on her tea and Mia babbles in her high chair while knocking her sippy cup to and fro. I don’t say any more because I need to talk about me for once. I need to unload on Darcy all that’s going on, all that’s been going on for weeks now. I need someone to confide in. But I don’t know how to say everything that’s bouncing around in my head. And I’m hyperaware that,since Darcy’s husband didn’t come back and mine did, our friendship has grown uneven. The same rules that once governed it no longer apply.
In a nod to that unevenness, Darcy doesn’t ask the follow-up question I’m hoping for, the only natural one to ask: “Why is that?” Instead, she rolls her eyes and, as if only half listening, says, “Well, are you at least trying?”
This question throws me. Despite wanting a baby more than anything in the world, despite thinking of little else besides trying for one as soon as Brad returned, I haven’t felt I can broach the subject with him. And trying to do much more than talking about it has been difficult at best—between all of the readjustment hiccups and the fact that Brad is spending his nights sleeping on the floor next to our bed. But how do I complain to Darcy about this? Brad and I are separated by only a few feet. It’s not a traditional arrangement, but it’s not eternity, either.
“Depends what you mean by trying,” I say.
“Do or do not,” Darcy says in her best Yoda voice. “There is no try.”
“Is it worth it?” I ask Darcy.
She looks at Mia. “You mean her? Is she worth it?”
I nod.
“Without a doubt the best thing I ever did,” she says. “Even right now. Especially right now.” Darcy’s voice wavers. She stops and takes a deep breath. Then she exhales. “It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done, too.” She smiles at me and pats my hand. The gesture is motherly, and nice.
“I hope so,” I say.
Darcy raises an eyebrow.
I feel like a can of soda that someone has shaken. It’s the result of the strain from the past weeks spent with this new version of Brad,and now that look from Zach—and the reaction it stirred in me. It’s a pressure that has me straining against myself, ready to explode. I need to get it out, into the open.
Darcy reaches out and puts a hand over mine. “I know so,” she says, her voice steady and certain now. “You’re going to have it all.” A cloud of sadness settles over her as she speaks those last few words. I realize too late, probably just as Darcy does, that she had it all, and she’ll be settling for only a fraction of that vision. I realize, too, looking down at her hand resting on mine, Collin’s wedding band floating below Darcy’s on her ring finger, that I can’t tell Darcy any of this. I can’t confide in her—definitely not now. Maybe not ever.
I pick up Darcy’s hand and examine it, turning it over and back. “You look like hell, Darce,” I say, joking. “Why don’t you let me take Mia tonight? Go for a power hour at the spa. Relax a little.”
Darcy is a hard person to take care of. She’s like a selectively permeable membrane, always doing for others but never taking any of that kindness in.
“The spa? Do I look like a spa kind of girl? I don’t even know what I’d do there.”
“Get a mani/pedi. Have your hair done. Get a massage. Meet someone for a drink. Do all of the above.” I look at Darcy, who is staring me down, scowling. “Is that enough for one evening, or do you need additional suggestions?” I ask.
“You can be a real smart-ass when you want to be,” she says.
I shrug. “It’s starting to come back to me.”
“I don’t think it ever left.” Darcy wads up her tea bag wrapper and napkin and places them in her empty cup. “I’ll let you know,” she says, standing up. Mia’s patience for the high chair has waned and her sounds have shifted from babbling to little squawks. Though I’ve never actually heard her out-and-out cry, Darcy claims she will put on a
In a nod to that unevenness, Darcy doesn’t ask the follow-up question I’m hoping for, the only natural one to ask: “Why is that?” Instead, she rolls her eyes and, as if only half listening, says, “Well, are you at least trying?”
This question throws me. Despite wanting a baby more than anything in the world, despite thinking of little else besides trying for one as soon as Brad returned, I haven’t felt I can broach the subject with him. And trying to do much more than talking about it has been difficult at best—between all of the readjustment hiccups and the fact that Brad is spending his nights sleeping on the floor next to our bed. But how do I complain to Darcy about this? Brad and I are separated by only a few feet. It’s not a traditional arrangement, but it’s not eternity, either.
“Depends what you mean by trying,” I say.
“Do or do not,” Darcy says in her best Yoda voice. “There is no try.”
“Is it worth it?” I ask Darcy.
She looks at Mia. “You mean her? Is she worth it?”
I nod.
“Without a doubt the best thing I ever did,” she says. “Even right now. Especially right now.” Darcy’s voice wavers. She stops and takes a deep breath. Then she exhales. “It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done, too.” She smiles at me and pats my hand. The gesture is motherly, and nice.
“I hope so,” I say.
Darcy raises an eyebrow.
I feel like a can of soda that someone has shaken. It’s the result of the strain from the past weeks spent with this new version of Brad,and now that look from Zach—and the reaction it stirred in me. It’s a pressure that has me straining against myself, ready to explode. I need to get it out, into the open.
Darcy reaches out and puts a hand over mine. “I know so,” she says, her voice steady and certain now. “You’re going to have it all.” A cloud of sadness settles over her as she speaks those last few words. I realize too late, probably just as Darcy does, that she had it all, and she’ll be settling for only a fraction of that vision. I realize, too, looking down at her hand resting on mine, Collin’s wedding band floating below Darcy’s on her ring finger, that I can’t tell Darcy any of this. I can’t confide in her—definitely not now. Maybe not ever.
I pick up Darcy’s hand and examine it, turning it over and back. “You look like hell, Darce,” I say, joking. “Why don’t you let me take Mia tonight? Go for a power hour at the spa. Relax a little.”
Darcy is a hard person to take care of. She’s like a selectively permeable membrane, always doing for others but never taking any of that kindness in.
“The spa? Do I look like a spa kind of girl? I don’t even know what I’d do there.”
“Get a mani/pedi. Have your hair done. Get a massage. Meet someone for a drink. Do all of the above.” I look at Darcy, who is staring me down, scowling. “Is that enough for one evening, or do you need additional suggestions?” I ask.
“You can be a real smart-ass when you want to be,” she says.
I shrug. “It’s starting to come back to me.”
“I don’t think it ever left.” Darcy wads up her tea bag wrapper and napkin and places them in her empty cup. “I’ll let you know,” she says, standing up. Mia’s patience for the high chair has waned and her sounds have shifted from babbling to little squawks. Though I’ve never actually heard her out-and-out cry, Darcy claims she will put on a
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