn’t want to give it to her.”
I thought about assuring her it was fine, but decided against it. If she wanted to hold her grandchild, she could. If she didn’t, I wasn’t going to force her. “Okay. Maybe later.”
“Maybe if I put on my gloves,” she began, but I cut her off.
“No, gloves aren’t necessary, Mom. I’m sure your hands are clean, but you don’t have to hold her. I’ll hold her.” I wandered into the living room, where framed school photos of my brother and me still hung on the hunter green walls. “Hey Emme, come look at these.”
Emme followed me into the large, high-ceilinged room, her arms crossed over her chest. She laughed when she saw my senior picture, a big eight-by-ten in a mahogany frame. “Oh my God, I’ve never seen you totally clean-shaven before. Look at your baby face! And your spiky hair!”
So much about my life had spun off track. In the last couple weeks, I'd had to scrap every plan and dream I’d had for myself. I'd had to accept a completely new reality, map out an entirely different future. It made the ground feel slippery under my feet. Like nothing was certain. Was it too much to ask to hold on to some part of my former life, some piece of my former self?
And wasn't it enough that we were together now? That I felt more for her than I ever had for any woman? That I, Nate Pearson, divorce attorney and commitment-phobe, was in a relationship? I'd told her things last night I’d never told anyone. She knew more about me, the real me, than any human being on the planet. I trusted her. And I was trying hard to be the kind of person she wanted me to be. Wasn't all that enough?
Not to mention the fact that I knew how unlikely it was that a marriage would last, and I’d seen firsthand how shitty divorces could be. They were soul crushing. Heartbreaking. Embarrassing. And really fucking expensive. Frankly, I had no idea why people still bothered to get married in the first place. It's not like you needed the certificate to have kids if you really wanted to. And I didn't want any more kids, anyway. One was plenty.
I glanced over at Emme, who was stone-faced as she stared out the windshield. She probably wanted kids of her own, maybe even two or three of them. And before that, she'd want the big wedding with five hundred guests and twenty-seven bridesmaids and five circus tents and a partridge in a pear tree and whatever other nonsense brides could dream up. I knew that about her. I had always known it.
But I wanted to be with her.
So now what? Did we need to talk about this? Did I owe it to her to make sure she knew how I felt? But what if that was a deal-breaker? What if she broke it off? The chocolate milkshake I’d drunk with my lunch seemed to curdle in my stomach.
I didn’t like thinking about my life without her. I didn’t want to go back to one-night stands with women whose names I could barely recall. And when I thought of her with someone else—my hands tightened on the steering wheel—I wanted to fucking put my fist through the windshield.
I couldn’t lose her. I needed her.
Especially now, when I was turning onto my old street and my nerves were already tying themselves into knots. What would my mother’s mental state be? How would she handle meeting her grandchild? Which version of her would greet us today, the angst-ridden agoraphobe who'd never recovered from the tragic loss of her younger son, or some semblance of the mother I'd once known, who baked amazing chocolate chip cookies and wore a perfume called Happy and laughed at all of Adam’s terrible jokes?
I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, but didn't turn off the engine.
Emme looked over at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah.” I cleared my throat, which felt tight and scratchy all of a sudden. “Coming here is sometimes difficult."
"I get it."
Of course you do. My throat tightened even more. Why did I feel like I owed her an apology?
Maybe it was the house messing with me. I looked at it through the driver side window, a red brick center entrance colonial with black shutters and white trim. The hydrangea bushes on either side of the front door still had dead brown leaves, but I knew they would bloom bright pink and blue this summer. If I squinted, I could still see my mother cutting them back, my dad mowing the front lawn, my brother and I racing down the driveway on our bikes, our capes flying behind us.
My mother appeared in the living room window. She'd moved the curtain aside and was peering out intently, like a lonely old lady looking for some neighborhood gossip. I couldn't tell if she was wearing gloves or not.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Might as well go in.”
Emme covered my hand with hers for a moment but didn't say anything, and I felt a rush of gratitude.
I looked at our hands. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me too. Do I get to see your old bedroom? Are there, like, posters of Cindy Crawford on the walls?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “You’d be more likely to see nineties movie posters, but I’m pretty sure my mother has taken them all down.”
A few minutes later we approached the front door, which opened before we even stepped onto the porch. My mother stood twisting her hands together, her expression a bit anxious, but at least she wasn’t wearing gloves. She was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and her hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, which had been about two months ago. It used to be dark and thick and she’d worn it long when I was a kid, but now it was much thinner, almost entirely gray, and barely covered her ears.
“You’re here,” she said, looking frantically from me to Emme to Paisley in her car seat, which I carried in one hand.
“Hi, Mom. We’re here.”
“I was getting worried. It’s such a long drive, and there’s that one stretch that’s really long without any exits from the highway.” She covered one hand with the other and switched repeatedly. They were pink and chapped from so much handwashing. “I always dread that part of the drive. Sometimes I dread it so much I have to turn around and come home.”
“I know. But we were fine.” I nodded toward Emme. “This is my friend Emme.” And because I knew what her next question was going to be, I added, “She’s not the baby’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pearson.” Emme smiled warmly.
“Hello.” My mother gave Emme a quick nod before looking at Paisley again. “And that’s the baby?”
“This is Paisley. Can we come in?”
“Oh! Yes, of course,” she said, almost like she was surprised, as if maybe she hadn’t planned on actually inviting us into the house. She backed away from the door, and I gestured for Emme to go in before me. Once we all stood in the front hall and the door was closed behind us, my mother seemed to recover some of her manners. “Can I take your coat?” she asked Emme.
“Sure.” Emme took off her denim jacket and handed it to my mom. “Thank you. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you, dear.” She hung the jacket in the front hall closet. “It’s really too big for only one person, but I’m so used to it. I just don’t think I would like a new house.”
I set the car seat and diaper bag down on the floor and crouched down to unbuckle Paisley, who was starting to wake up. “Hey you,” I said to her. “Want to meet your grandmother?”
“Oh my. Oh my goodness.” My mother came a little closer. “She’s so small.”
I unsnapped Paisley’s coat and carefully took her arms from her sleeves, then I scooped her up and stood so my mom could see her.
“Oh, look at her.” She reached out almost like she might touch Paisley’s foot but changed her mind. “I haven’t been around a baby this young in a long time. She’s so cute.”
“She is.” I felt proud of my daughter. “Would you like to hold her?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I should.” She shook her head as she backed away, repeatedly covering one hand with the other again. “I went to the salon a few days ago, and I’m telling you, everyone in there was sneezing and coughing and blowing their noses. I’m sure I picked up something terribly contagious. I wouldn’t want to give it to her.”
I thought about assuring her it was fine, but decided against it. If she wanted to hold her grandchild, she could. If she didn’t, I wasn’t going to force her. “Okay. Maybe later.”
“Maybe if I put on my gloves,” she began, but I cut her off.
“No, gloves aren’t necessary, Mom. I’m sure your hands are clean, but you don’t have to hold her. I’ll hold her.” I wandered into the living room, where framed school photos of my brother and me still hung on the hunter green walls. “Hey Emme, come look at these.”
Emme followed me into the large, high-ceilinged room, her arms crossed over her chest. She laughed when she saw my senior picture, a big eight-by-ten in a mahogany frame. “Oh my God, I’ve never seen you totally clean-shaven before. Look at your baby face! And your spiky hair!”
