Geoffrey squinted. His eyes were sad but dry. He said, without a trace of bitterness, that he was very sorry to lose me, but that he understood. He swung his briefcase onto his lap, snapped it open, and tossed the glossy brochures inside. Then he stood and headed for the door.
"Can we still be friends?" I called after him, feeling slightly frantic after his easy surrender. I worried that the question emanated from the old Darcy, the needing-to-be-worshipped-at-any-cost Darcy. Maybe I just wanted to retain control over Geoffrey. But as he turned to look at me over his shoulder, saying that he would like that very much, I knew that my intentions were pure. I wanted to remain friends with Geoffrey because I liked him as a person. Not because I wanted a single thing from him.
Later that night as Ethan lay next to me reading an article in National Geographic on global warming, I told him that Geoffrey and I had broken up that afternoon. I told him everything except Geoffrey's question about him.
Ethan listened, eyebrows raised. "Wow. I didn't even know you two were on shaky ground," he said, but his tone gave him away. Like Geoffrey, he wasn't all that surprised.
I nodded. "Yeah. I just wasn't feeling it."
"Was he okay?"
"I guess so," I said.
"And you?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. I feel guilty after all he's done for me. And I guess a tiny bit sad too… But mostly I think it's a good thing, even though it means I'll have to move back to New York sooner than I'd like."
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"I said I feel guilty—"
"No. The part about moving back?"
"I don't have a job, Ethan. I'll probably have to go back to my old one after the babies are born. I just don't have the money to stay here."
"You can stay here for as long as you want," Ethan said.
"I can't do that. I've been enough of a burden… And it's not like you're rolling in it." I smiled.
"I love having you here, Darcy. I can't wait for those babies to get here. I'm unbelievably pumped. Don't let money constraints force your hand. We'll work it out. I have money saved."
I looked at his earnest face and had to swallow back the urge to confide my feelings. It wasn't that I was afraid of rejection. It was more that for once, my feelings were selfless, and I didn't think it was fair to Ethan to unload everything on him. He was already in a relationship. He didn't need the pressure of worrying about me and how hurting my feelings might impact my pregnancy.
So I just smiled and said, "Thank you, Ethan. We'll see what happens."
In my mind, though, I knew that my time in London, as well as my time with Ethan, was running out.
* * *
thirty-one
The next day I hit the thirty-two-week benchmark, significant according to my Twins book in that my children would be "unlikely to suffer long-term health consequences as a result of their premature births." This felt like an enormous hurdle, which seemed ironic considering that I had achieved the goal by doing absolutely nothing but hanging out in bed, reading magazines and snacking.
To celebrate the milestone, Ethan surprised me with a homemade chocolate cake, bringing it back to the bedroom on his wooden tray. The cake was decorated with thirty-two blue candles, one for each week of my pregnancy, which he lit while singing, off-key, "Happy birthday, Baby A and B!"
I laughed, made a wish, and blew out the candles in two tries (which he said counted as I was having two babies). Then he cut the cake and served us each a big slice. I had seconds and then thirds, praising his baking efforts, especially the icing. When we finished eating, he cleared our plates and the tray and returned with a big box wrapped in mint-green and white polka-dotted paper.
"You shouldn't have," I said, hoping that he hadn't spent too much on the baby gift.
He ceremoniously rested the box on my lap. "I didn't… It's from Rachel."
I stared down at the package. Sure enough, the present-wrapping was unmistakably Rachel: perfect and pretty, but restrained enough not to look professionally wrapped. I observed her neat corners, the short strips of tape all parallel to the edges of the box, and her full, symmetrical bow. For some reason, that package unearthed all kinds of good memories, moments shared with Rachel over the years.
Ethan shot me a furtive glance. "Are you upset? Should I not have given it to you? I debated it for some time…"
"No. It's fine," I said, my hand running across the wrapping paper. Rachel's hand had touched this box, I thought, and I was overcome with the most absurd sensation that I was connecting with someone from the dead.
"Are you going to open it?" he asked.
I nodded.
"She sent it a few weeks ago, but she wanted me to wait until closer to your due date. I thought today was good… because I'm not worried anymore. Your babies are going to be fine."