Page 36 of Counting Backwards

“Maybe,” I answered half-heartedly, turning back onto my side, this time facing away from him.

“Come here.” He pulled me closer and nestled me against him, my back against his firm chest.

After another minute, he started running his hand along my rib cage down to the hem of my tank top, which he began pushing up in slow motion.

“Vance.” My tone was halting, a shorthand to shut down his advances.

“Oh, come on,” he whispered beseechingly. He leaned down and put his warm lips to the part of my side that was now exposed. The only thing I felt at the contact was annoyance.

“You know we’re not supposed to tonight. Don’t make me be the bad guy here.” I reached under the covers to shift my shirt back into place. Undeterred, Vance started untying the drawstring of my sweatpants. “Vance.” My voice was harsher now. “Seriously, stop. You’re going to mess everything up.”

“I promise my sperm supply will replenish itself plenty by morning.” He tugged at my waistband, but I pushed away his hand with force.

“I’m not doing this.” My voice was loud. “They said to abstain until after your appointment tomorrow, so that’s what we’re doing.” I sat up and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. “I don’t even understand. Every time I say it’s a good night to try, I feel like I’m forcing you to have sex with me. Yet all I have to do is say no once, and you turn into a horny teenager? Why can’t you be on the same page as me? Like, ever?”

Vance sat up too, his expression clouding over with anger.

“Because that’s exactly it. We’re not on the same page. Not anymore.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed thequilt we kept folded at the bottom of the bed. “I’m going to sleep in the other room.”

“The other room? Because I said no? On the one night you’re not supposed to ejaculate? Seriously?”

“No, not because you said no.” He made it halfway out the bedroom door, but then he stepped back toward me. “Because you don’t give a shit about what I want in this baby quest of yours. It’s all about you and your grief and your search for ‘connection.’” He made quotes in the air as he said it, mocking me. “I don’t even know what else, but you are making me miserable.”

“Miserable?” I was shouting now too. “But youwantbabies. All those times you talked about teaching your children all the little things—to loveWhere the Wild Things Are, to make your grandma’s matzo balls, to run track in high school... Why are you acting like I’m the only one these things matter to?”

“Because you are, Jess!” He moved closer to the side of the bed and bent his head so we were eye to eye. “What I wanted, Jess, was you. Would I also like kids? Yes, you know I do. But that’s not all I want from life. What I’d really like to know is what will happen if it turns out we can never have kids, biologicaloradopted. Would we survive, just you and me? Would I ever be enough for you on my own?”

His question was ridiculous. There was no reason to think we wouldn’t ever raise children. Certainly we could adopt one day if we chose to go that route. Plus, IVF and surrogacy were still on the table—so many options we hadn’t explored at all. The only reason to drum up a scenario like the one he’d described was if he was actively trying to upset me. But I wouldn’t take the bait.

“Stop. Just stop. You’re going to screw up your test, your body chemistry—”

He interrupted me with a guttural roar, and I understood belatedly that returning to clinical topics was probably the wrong move.

“I just can’t be near you right now,” he said as he turned and walked out of the room, the navy blue quilt trailing behind him.

***

The next morning, I checked the time on my watch again. Andrew Hendricks, the chair of the litigation department, was at an off-site client meeting and was expected back at noon. That’s what his assistant had said an hour ago.

Noon was also the time of Vance’s appointment at the doctor. When he’d made the appointment following our visit to Dr. LaRusso, Vance insisted he didn’t need me to accompany him. I thought I should be there for moral support, but he seemed to feel self-conscious, so I’d backed off. After our argument the night before, I found myself worrying that he might not even show up for his testing, that he might skip the appointment just to spite me.

When I’d woken up, the apartment had been empty, the blue quilt from our bed folded neatly on the end of the sofa in the living room. Vance had clearly tiptoed around to avoid waking me before he left, and I was choosing to take that as a good sign, that he was being considerate instead of trying to avoid me. Maybe the folded blanket, left so carefully in place, had been meant to tell me he was ready to reconcile. I could only guess.

Had he stuck around until I was up, I huffed to myself, maybe I’d have at least some inkling of what he was currently feeling. Five years earlier, when we got married, I’d thought marriage would change my life and end my time of feeling alone. After all the years of therapy and planning and bucket lists, I had turned myself into a carefully curated person, finally able to live a happier life. That’s what marriage had signaled to me. But as I sat at my cluttered desk that morning taking stock, I was unsure of who exactly I’d become since then or whether I was actually any happier now than before I met Vance. Somehow everything had just gotten more complicated.

My office phone rang, and the admin on the other end of the line informed me that Andrew was back and ready to see me.

“Jessa.” Andrew smiled warmly as I stepped into his office. He was seated behind his large glass desk, three computer monitors aglow on its gleaming surface, and his cell phone in his hand, dinging with notifications. As usual, he was dressed in a crisp, pastel button-down shirt, obviously expensive, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A pair of eyeglasses rested on top of his snow-white hair. For someone in his late sixties, Andrew didn’t show any signs of slowing down, still always doing a million things at once. “Just one more sec.” He looked back to his phone and began typing something.

While he tapped out the communication, I stood there awkwardly, looking around his meticulous office. Andrew’s setup always reminded me of my dad’s office at his old firm, which was still headquartered only three blocks away. Andrew’s office had clearly been attended to by a professional designer, with its intentional placement of desktop accessories, floor statues, and area rugs. A pair of wooden giraffes in one corner stood about four feet high, and an enormous framed black-and-white depiction of a Ferrari covered in graffiti graced the far wall. My father’s office hadn’t been anywhere near as flashy, but partners at his firm had each decorated their offices in varying themes. Mom always loved how it gave the stuffy corporate attorneys a little bit of charisma. The offices here at Dillney, Forsythe & Lowe were more sterile in their uniformity, except for Andrew’s, with its burst of personality. Sadly, I knew already that despite the decor, Andrew was just one more by-the-book lawyer. I felt myself starting to sweat in anticipation of our conversation.

“All righty then,” he finally said, placing his phone on the desk and sitting up straighter in his chair. “What can I do for you?” Hemotioned to one of the two purple leather chairs opposite him, and I dutifully sat down.

“I’ve been working on this pro bono immigration case,” I started.

Andrew nodded, but his eyes slid over to one of his computer screens. He was already losing interest at the mention of a non-billable matter. I decided to get straight to the point.

“I think I’ve uncovered a pattern of serious medical abuse at the detention facility, and I want to file a class action suit. That’s why I’m here, for authorization.”