All Adults Here(51)
“I had sex with Jeremy,” Porter said. She blurted it out and then made a face. The waiter came over and asked them if they’d like anything to drink, and Rachel stared him down until he left. “I’ve been having sex with Jeremy. For a long time, and then not for a while, but again, now. Not right now, obviously. But we did. Sorry! I’m kind of nervous to tell you, I feel like this is coming out weird.”
“Are you joking right now?”
Porter hadn’t thought this through, she realized, as she watched Rachel’s facial expressions cycle through surprise, anger, and hurt. She’d been looking forward to telling Rachel about the sex itself, which was sort of hilarious and new, but also about her current fantasy. It was a fantasy, mostly—Porter knew that—but she also couldn’t help herself from daydreaming: Jeremy would finally split up with Kristen, move into a new house with Porter, and be a doting, sleep-deprived parent with her. The timing wasn’t great, but life wasn’t perfect. He would get on board, she could see it all now. Jeremy’s whole job was to care for small creatures! He wasn’t grossed out by anything. He had two kids already. The man was practically a doula. Porter hadn’t said this out loud, but she wanted to try, to see if it sounded completely delusional or if it sounded like a New York Times Vows column. She wasn’t sure.
“No,” Porter said. “It just happened.”
“What does that mean, it just happened? Were you hypnotized? Roofied? What, I’d really love to know.” Rachel crossed her arms on the table, her mouth clenched. She put down her breadstick cigar.
“I ran into him, and we had lunch, and then we had sex. It was like riding a bike? Sort of? I know that sounds very rushed, but really, it just happened, and because it had happened before, it didn’t seem like such a big deal.” It did not sound great, it turned out. In fact, the whole situation all sounded much worse when Porter said it aloud, more premeditated, which she supposed it had been. She had pictured him naked when they were standing in front of the vet clinic, she had run her tongue over her upper lip. She had wanted to get into his car, to have him drive her somewhere. She had wanted every minute of it. “What we had was serious. For a long time. I think it still is. I think he’s the love of my life. I know that sounds weird and cheesy, but I think it’s true.”
“I don’t care if it sounds cheesy, Porter. Cheesy is fine! We’re pregnant! You don’t think it’s cheesy that strangers call me ‘Mommy’ on the street? That my relatives have started to send me onesies with baby ducklings on them? What I care about is that he’s married, Porter. With kids, right? Which makes you, pretty much, the same as the woman whose asshole my husband was so interested in.” The couple at the next table may as well have been Mormon missionaries, they looked so aghast over their small-batch cocktails and chicken with preserved lemon and spiced lentils.
“It’s not the same thing,” Porter said, arguing because she didn’t want it to be true. “They’re not happy. And he was mine first.” This was a bad argument, she knew, but it was how she felt.
“How do you know if they’re happy? All you know is that they’re married, and have a family, and that he had sex with you anyway, which, no offense, is not a great sign. You’re about to be somebody’s mother. And if I remember correctly, didn’t you already do this with him?” Rachel stood up with an oof. She scraped her chair aside and worked her way out from behind the table. “This is fucked up. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. This was always your problem, you know that? Like, you’re not still the Harvest Queen, riding on a float. You’re a grown-up.”
The restaurant hummed. Only the couple next to them noticed, and the waiter, when he returned. “Oh, just one?” he asked, meaning nothing but the number of menus needed. Porter nodded. “Just one.” She looked at the menu. Everything and nothing looked good. She wanted chicken soup, or pasta with meatballs. She wanted pancakes at Spiro’s. Rachel didn’t know what she was talking about—just because her husband had slept with someone else didn’t mean that Porter and Jeremy couldn’t have something real—the fallacy of moral superiority was embarrassing. Porter was a grown-up! She was. If anyone wasn’t a grown-up, it was Rachel, for thinking everything and everyone could fit into neat little parking spaces. It was entirely possible that Jeremy was finally going to leave his wife. Leave her. Even that language was regressive, and 1950s, as if Jeremy was going to pick up a suitcase and never see her again. This was Clapham, in the twenty-first century. No one left their children anymore, or their spouses. People hosted their exes for Christmas and posted pictures on Instagram. #Blended, #consciousuncoupling. It was like Prince Charles and Camilla—Diana had the beauty and the charm, but deep down, everyone knew that Camilla was the right choice. Porter didn’t want to be Camilla, and she didn’t want Kristen to die in a horrible car accident, but she would be lying if she said that the scenario had never occurred to her, midshower. She would be a doting stepmother. It could happen. Everyone else could fuck off.
“I’ll have the pasta,” Porter said, when the waiter came back. “And the steak.” The baby needed food. She was going to be a good mother, she hoped. And if the couple next to her was alarmed that she was crying while eating, well, that was too bad for them.