“For all hisfaults, I’mveryhappymyex-husband lives on the other side of town,” Astrid added pointedly, jerking the freezer door open. “Finn has his problems, like being a narcissist and afraid of commitment, but at least I don’t have to see himevery day. I have no idea why Indigo still insists on staying at that house.”
Whydidmy ex-wife want to live next to us?
I had assumed it was because she was still in love with me, but now, I wasn’t so sure.
I felt irritated.
“We have to remember that she must be in a great deal of inner pain having to live next to us,” I said, but this time my attempt to encourage kindness and consideration of her feelings fell flat.
“Maybe it was a sperm bank,” Astrid said flatly, pulling the chicken breast from the freezer.
I looked out the window at where Indi was now in the kitchen drinking a glass of water.
I was sure there were plenty of men who would want to impregnate her.
I felt slightly indignant, in a totally ridiculous and irrational way.
After three years of trying, really, Indigo was going to get pregnant thefirstmonth with some other man? That was just like her to be that infuriating.
Turning my chair, I attempted to face the other direction, but I only got an eyeful of Indi pulling out her updo so her long shiny red hair tumbled all down her back.
Hastily, I jerked the curtains closed.
For months I had barely looked at my ex-wife. That wasn’t going to change just because she was pregnant.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Astrid grumbled.
Without Indi in my vision, I was able to think more clearly.
I had simply been surprised. That she was pregnant. It was merely a matter of medical interest to me. Really, good for her. She had wanted very badly to be pregnant.
“Let’s just forget about it,” I told my fiancée. “It doesn’t affect us at all, whatever she chooses to do.”
But this was easier said than done, and I felt the question of who the father was reappearing in my mind to an irritating degree for the next several days.
That weekend after Astrid had gone to the gym, I sat down at the kitchen table with my laptop. There were 25 essays in my briefcase, but I felt irritable and itchy.
My ex-wife and I had done everything correctly. Had sex the day before, the day of, and the day after ovulation. My sperm was in the normal range. Of course, the doctor had said sperm counts did decrease after age 40, but that was probably for unhealthy slobs, not men in the peak of their physical capacity like myself.
But was that what had happened? Indigo had found someone closer to her own age?Why had I never seen a man at her house?
I felt unaccountably pissed at this.
Why wouldn’t she tell me who he was? There was no logical reason not to.
Hell, I probably still had a higher sperm count than whoever it was.
Was it her boss Burton?
One of her friends from college? Maybe that dipshit Greg who had hearted her name change on Facebook.
I knew some of my fellow faculty members occasionally went to the Luxury Rejuvenation Spa, where she worked.
Had one of myfriendsbeen seeing her? I shifted uneasily in my chair, frowning at the essays as I adjusted my glasses.
It didn’t matter.
It was none of my business.
