Page 47 of Room for Us
She’s back asleep in minutes.
I lie awake, my heart thumping heavily. I’ve never cuddled a woman before. Not while sleeping, at least. Not even Britt.
But I’ve also never met a woman like Zoey.
As a purveyor of human emotion, I should know the name of this feeling. Falling yet being lifted up at the same time. Drowning while sucking freely of the sweetest oxygen. It’s like adrenaline without the letdown. Winning without a finish line.
What is it? What does it mean?
I fall asleep and dream of Zoey in her blue dress. She’s laughing, dancing through a garden of roses.
27
I wake in Ethan’s arms, my cheek against his chest and our legs entwined. Sunlight filters, mellow and golden, through the open curtains of the room. Unlike most mornings, I instantly know where I am and who I’m with. Flushing, I duck my head and smile with the memory of last night. I fell asleep. Poor man. I suppose I’ll have to make it up to him.
His body is better than an electric blanket. I want to stay here forever, but my bladder protests. He barely stirs as I extricate myself and cover him with the blanket. Leaving him is harder than it should be. In sleep he seems younger, less troubled. I wonder what he was like as a child—if he was more carefree or had the same intensity he does now.
After taking care of business in the bathroom across the hall, I head downstairs to start a pot of coffee, then shower and dress for a day of yard work. It’s just after eight, so I have a few hours until anyone arrives. I settle on the porch with a cup of coffee and my phone. Ethan can live without his espresso today—I have something more pressing to attend to.
A Google search of E.M. Hart is as effective as Ethan warned—that is to say, there’s very little beyond sterile bios. Born and raised in upstate New York, attended NYU for a Bachelors in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. Lives in the West Village. Never married.
Then the bomb drops.
One daughter, aged eight—Daphne.
Holy shit.
He has a daughter. He’s a father. I find a photo of them together. She’s a miniature version of him—dark hair, pale green eyes. Her smile is effervescent, her eyes bright with mischief.
Longing hits me. My stomach clenches uncomfortably. This new information brings a mixed bag of emotional flotsam—fear, excitement, more fear, longing, a twinge of jealousy. He has what I want. Does he know how lucky he is?
Tears burn behind my eyes, escaping a wound that will never heal. For so many years, I dreamed of a family to call my own, a husband and children to love. But some dreams exist on the other side of reality, and no amount of wishing will bring them to life.
I’ll never be a mother. Not naturally, at least. Thanks to submucosal fibroids in my uterus, I’m infertile. I’ll never be able to pour my love into a child born of my body.
I’m curious about the girl’s mother, but there’s no information beyond her name and occupation: yoga studio owner and wellness coach. Did he love her? What happened to them?
“Sailing head first down the rabbit hole, aren’t we?”
Aunt B’s voice is threadier than usual. A bare whisper.
“No,” I whisper back.
A light wind plays in the trees. I shut my eyes and suck the crisp air into my lungs, trying to root myself in the present. It doesn’t work.
I spent months—eight, to be exact—in a dark, soulless place after my diagnosis. At the start, Chris was the picture of compassion and action. He made calls to renowned doctors across the country and world, searching for an answer while I searched for oblivion. Then one day, he gave up. A bare five months later, he gently told me adoption wasn’t an option, but having kids remained one of his top priorities.
“You want to divorce me.”
It wasn’t a question, and I wasn’t all that surprised. He hadn’t kissed me in weeks. I couldn’t remember the last time we held each other, or even maintained eye contact lasting more than a few seconds.
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, staring blankly at the flickering television. “I get it. You talked to your parents?”
He has the grace to look ashamed but the audacity to say, “It’s not about you, Zoey. You’re great. I still love you—I always will. It’s about me and what I need.”
And that was that.
