What was she looking for with me?
I hadn’t dated anyone in years, because I wasn’t good at balancing Scotty’s needs with anyone else’s, even my own. There was the occasional friendly fuck with a woman who did some design work with my uncle’s firm, but Alison was older, divorced, and not looking for anything more than I was, which was basically just an adult human connection. (For about twenty minutes.) But when it was done, it was done. I never thought about her afterward, and I doubt she thought about me. I certainly didn’t give a shit about her favorite color. And the sex was just functional. It was sort of like maintenance on your furnace or something—from time to time you needed to do it, but once it was done, you didn’t think about it again until the following winter.
It was so different with Jillian. I wanted her to need me for more than just sex. I wanted to make her happy, and not just physically. I wanted to do things for her and with her. I wanted her in my life.
But how could I do it?
Seeing her during the week would be impossible with our schedules. Weekends were when I caught up with work, household chores, and made time for outings with Scotty that got him socializing in non-classroom situations. Saturday nights were our movie nights. Where would time with Jillian fit in? Was it fair to even start something with her, knowing that I’d probably end up a disappointment? What woman wants to fall for someone who can never put her first, never live with her, never promise her all the things she ultimately wants—a husband, a home, a family?
Because I couldn’t. I wasn’t free to make those kinds of promises.
But for the first time in eight years, I wished I were.
? ? ?
I was a little later than promised, but Scotty seemed OK with it, and happily hugged me hello and Sarah goodbye. While I warmed up the soup Jillian had sent home with me, he went back to lining up his dinosaurs on the family room rug. As I ate—the soup was delicious—I tried to engage him in conversation, asking about his time with Sarah, about swim therapy today, about his dinosaurs. But although he made noises while he played, he largely ignored my attempts at conversation, and once he told me he was too busy to talk.
When I was done eating, we went upstairs and got him ready for bed, putting on his dinosaur pajamas, brushing his teeth, reading a story, turning on his nightlight and switching off the overhead light in just that order. Even our prayers had to be recited a certain way, the list of people and things we are grateful for named in the exact same order every night. So when I added something new—“I am thankful for making new friends”— he got upset with me and told me I had to start over.
“Nope. I’m not starting over, Scotty. Prayers are how you feel at the end of the day. They don’t have to be the same every night.”
“But you said it wrong,” he insisted, and even though he was lying down, I could see the agitation in his body in the way he started rolling from side to side, hands at his ears.
“It’s not wrong, buddy. It’s just something I added. We can be thankful for new things, don’t you think?”
“Start over, start over,” he repeated, and I sensed a meltdown coming. “You have to start over or it’s not right. Start over, start over, start over.”
I sighed, closing my eyes for a second. This was one of those moments where I wanted to be firm. I wanted to say No, I don’t have to start over. If I want to be fucking thankful for a new friend, you should let me say it, and stop acting like this. I love you, and I know you’re doing the best you can, but stop it. Just stop.
He began to cry, and I said nothing, just pulled back the covers and got in bed next to him. Maybe his day had been harder than I knew. Maybe his sensory input was already overwhelmed. Maybe this tiny change in the prayers sounded like an avalanche to him, where I heard only a marble bouncing down the stairs.
I didn’t know. Because he couldn’t tell me, and I felt ashamed of myself for wanting him to be something other than he was, even for a moment.
Just leave the prayers as they are tonight. Maybe tomorrow, you can talk about adding some new things to be grateful for, at a time when you’re not trying to get him calm enough to fall asleep.
I put my arms around him, trying to quiet his restless body. “Hey, hey. It’s OK. I’m sorry, I’ll start again. Let’s say them together.”
Was I doing the right thing? Who the hell knew? Maybe I should have insisted he be more flexible. Ten fucking times a day, I second-guessed myself.