We say nothing to each other while the drinks are being whipped in large blenders. Fitz swipes his credit card in the machine without looking at it, and we take our drinks to the outdoor tables, where it’s quiet. I know there's no way he'll talk to me if there's anyone within earshot, and I need him to talk to me.
We sit for a good two minutes, each sipping our drinks and Fitz not saying a word.
Somehow, this is preferable to him barking terse little responses to my suggestions about baby gear. We sit quietly, and eventually Fitz puts a hand on my knee. I cover his with my own and feel the tension begin to ebb.
I drink a little more of my drink and check my phone.
Two of my sisters have already asked what color stroller I've picked out, still thinking I secretly know the gender. This is their attempt to be sneaky, thinking I'm going to somehow give something away if I let them know what color I chose.
“Still don't know the gender. Not going to know the gender,” I type. “All baby stuff will be green and beige.”
They respond with hearts and emoji.
I put the phone down and study Fitz. He looks wrecked, replacing my earlier frustration with concern because this is not just about traffic or confusion over stroller models.
Fitz turns my hand over and interlaces his fingers with mine. The warmth of his skin comforts me in that way it does each time he touches me, and my brain forgets about everything except how it feels with him right now. It feels good.
I’m sure that once the baby comes and my hormones calm down, my daydreams about a romantic future with Fitz will disappear. For now, however, we're still in this no-man's-landbetween being friends with feelings and being future parents who are not a couple. I don't think either one of us knows how to navigate it properly.
The best thing I can do right now is be here for him as a friend.
“Anything you want to tell me?” I ask.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Not really.”
“That’s not gonna work for me.”
He exhales. “Fine. It's my brother. Seems like things between him and his wife are done, which has sent him into a downward spiral. I guess I didn't think it would really happen, and I kept telling him to hang on and to just be optimistic. I think I made it worse.”
“What kind of downward spiral?” I ask.
“Alcohol. That’s his thing. He…drinks. A lot. Been a problem for years, but now he’s lower than I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, Fitz, I'm so sorry.” My heart hurts for him. It’s not at all what I was expecting him to say. I thought maybe he was troubled by his ranch or the town or questions about my progress on a new legal case. Something that involved me.
It makes me realize that so much of his life is separate. There’s so much I don’t know about him, and I wonder if he’ll share it. Probably not unless he has to.
Fitz lets out a long breath. “You know, honestly, I feel better just telling you. I’ve been carrying this around since early this morning, when he called me and cried for two hours straight. I…just don’t know how to help him.” He exhales hard. “Sorry. I needed to get it off my chest.”
“Don’t be sorry. Fitz, please, you have nothing to be sorry about. It's not your fault. Of course, you're going to be optimistic about his marriage and tell him that things will work out for the best. You wanted things to work out. He wanted that too. It’s not wrong to say it.”
“Yeah, but in his case, it gave him an unrealistic expectation and that made him fall from an even higher place. I'm just worried now he's going to hit the bottle hard, which is what he does. And one of these times he may not recover, and then that's on me.”
I nod, processing this heavy information and the realization that Fitz has so much more on his plate than he ever let on. Like he thinks he has to curate his life to only show me the good parts.
I put my hand on his knee, and I feel the muscle tense up, almost like they’re pushing me away. I don’t move, and eventually, his leg relaxes. He lets out an audible breath.
“I hear what you're saying, but try to take a step back. You're projecting a lot that hasn't even happened. It may never happen. The best thing you can do for him is meet him where he is.”
“He’s in bed, half-comatose. That’s where he is. Skipped work without calling in. He does that a couple more times, and they're likely to can him, even if his record there’s been exemplary so far.”
“You could have called me. We didn't have to do this today.”
“No, it's okay. He drank himself silly last night, and he'll probably be asleep half of today. I actually needed the time on the road just to clear my head and get away. But the closer I got to here, the more the feeling started creeping up that I was…that it just felt far. Two hours away is far.”
I know he doesn't intend for his words to hit me the way they do, but he's right. Two hours is far, too far to have a relationship with someone, even if he is the father of your child.
But it's a Saturday, and I don't have anything planned for the rest of the weekend, so I do what I do well—I look for a way to help. “Hey, why don't we make quick work of the baby stuff, try to check off some things from the list, and maybe bring some stuff back with you. I'll follow you back to the ranch, and I could spend the rest of the weekend there if you feel likehaving company. It would be good for me to check on things at Loveland, and I love a road trip.”
