Confidential(67)

I remembered when I told Young that our marriage was over. I’d been so concerned about his feelings, not wanting to hurt him after he’d done everything in his power to make us work. He was blameless. But I didn’t feel like I was to blame, either. Meeting Michael was fate; it was bigger than all of us. There was nothing I could do but submit.

Not that I told Young that. I just said that in my individual sessions, I’d been learning how screwed up I was, and that I’d realized I needed to be alone. “You’re a wonderful man,” I said, “and I appreciate all you’ve done, but I need a divorce.”

In short order, he agreed that I was too fucked up to be married. Not in those words, but I got the gist.

In the weeks that followed, as arrangements were made, I could see relief peeking around the edges of everything Young said and did. Everything had been working out better than I could have hoped: Young would be okay, and I’d get Michael. Ha.

I’d been so careful with Young’s feelings, so kind, like how Young was being with me now. He was returning the favor.

He wasn’t a prick. He might have been the one that got away.

“I’m happy for you,” I told him, and I tried to sound sincere, I really did.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem like you’re . . .”

Like I was crying. Somehow, I hadn’t even noticed the tears starting. I hadn’t known that the life I’d given up could still hurt me.

But what had I given it up for?

“I’m sorry,” Young said. “I never meant to hurt you. I should have had more guts.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must have realized it by now. You were always way smarter than me.”

“Realized what?” My voice was loud and squawking.

“That I was doing what I always did, taking the easy way out. Coming at you with all the cheesy romance and the heavy talks, knowing it would just make you cringe. I got you to end things because it was easier than taking responsibility for what I really wanted.”

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any more rejected.

“And I’m sorry for that.”

He was a prick. Apologizing after all this time in a backhanded, I-never-wanted-you-anyway-that’s-why-I-couldn’t-get-hard-and-now-I’m-going-to-be-a-father-and-you’re-all-alone-forever way?

“Fuck you,” I said, hanging up and hurling the phone across the car.





CHAPTER 53





GREER


Technically, San Francisco was my turf, but Michael had picked such an unusual meeting spot that it was practically neutral: a Russian sweet shop in the Richmond neighborhood, where it was foggy all year round. We sat at one of the three iron tables. The proprietress had droopy skin and potato-sack clothes, and she gave us a wide berth. She may have been used to people choosing her establishment to discuss their unmentionables.

“How did you even find this place?” I asked him as I removed a candy from a bright-blue wrapper emblazoned with a dancing bear and popped it in my mouth.

Michael had eschewed all the sugar and was having a coffee, black. He looked different outside the office. More tired, maybe. Older, absolutely. He couldn’t control the lighting in here, and it had never occurred to me before how forgiving his office was in that respect, softened light like Vaseline on a camera lens.

But his eyes were bluer than I’d realized, and I liked that his hair was tousled. His fisherman knit sweater made me want to curl up next to him and buffer myself against the miasmic weather outside.

Only this was business. I was here to broker a deal.

He ignored my question and asked one of his own: “So how are you, Greer?”

He didn’t normally use my name. It was sexy, coming from him. We hadn’t seen each other in more than two weeks. It felt long. “The sabbatical’s going great. I’ve been visiting new parts of the city. The other day, I went to the children’s zoo. And now, this place.”

“The children’s zoo, really?” He couldn’t help it. He was insatiably curious. It was one of the qualities I wanted in my child.

“I’m like Jane Goodall with her chimps, only with motherhood. It’s going to suit me.”

“You’re absolutely sure that this is what you want?” He took a sip of his coffee. I noticed that his hands were trembling the slightest bit as he replaced the cup.

“Yes. I don’t care if I ever return to my company. Motherhood will be my life’s work.”

He nodded slowly. I assumed that he’d want to “unpack this” or maybe “explore it further.” But he just drank his coffee.

“I didn’t think that was an option before,” I said, “with the way I was raised.”

I was baiting him. He’d have to probe now that I’d opened the parent door. I didn’t know why I even wanted him to do that, except that there might have been some things I’d inadequately considered. I told him I didn’t need a therapist, but I wouldn’t have minded thinking this through a little more with someone I trusted.

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” was all he said, and I had no right to feel disappointed. I’d flounced out of his office, effectively ending that relationship, on the gamble that I wanted his sperm more than his help.