Hello, Sunshine

“Meet you in the middle?” I said.

He smiled, and we both sat down.

He pointed at the bag I was holding in my hands. “What’s in there?”

“Lunch,” I said. “I’m taking the train to New York.”

He looked at the bag, which was incredibly full: two sandwiches, a salad, a large iced tea.

“Are you sure that’s enough? You’ll be on the train for at least two hours. Maybe three.”

“Very funny.”

“What are you doing in New York?”

I touched my belly. “I’m going to find out if this is a girl or a boy.”

“It’s a girl.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The old wives’ tale. When you’re having a boy, it gives you beauty. And when you’re having a girl . . .”

I laughed. “Hey! Not friendly.”

He shrugged. “You’ve looked better.”

“You’re right about that.”

He smiled. “Is the husband going with you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.” He nodded. “That’s good.”

I started to agree, but that wouldn’t have been the truth. Everything was different between Danny and me now—a little forced, fairly tense. I didn’t want to volunteer that part either. Danny and I would either work it out or we wouldn’t. And it was better for Ethan to think we would. It was probably better for all of us to think that, but how could we work it out?

After all, what would that story sound like? We had been married, and I had been unfaithful. And he had sold out our entire lives. And then, we worked it out. It wasn’t a good story. It wasn’t a story that sells. In the story that sells, he would have forgiven me before he knew I was pregnant. In the story that sells, there wouldn’t have been infidelity and betrayal. There wouldn’t be someone new sitting in front of me that I didn’t want to say good-bye to. There would have been a pervasive love that wouldn’t have allowed me to sell my husband out, even when my entire world was for sale.

Yet, maybe having the right story didn’t matter. Maybe wanting everything to sound a certain way was how I’d ended up in this mess. Maybe all that mattered was that I was having dinner with Danny tonight, just the two of us, and the possibility of that made me happy.

I did, just, feel happy. And free. It was a weird moment to feel free—with a baby growing inside me. But I’d shed the skin of the wrong life. And there it was, handed to me like a prize. Happiness, freedom. A little bit of both.

Ethan smiled, kindly. “All right,” he said. “Life’s too short for the awkwardness. When you get back, let me know, we’ll go drink cider or something.”

“That sounds . . . awful,” I said.

“What? I’m running out of nonalcoholic choices.”

“Maybe you just want to give me a lift to the station instead?” I said. “We could catch up now.”

“No,” he said. “Thanks anyway. I’ve got plans with my friend.”

I looked at my old home, his girlfriend inside. “You deserve so much better than that. And maybe I don’t have the right to say it, but you do know that, right?”

“They’re just plans,” he said. “Let me know if I should break them.”

Ethan started to walk toward his girlfriend’s house. Then he turned back.