31.
Will came home that night in a good mood because all the summer associates were getting five-hundred-dollar end-of-summer bonuses. “Maybe we can fix up this dump,” he said, ruffling Florence’s dusty quilt on the wall. “Let’s go celebrate,” he said.
I packed Ian in the sack and Will carried the car seat to the coffee shop down the street, where he wedged it into the seat of a booth. The waitress made faces at Ian as she took our order.
Will looked around with a self-satisfied smile. “We could get married and have the party here,” he said, balling up his straw wrapper.
“In the back room of Aristotle’s?” I asked, confused.
“Sure, it’d be fun. Why not? That guy could host.” He nodded at the guy stacking cups by the coffee maker, the guy who’d asked me and Will, “How are you, my friend?” through his mustache. I reached over to stick the pacifier back in Ian’s mouth. Will had a strange, forced grin on his face. He looked almost embarrassed, like he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
“Seriously,” I said. “Do you ever think about it?”
“Yeah,” he said a little too casually, lifting his spoon to his mouth. “Every once in a while. Not every second, mind you—I’m a guy.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m a wild and crazy guy,” he said, bobbling his head from side to side. I stirred the paper cup of coleslaw on my plate with my fork. I didn’t understand where he was coming from and it was making me nuts. He was being offhanded and nervous at the same time.
“If you’d really thought about it, you wouldn’t have mentioned it like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Like it was nothing.”
“Forget it,” I said, wanting to dig our way out of the conversation. The truth was, I thought about getting married—or dreamed about it—more than I cared to admit. And I realized as I watched him, mashing crackers into the bottom of his bowl, that he did not. He looked up at me and I could tell he knew he’d been busted. But busted for what? Did the fact that he didn’t think about getting married mean he didn’t love me? The thought sent a chill through me as I watched the little tabs of phone numbers on the ads for music teachers and cleaning help flutter in the breeze from the door whenever it opened and closed.
At home Will held Ian and watched TV while I tried to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before Ian woke up again. I put the pillow over my head, but I could still hear the sounds of buildings exploding and people yelling at each other. I decided I hated TV.
“Can you turn it down?” I asked, watching as one volume bar went black on the screen. “A little more?” Two more bars. I squeezed the pillow closer to my head, starting to get pissed. He rarely offered to hold Ian during the night; come to think of it, he never did. Granted, I had the boobs, but could he offer? And why couldn’t he deal with the idea of getting married?
“Will, it’s too loud!” I hissed, bolting upright.
“What’s your problem?” he asked. “Is that how you ask?”
“I asked, and it’s still too loud,” I said. “I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.”
“Whatever,” he said. He turned it off and lay motionless in the dark with Ian asleep on him. “Get some sleep, then.”
“Oh, screw you, don’t make me out to be the big bad bitch.” I waited for him to say something, wondering what had gotten into me. “Look, I’m sorry,” I said, my hand grazing his shoulder. “I’m just so tired.”
When I woke up the next morning, Will had left to register for his fall semester classes without saying goodbye. I got up, put Ian in the sack on my chest, brought the laundry downstairs, drank coffee, took a walk, went to the drugstore, talked to Mom, watched TV, changed Ian, fell asleep with Ian, went to the supermarket and came home, all the while expecting to see a “We’re okay” gesture in the form of a text on my phone from Will—which never came.