In the afternoon, a text comes in from Jacob. Aiden shared the news. I’m so sorry.
Thank you, I type with a twinge of annoyance. Why did Aiden share this private loss with Jacob? Our private loss. My private loss. But Aiden and Jacob are friends. Aiden needed to tell his boss what was going on, especially if he’s distracted at work. He needs someone to talk to.
I don’t mean to pry, Jacob texts. But he shared on his own.
Of course, I text back. I appreciate your concern.
If there’s anything I can do . . .
Thank you, I say again, but what can he do? What’s done is done.
The next two evenings are quiet, and Aiden and I tiptoe around each other, speaking little, focusing on inconsequential subjects. Neither one of us can bear to go into the nursery. We’ve closed the door. We walk past the room, giving it a wide berth, as if we might step on the sharp glass of our shattered dreams. We plan to see a movie Friday evening, to distract ourselves from grief. He hasn’t repeated the idea of moving away.
But Friday afternoon, he calls to say he’s going out with Jacob and a few other colleagues after work. He sounds strange, his voice hollow. I sit at the kitchen table, listening to the dishwasher churn, and I burst into tears. He should be here with me.
In bed, I lie awake, and at eleven o’clock, I hit speed-dial for his cell. The phone rings and rings, then the call drops into voice mail. “You’ve reached Aiden Finlay. You know what the hell to do.”
“Where are you and what are you doing?” I say, and hang up. Fine, let him stay away forever. I hope he never comes home.
I’m just drifting off when the call comes through. I jolt upright and grab the phone without looking at the screen.
“Where are you?” I say sleepily. “Why aren’t you home?”
“Because I’m at my home?” a deep voice says. “Is that the right answer?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Jacob,” I say, sitting up. “What’s going on? It’s late.”
“Uh, it’s just . . . Aiden had a little too much to drink.”
“He what?”
“He can’t drive. I put him to bed in my loft.”
“In your loft.”
“I keep a loft downtown,” Jacob says smoothly. “For situations like this. He’ll be okay here. He’s safe. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t hang up.” Questions tumble through my mind. Where is this loft?
“He’s dealing with some heavy emotions,” Jacob says.
“Not very well,” I say.
“Yeah,” Jacob says, and sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry I upset you, but I thought you should know, so you don’t worry.”
“I’m worried.”
A beat of silence follows, then he says, “Come down and I’ll buy you a cup at Café Presse. I’ll pay for the cab.”
I blink, look at the clock, processing his invitation. “Right now?”
“It’s only eleven thirty,” he says.
Only? Does this man stay up all night? “I’m usually asleep by ten,” I say.
“I’ll get you some tea, and drive you home.”
The café is oddly comforting, with its soft classical music and dim lighting. Jacob steers me to a table in the shadows. Why did I put on a touch of lipstick and eyeliner in the middle of the night? Comb my hair and wash up? Why did I try on three sweaters before settling on a soft black turtleneck? There is something about Jacob—the smooth, deep voice, his self-assurance, his command of a room. The way conversation stops as he passes and he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on me. He gives me the mug of tea.
“You say this will put me to sleep?” I say.
“It’ll knock you out,” he says.
“But not knock me up.” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice.
The smile drops from his face. His eyes are so blue, so clear. So different from Aiden’s eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened.” Somehow, his hand is over mine. Comforting, but I am wide awake now.
“I can’t believe Aiden got drunk.”
“Aiden’s a great guy, but in many ways he’s still that perpetual college kid. We were talking, and he was drinking, and talking . . . and . . .”
“And?”
He looks out the window, then at me. “And, I’m not sure if I should tell you.”
“Tell me what? You have to tell me now.”
“He’s not certain,” he says.
“Certain of what?” But already I know. I push the cup away.
“You two had a whirlwind courtship . . . You broke the news to all of us at the last minute, about your wedding.”
“It was quick,” I say.
“He said it might’ve been too quick.”
“He said our marriage was a mistake? He really said that?”
“What matters is what you do from here. What you decide.”
“Did Aiden decide something?” I say.
“He thought you two had been hasty about everything, that’s all. And now with this horrible news. I think he just feels . . . unprepared to handle it. To help you.”
I can’t stop the tears, the upwelling of emotion, of betrayal, even though Aiden has not slept with another woman. I grip Jacob’s hand so tightly I could break his fingers. He grips me back, providing a lifeline.