continued from here
Are You Really the One?
So, one morning you pee on a little plastic wand and then have to wait interminable minutes to see if your life is going to irrevocably change or go on as normal. And this in a week where irrevocable change has already reared and roared and changed your mind about the results you want to see on this little plastic stick. Or me, I should say. Right now, it’s all about me.
I’m still stupefied by life this week. One moment waking up gloriously happy (definite red flag) next to the love of my life, believing that a year and half was enough to know that we were ready to bring new life into this world. (Really only the stupid and unaware are ever completely ready for that great responsibility.) Now, I can’t imagine bringing a baby into my current train-wreck of a life.
In the kitchen, I pour a cup of tea and stare out the window at the gray dreariness of rain. It figures. You got to love Mother Nature: here you go, child, some rain on your already miserable parade.
My phone vibrates with a text. Ed. Despite myself, my heart jumps. Stupid, substandard heart.
I ignore the text, but then the cell rings with Shania Twain’s “You’re Still the One.” I really, really need to change that ringtone.
I war with myself, but accept the call because I want to hear his voice. “What?”
“This is a huge mistake.”
“What? Calling me?”
“No. Chrissy. She manipulated the hell out of me.”
“Ya think?” If I were the violent type and if we were actually in the same room, I’d shake him. How can men be so dumb when faced with female wiles and manipulation? Is it ego? The needed to be needed? I refuse to become needy for anyone.
“Why has it taken you so long to call me? Why haven’t you come back?”
He sighs. “I wanted to make sure she was really okay. She scared the shit out of me. I really thought she was going to kill herself.”
“And, what? She’s all better now?” I ask. “Have you had sex with her?”
“Are you kidding?”
“You do know that’s not an answer.”
I can almost see him, staring down at the floor, feeling exasperated with me. Well, good.
“I didn’t sleep with her. I won’t sleep with her. I’m coming home this weekend.”
“Ha! I don’t know about that,” I say. “Listen, Ed. Dad’s birthday barbecue is on Saturday. I’m sure that you and Chrissy will be there. We’ll talk then.”
I’m about to end the call when I hear his voice plaintive and hurt say: “I love you, Becca. I screwed up, but I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. Just give me another chance.”
“Maybe,” I whisper.
And I break a little, because I want him back so very much, but what happens when Chrissy wiggles her finger again?
Suddenly the last thing I want to do is look at that plastic stick, but I lumber down the hall, feeling like the weight of the world has flung itself onto my shoulders (yes, slightly melodramatic). A sad laugh spills through my lips at the two pink parallel lines. Well, I got last week’s wish.