I thumped my hand on the steering wheel, tears finally spilling through the shock. OK, he wasn’t a horrible person, not entirely. But why hadn’t he just been honest from the start? Why didn’t he want me to know he had a child? Was this his approach to relationships, then? Just reveal what you think the other needs to know and hide what you’re embarrassed about, even if it’s another human being?
And where did this leave us?
Did I even want to date someone with a child? Could I handle it? I’d never even considered it. Having kids seemed like something far off in the future—something that came after you had a wedding and a house and plants you remembered to water. Sure, I’d daydreamed a little about Charlie and me having a future, but it wasn’t real.
This child was real. Painfully real. It needed to be fed and watered. Like, several times a day. I wasn’t good at that!
A car behind me honked, and I realized the light had turned greened again. I put my foot on the gas, but I drove so slowly, the cars behind me started passing me one by one. On auto-pilot, I drove to the studio, but when I pulled up in front of it, I didn’t get out and go in. I sat staring into the front windows, thinking about the night he showed up at dance class with Krista with a K, ditched her and then came back for me.
So that’s the pattern. Date a girl, let her get just close enough, then dump her.
I frowned, thinking about the way he tried to warn me off, not only that night but other times, too. Things began to fall into place, puzzling pieces of Charlie’s life that didn’t seem to make sense before.
That’s why he left Purdue.
These are the “bad things” he’s done.
She’s the “nice girl” he messed up with.
Well, the next one wouldn’t be me. Turning off the car, I made up my mind to confront Charlie as soon as possible. Call him out on his lies. Tell him we were done.
Oh God. I let my head fall forward, my forehead thumping the steering wheel. A Scene.
#
Around six, I had a break in my teaching schedule and considered calling him, but decided I couldn’t handle hearing his voice. He was at work anyway, and likely wouldn’t pick up his phone. Instead, I texted him, carefully typing each word so I’d have none of my usual, embarrassing auto-correct issues.
Can you come by after work? It’s important.
He didn’t respond right away, so I finished rehearsal and drove home, stopping at the store for a bottle of wine. By the time I got back in the car, I had his answer.
Sure. But it will be late. And I don’t have your gifts wrapped. Are we still on for tomorrow night?
Crap. How should I answer that? I didn’t want to lie and pretend everything was fine, but I didn’t want to get into this over the phone, either.
My hands shook as I texted my reply, which was supposed to be Possibly, but because I was flustered, what I sent him was Pus funk.
“Dammit!” I dropped my phone in my lap and rubbed my temples. It buzzed against my legs a moment later.
That’s a new one. You might have to teach me this time. I’ll be there around eleven.
It was just after eight. I had three hours to dread the evening ahead.
I really needed that wine.
I took a shower and poured a glass.
Confession: I poured the glass first and took it into the shower with me, soaping with one hand, drinking with the other.
I got out and got dressed, choosing jeans and a sweater instead of pajamas, although I really just wanted to curl into a ball and go to bed, forget today ever happened. After picking at a salad but finding myself unable to eat, I abandoned the effort and sat fuming on the couch, pickling my anger with wine. I drank a second glass, and then a third. And the more I pickled it, the more intense it grew—for fuck’s sake, he’d had every opportunity to tell me the truth! The only bit of truth I could see was that he didn’t take me seriously. I was a fling, that was all. Not worth honesty. Not worth trust. Not worth commitment.
I was a fling, and he was a liar.
I was not OK with that.
My house was so quiet I heard the crunch of his footsteps in the snow as he came up the driveway, a few minutes before eleven. I was expecting his knock, but I still jumped when it sounded, three sharp bangs on the glass. Pinot Grigio in hand, I stumbled to the door and opened it.
My confidence flagged when I saw the way he lit up at the sight of me. When I felt the way my heart beat faster at the sight of him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, hope sprouted. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I should ask and not accuse. Maybe I should listen to his side.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes clouding with concern when he noticed my troubled expression. “What’s going on? Everything OK?”
“We need to talk.” My voice shook.
“Uh oh. Sounds serious. Are you breaking up with me already?”
Tucking my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater, I stepped back from the door. He shut it behind him and took off his snowy boots, careful to leave them on the rug. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but he was wearing a thick blue toggle-close sweater with a flannel shirt underneath that made me want to get inside his clothing and stay there.
He set my wine glass aside and reached for me, and before I could stop myself, I let him take me in his arms. Kiss my head. Rock me a little. “Hey you. What’s up?”
It felt so good. So damn good. But growing in the pit of my stomach was the sickening dread I used to feel when my parents would get home from a party and I knew an argument was coming. Maybe I don’t have to say anything. Maybe I can pretend not to know. We can just have sex and ignore this another day. Then I glanced at the dead plants on my windowsill and came to my senses.