He punches the keys on the keyboard with the side of his fist and grunts through clenched teeth. It’s the most enthusiastic reaction I’ve seen from him in the past ten minutes and it’s not even directed at me. I furrow my brow and edge forward ever so slightly so I can peek at the monitor. Bright, colorful shapes fill the screen and explode when he clicks the mouse. He’s playing Candy Crush.
“Um . . . Ross?”
His eyes dart back to me and widen, as if he’s surprised to see me still sitting there. “Right.” He glances back down at my paper resume in front of him. “OK. It’s yours if you want it.”
“What?” I say. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “To be honest, only three people applied, and you’re the only one with an MFA. Sessions are eight weeks long. First one starts August sixteenth. Summer session was Beginner Acrylic. So this one will be Novice. They alternate.”
“OK. Yeah. Great,” I say. “Thank you. I’ll be here then.”
He shoves a piece of paper at me and I take it. “Go to this website, fill out the forms so you’ll get paid.” And then he turns back to the monitor and I stand up and slip out of his office before he can change his mind.
* * *
In the parking lot, my cell buzzes as I slip into the front seat of my car. I rev the engine and turn the air full blast before answering.
“How are you?” Vivian says, her voice dripping with concern. We texted a few days ago, but I’ve successfully avoided her phone calls since telling her about the fertility results and Harrison’s change of heart, for this very reason. It’s not that I don’t want or appreciate her sympathy. I truly do. It just reminds me of how sad I am, when I’ve been trying so hard not to dwell on it.
“Good, in fact. I got a job. At the community college.”
“You’re going to teach? Art?”
“No. Parachute Jumping 101. Yes, art.”
“Oh.”
“What, Viv,” I say, monotone.
“Nothing.”
I wait.
“It’s just that when we had that opening here, you balked when I suggested you apply for it.”
“I didn’t want to move back home after college. Plus, I don’t have an education degree. They wouldn’t have even interviewed me.” Both excuses were true, but that wasn’t all of it. Raya and I always joked that you could be successful at art or you could teach it. I wanted to be successful. Viv knows there was more to it, but she doesn’t push it.
“Well, I’m really happy for you. Congratulations.” My prickly edges soften then, because I know she means it. Viv might be exasperating and sometimes judgmental and she literally never forgets anything—even the stuff I’d like her to forget—but she really does want me to be happy.
“So what else is new?” she asks. I hear a clacking sound on her end and realize she must be at work, which is why our conversation hasn’t been interrupted by her yelling at Finley and Griffin. She’s probably typing notes into a student’s file or a recommendation letter or an email to a parent.
I consider telling her about Oliver, but it’s been almost two weeks since that morning on Caroline’s porch. He left with my phone number and a promise to call with news, but I haven’t heard from him. I wonder if maybe he got busy with work, his life, and chalked it up to one of those weird things. Meanwhile, I’ve dreamt about him and that carnival twice in the past week. And I can’t help but wonder, when I wake up in the mornings, if he’s dreamt about me, too.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Harrison?”
“Same.”
“Hang in there. You guys have been through a lot. I’m sure he just needs time.”
It’s nearly word for word what Harrison said, and it doesn’t sound any better coming from my sister. When we hang up, I ditch the phone in the console’s cup holder and lean back against the headrest, focusing on the cool air from the vents hitting my face.
I can’t bear the thought of not having a baby with Harrison, after wanting one for so long. After everything we’ve been through. After being so close, only to have it all come crashing down time and again. What would be the point of all that pain if there isn’t something beautiful at the end of it? Pain for pain’s sake doesn’t make sense to me.
I pick the phone back up and text him about the job. He replies within seconds.
That’s great, babe. Let’s go out to celebrate.
It’s so normal, so Harrison, that it clenches my heart. Vivian’s right—Vivian’s always right. Harrison will come around.
He has to.
* * *
On the way to dinner, I’ve promised myself I’m not going to talk about next steps; Harrison asked for time and I vow to give it to him. But after I ask how his day is and he says fine, I can’t think of anything else to say, so I sit there with my hands folded neatly in my lap, looking out the window at the fields passing by. And though I try to move past it, I think about how I want a baby so much, that if wanting was a drop of water, I’d be a goddamn ocean.
I bite my lip so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t start bleeding, and when we pull up in front of the restaurant, I’m relieved to finally have something to say.
“Let’s make a bet—mustache or no mustache?”
Harrison looks from the lit-up sign that announces Sorelli’s on the front of the brick storefront to me. I confessed to Harrison when he got home that I wanted to go here not because of the food, but because I was morbidly curious to see who Caroline had had an affair with. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” he said. And the expression on his face now tells me his opinion has not changed.
But it’s not until we’re seated at a dark corner booth that I notice something else about his face—the droopy circles under his eyes. The sallow skin. He glances at the napkin on the table in front of him. It’s invitingly twisted up into a point like a dollop of whipped cream, and for a moment, I think he may just lay his head down on it.
“Harrison? You alright?”
“Yeah,” he responds.
I open my mouth to press him, but a woman’s voice interrupts me.
“Dr. Graydon?” We both look up to find a dewy-faced blond woman walking toward our table, her eyes locked on my husband.
“Whitney Crossland,” he says, smiling bright, the deep wrinkle permanently creasing his forehead a mere second ago completely erased. “Long time, no see.”