Page 108 of Woman on the Verge

“Can I ask what you want for your future? Like, in general,” I say.

He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head.

“I don’t know. I think I’d like to get married. Be a dad someday.”

Elijah wants to be a dad.

I am still carrying around the pregnancy test in my purse. I haven’t gotten my period, and I haven’t peed on the stick. I’m starting to thinkI’m not afraid that I am pregnant—I’m afraid that I’m not. Elijah would be thrilled if I were pregnant. I know he would. A pregnancy would force the future I’m too afraid to want. Elijah would be an involved father, the type of father who makes motherhood enjoyable. The girls would love to have a baby in their lives. They would be too young to understand the scandal of it all. Kyle would be appalled, as he should be. Our separation would be inevitable, as it should be.

“I don’t want to get married and be a dadtomorrow,” Elijah clarifies. “Please tell me I haven’t ruined the night.”

“No, not at all,” I say. “I’m the one who asked.”

He leans across the table, puts his hands on top of mine.

“Let’s not get into all this tonight, okay? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

“Deal,” I say. Then, to release the pressure valve, I raise my eyebrows suggestively and say, “I’m particularly looking forward to something sweet back at your place.”

“It puts me at ease to know you are a huge dork,” he says.

“The hugest.”

We have sex that night—not the soft, sensual sex of last time, but something more desperate and primal. It’s what my body needs, a forceful expulsion of energy. In the morning, we have sex again, this time slower, tender. Kyle’s never understood the necessity for different types of sex, the importance of context. He has always wanted the same kind of sex from me, whether I’m wearing a lace nightie or a sweatshirt covered in baby puke. He seems perpetually confused that my needs change, that I have needs at all.

Elijah walks me to my car, and we linger there, as we usually do. I feel compelled to say “I think I love you.” The words are right there, swirling around my mouth like the ice cube. Either they will melt away or I will spit them out impulsively. I know, though, that I cannot say these words without repercussions. We are not teenagers.

“Have I scared you off? Will I see you next week?” he asks, his hands on my waist, his cheek pressed against mine, his breath hot on my ear.

I avoid the first question and say, “I think you’ll see me.”

“You like to leave me guessing.”

He takes a bite of my lobe.

“You seem to like the guesswork.”

“I have no choice but to withstand it,” he says.

He moves his mouth to mine, kisses me, his lips enveloping me. I imagine my whole self being sucked through his lips, into his body, away from reality and all its troubles.

“I really care for you,” I say, downgrading the sentiment of what I want to say.

“I really care for you too.”

He kisses me again.

“Are you sure you’re real?” I ask him.

“Are you sureYou’rereal?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” I say.

He kisses me yet again.

“I should head back to see my dad.”

“Of course you should.”

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