Page 87 of Maybe in Another Life

“I’m still a bit unclear on that,” he says, laughing. “But it involves pasta, so...”

“You’ve never even had it?”

“Again, Hannah, I ask you, when do you think I have occasion to have chickensopa seca?”

I laugh. “Well, why are you making it?” I ask. He is pouring broth into the pot. He looks like a natural.

“Because you are the kind of person who deserves a fuss made over her. That’s why. And I’m just the guy to do that.”

“You could have just made me a cinnamon roll,” I tell him.

He laughs. “Considered and dismissed. It’s too obvious. Everyone gets you cinnamon rolls. I wanted to do something unexpected.”

I laugh. “Well, if you aren’t making cinnamon rolls, then what’s for dessert?”

“Ah!” he says. “I’m glad you asked.” He pulls out a cluster of bananas.

“Bananas?”

“Bananas Foster. I’m gonna light these babies on fire.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

He laughs. “I’m kidding. I bought fruit and Nutella.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say.

“How’s Charlemagne?” Ethan asks. Charlemagne, the baby, Gabby and Mark—I want to leave all of it at the door. I don’t want to bring any of that here.

“Let’s not talk about Charlemagne,” I say. “Let’s talk about...”

“Let’s talk about how kickass you are,” Ethan says. “With a new job starting and a new car and a dog and a handsome boyfriend who makes world-class cuisine.”

This is when I should say something. This is my opening.

But his eyes are so kind and his face so familiar. And so much else in my life is scary and new.

He kisses me. I immediately sink into him, into his breath, into his arms.

This is all going to be over. This is ending.

He picks me up off the stool, and I wrap my arms around him.

He brings me into the bedroom. He pulls my T-shirt off. He starts to unfasten my bra.

“Wait,” I say.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he tells me. “Thesopa secahas to simmer on low for a while. It’s not going to burn.”

“No,” I say. I sit up. I look him in the eye. I put my shirt back on. “I’m pregnant.”

Dr. Winters comes in to check on me toward the end of the day. Gabby has gone home.

“So,” she says, “I’ve heard you’ve been galavanting around the hospital in your wheelchair.” She smiles. It’s a reproach but a kind one.

“I’m not really supposed to be doing that, huh?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says. “But I have bigger fish to fry, so to speak.”

---