The Lies That Bind(89)

“Well,” I say quietly. “Let’s just pray that this baby isn’t his.”

“Believe me,” Matthew replies. “That’s what I’m doing.”

I nod, feeling so sad I can’t stand it.

“I just need time,” he says. “I need time to process all of this. And if the baby’s not mine—I will need time to process how I feel about that as well.”

With a sickening wave of déjà vu, I tell him, once again, that I understand. And that it’s probably best if I go.



* * *



—

It takes me a whole subway ride and walk back to my apartment—and another thirty minutes standing at the kitchen counter and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—before I realize that the feeling I had when I left Matthew’s apartment wasn’t déjà vu at all. It’s a memory of the night we broke up the first time. The similarities are startling, right down to where we were sitting at the table, all the same emotions swirling around us. Fear and sadness and guilt and insecurity and uncertainty and rejection.

I walked out the night of our breakup—not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had no other choice. Matthew wasn’t able to say he could see a future with me, not for sure. And here we are with the same theme unfolding. He’s not ready to marry me—and there’s nothing I can do about it but wait and see.

    Of course there’s one huge difference now, I think, as I undress and step into the shower. I put my hand on my bump and realize that nothing else matters that much anymore. I’ve come a long way from that girl who went down to have a beer at a bar in the middle of the night because she was so desperately sad over a breakup and had to get away from her phone.

I’m still desperately sad, of course, but not only because of a guy this time. It’s mostly because my child might not have a father—not in any meaningful way.

I let the hot water run over my face, wondering if I would take it all back if I could. If I had it to do over, would I have stayed home that night—or would I still have walked down and had that beer at the bar? Would I have let Grant come home with me? If I hadn’t done those things, what would my life look like now? Would Matthew and I still, eventually, have gotten back together? Would I be pregnant? Would I be happy—or at least happier than I am now?

Suddenly, all I want is a do-over. And not just a do-over of that night, or even the night of September 10, or my friendship with Amy, or my drive up to the cabin today, but a do-over of ever coming to New York City. I suddenly wish I had just opted for a simpler life.

And then it hits me. That although I can’t go back in time, I can go back in a sense. I can go home to Wisconsin. I can live in an apartment that is bigger than a bread box, and that actually has a wall between my bed and sofa, and that is located in a town that isn’t a target for terrorists. Most important, I can be near my family and Scottie—the people who love me unconditionally, despite all my flaws and mistakes. We may not get do-overs in life, but we can always have fresh starts and new beginnings.

    I get out of the shower, dry off, and put on cozy flannel pajamas. All the while, my mind is spinning with logistics. My lease is up soon anyway—and none of my furniture is really worth much—so I could literally just leave it all on the curb, fly home with a few bags, and start over. I could move in with my parents, right into my old bedroom—or with Scottie. Either way, I’d have help with the baby.

In the back of my mind, I know it’s a rash plan at the end of the most exhausting, emotionally draining day of my life. I also realize that I might feel different tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep and another conversation with Matthew. But for now, I climb into bed and drift into a deep slumber, dreaming of home.





The next morning I wake up and immediately reach for the phone to call Matthew. I want to hear his voice. I want to tell him again how sorry I am. How much I love him. But something tells me not to. Not quite yet, anyway.

Instead I get up, eat a bowl of cereal, take my prenatal vitamin, and go for a long walk by the East River. It’s a chilly, gray day—and even colder by the water—but I keep going, heading south, wandering all the way down into Battery Park. It’s the first time I’ve been this far downtown since 9/11, and I can’t stop staring at the hole in the skyline where the towers once stood. It’s all still so impossible to believe. I stop and sit on a bench, watching a pair of seagulls circle in the bleak distance as I think of all those people who lost their lives on that day. I close my eyes and say a prayer for their souls—and for all of those who grieve for them.

I think of Grant, of course, still digesting the fact that he’s alive, wondering when and how Amy will find out. If she already has. Maybe she suspected this, along with his criminal activity—but I can’t help wondering how she will deal with it all. Maybe she will forgive him for everything, and the two of them will take all that cash and run away to some exotic island together, disappearing forever. I doubt that, though. More likely, after digesting the initial shock, she will shrug inside and move on with her life. I don’t pretend to understand either of them, let alone their marriage, but it seems to me that they couldn’t have shared anything very deep or meaningful. That nothing can be real when marred with so many lies.

    I think of Matthew, and the secrets I kept from him, wondering at what point they would have destroyed us. If they already have. Either way, I know he’s right. As much as I hated hearing it last night, I know that we can’t get married anytime soon. Neither of us is ready for that step, given all we’ve been through, given everything. I also know that the only date I need to be worried about right now is my due date.