Slowly, not wanting to wake Zach up to deal with this properly just yet, I slip out from under the covers. I forgo putting on my slippers so I can pad barefoot out of the room, grabbing my dressing gown on the way, and wrapping myself up in it. The bedroom door creaks on my way out and I pause, but Zach doesn’t stir. Creeping into the kitchen, I want to make myself a cup of tea.
I regret the idea immediately.
The leftover pizza is wrapped in foil on the side, along with the extra dip Zach wanted to order but never got around to using. It’s all there, on the kitchen counter, taunting me.
I glare at them while I wait for the kettle to boil, and my lip curls as I carry my tea out past the leftovers again.
In the hallway, I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror over our just-a-bit-wobbly IKEA sideboard. Even the person in the mirror looks like a total stranger for a moment.
I mean, she looks like me, of course she does: dark skin, shoulder-length curly hair, body made even softer and rounder than usual by the big fluffy dressing gown. The girl in the mirror looks like me, but she’s not, because the Serena looking back at me is one who looks like her entire world was just turned upside down. My eyes are bloodshot and there are purplish bags under them, my cheeks burn hot, and my jaw is clenched tightly. As soon as I notice it in my reflection, I try to relax.
It takes an enormous amount of effort.
Walking away from my reflection, I try to shake it off, but I can’t.
Even with the pizza leftovers out of sight, I’ve got Zach’s voice in my head, crystal clear, telling me so enthusiastically, so easily, that he wanted pineapple on his pizza.
My head was spinning too much to confront him last night.
It’s still spinning.
It’s been spinning all night long.
I go out onto the balcony, curl up on the bench that Zach’s dad made for us as a housewarming gift, and drink my tea in the quiet morning.
This will help, I tell myself. It’s bound to. This is what people do, isn’t it? At least, I know it’s what Isla from Number Fifteen does. She posts about it on her Instagram all the time. Her little fifteen-minute morning meditations. Her journaling at dawn out on the balcony, watching the sunrise. It does always look so nice, but hell, who can sit with just . . . nothing, for that long? Not even thinking? In fact, consciously trying not to think? Nope, couldn’t do it.
I catch myself: I’ve already failed at trying to sit here and just be, because I’m thinking too much.
But Jesus. How can I not think about it?
The boy ordered pineapple, on his pizza.
In the four years I’ve known Zach, he’s never done something like that. I’ve never seen him eat a slice of Hawaiian. I’ve never so much as heard him express an interest in it, never offered any sort of contribution to the everlasting controversial debate, that most persistent of internet discourses: Does pineapple belong on pizza?
“Hey.”
I startle, so caught up in my own tumultuous thoughts that I didn’t hear him get up, or come out onto the balcony. My tea’s half-drunk but now cold; the sun is starting to burn the clouds away. I put my mug down and notice Zach frown, confused, as he looks between me and it.
In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never known him to order Hawaiian pizza, and he’s probably never known me to not finish a cup of tea.
He takes a long look at me before sitting down.
His hair sticks up at odd angles and his glasses have finger smudges on them.
I shift into the corner of the bench as he sits.
“You weren’t there when I woke up. How long have you been out here?”
“Depends what time it is.”
“Almost eight.”
God, how have I lost that much of the morning to this whole shit-storm?
“What’s up?” He reaches over to take my hand but I pull away.
“Serena, babe, what’s the matter?”
And even though I’ve been thinking about this for like, twelve hours now, I’m no clearer on what I want to say. I know I need to explain, but it’s so much more difficult than that, and I can’t tell him what started all this, can I? I’d sound totally ridiculous. Or worse, he’d laugh at me, and I don’t think I can stomach that right now, especially since if he makes a joke of it all we won’t ever actually deal with it.
So what comes out of my mouth instead is, “How long are we going to stay here, Zach?”
“What?”
“Like, here. This apartment. This was supposed to be the start, right? What’s next?”
“Uh . . . ”
“Like is it a four-year thing? Ten? Twelve? We’ve only got one bedroom. Or, like, are we supposed to wait until I get pregnant and we start having kids to even think about moving? Are we supposed to wait until then to even ask ourselves if we want kids?”
“Whoa, kids? Is this—where did—Serena, are you—is this you trying to tell me you’re pregnant, or something?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “No. I’m just saying. But like, we will, one day, right? Or at least, I’m assuming we will, and now I’m thinking—well, I realize that I’m assuming that, you know? Based on nothing, except . . . that you’ve never said otherwise. But we’ve never actually talked about if we even both want kids. Do you want kids, Zach?”
He stammers and looks alarmed when I twist my face up to look him in the eye.
I know I’ve sprung this on him, but—well, come on. The boy’s got to have an opinion, surely?
“I dunno. Like . . . I guess? If you do.”
I am officially lost for words.
I gawp at him, so Zach fills the silence by babbling on. “I’m not saying I don’t, or anything, you know, I guess I just never really thought about it much. I just always assumed . . . you know, it’d happen, if it was gonna happen. For us, I mean.”
“What, you didn’t think we’d, like, discuss me stopping my birth control, or something? Or moving somewhere with enough space to raise a kid? Or two, or three? Or however many we ‘happen’ to have?
You didn’t think that there’d be, like, any amount of planning in us having kids? Or that you should maybe form an opinion on whether you want them or not?”
Zach laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes off his glasses, cleaning them on his pajama T-shirt and clearing his throat.
I let him stall, because I really need to know what he’s got to say for himself.
“Come on, Rena. We’ve only been going out for four years—”
“We bought an apartment together!”
“And we’re only in our twenties.”
“I’m only twenty-eight,” I point out. “You turn thirty in June!
But that’s the point! Your little sister’s twenty-two and she’s already thinking about kids—and she doesn’t even have a boyfriend yet! And what about your brother and his husband? Why do you think they bought a house in the suburbs the way they did, why do you think they took a loan off your parents to get a bigger deposit so they could afford the mortgage on that place? It’s three bedrooms, Zach. Do you think Matty and Alex need three bedrooms, or that they’re planning for kids?”
“I thought you only wanted one bedroom.”
“Yeah, for now! Because that’s what we could afford, for now.
That’s why we made a budget!”