Thirty-five and Single

I continue when he just stares off into space. “Is that why you insisted we go to a different fertility center?”

We’d taken the test, but I’d never gotten my results. He’d gone without me to get his results, which I’d thought was odd at the time. But I’d trusted him.

“They didn’t think they could salvage sperm from me and suggested using donor sperm. The other center had better results with men with my condition.”

I want to sympathize with him, but I can’t at the moment.

“And you kept that from me. Or maybe your count was low because you’d been fucking around on me and not abstaining before the test.”

“I hadn’t ever cheated on you until after I got the results.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s comforting.”

He solemnly holds my gaze. “I felt like less of a man, Olivia. I didn’t even mean to cheat the first time it happened. It had been a shit day at work, and then the news I probably couldn’t father a child didn’t help. A few drinks and a woman who I wouldn’t disappoint looked at me like I was the man I wanted to be.”

I scoff. “You think I don’t get it. I’ve spent the last year thinking I was less than a woman because you lied to me.”

Angry, hot tears spill down my cheeks like a summer thunderstorm.

“I never told you that you were the problem,” he says like that’s an excuse.

“No, you didn’t,” I spit. “Instead, you let me think that, never once telling me otherwise. And then by switching centers, you made it uncomfortable for me to get results. I went into the new center not wanting to ask questions because I impotently assumed that I couldn’t give you a child.” I stare at him, hoping my choice of words sink in. “I just took the hormones they gave me like a good wife.”

Looking back, I had been stupid not to ask questions. I’d been so depressed I’d considered seeing a therapist.

“I fucked up, but I—”

“Don’t. I can barely stand to look at you.”

“Olivia. I still very much love you. I haven’t been with anyone in—”

“In what, weeks?”

“Longer than that. When you left, I lost the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

I get to my feet and he continues to plead with me.

“I can love your child like my own.”

“And what about Joel?” I ask, truly curious how much Corey’s considered what he’s saying.

“Plenty of children have stepparents. I can be a father even if the child’s not mine.”

I step away from him, disgusted. “Yet, you didn’t want to consider the option of donor sperm.”

His head drops. “I’ve had a lot of time to consider things.”

“Let’s consider this. I trusted you with every fiber of my being. But you didn’t trust me enough to be honest with me. You didn’t trust that I would still love you even if we couldn’t have biological kids together. You selfishly chose for me and sought comfort in the arms of another woman instead of me.”

When his head lifts to stare up at me, his eyes shine and I remember the boy I’d once loved.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Though my heart hardens with stone, I’m not unfeeling.

“I know,” I say, because I can see it.

“Can you forgive me?”

The pain is so devastating, I choke out a reply, “Yes. But I can never forget.”

I open the door and he tries a final time.

“Please. We can figure this out. I’ll do anything.”

I turn back. “I know you would, but it’s too late. See, I can never trust you. Every time you work late, go out of town, or spend time with your friends, I’ll wonder if you’re cheating on me or telling me the truth. And what kind of relationship would that be? It wouldn’t be fair on either of us.”

Though I can see the desolation my words have wrought, I leave him there alone. It isn’t a great moment, because no matter how much he’s hurt me, there’s that part of me that will always care about him.

Amelia is there with strong arms around me, murmuring words I can’t understand. I curl up into a ball on the bed in her guest room and cry until I have no more tears left.

It’s late Sunday evening when I get a text… from Joel.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The phone rings after dialing Joel’s number, since I chose to ignore his text. I don’t want what I need to say to be lost in translation. Texts can be interpreted a thousand different ways depending on the receiver’s mood.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” I lick my lips. “I thought it would be easier to talk. I’m not home.”

“I know. I knocked on your door.”

For the first time since our very first meeting, things feel extremely awkward.

“We need to talk,” I begin, though I want to do it in person.