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“Babies are resilient. Think of all the children born when we knew nothing. Adapt your lifestyle now and maybe once the baby is born, if you’re going to breastfeed, maybe take it down to a glass or two.”

I respond through my tears. “Ok. I promise. I’ll only drink once the baby begins talking, so I know I didn’t break it.” She rolls her eyes at me, but I’m serious.

“I don’t know your circumstances, but there are people to talk to. Who do you want listed as the emergency contact?”

I start breathing quickly. “Well, that’s just it in a fucking nutshell. I guess I should put the father down.” I shrug.

“I might sound indelicate, but if I narrow the conception window, will that help identify the father?” she says plainly, misunderstanding me. I find it funny.

“No need to narrow. July 6th, or more specifically, about five a.m. on the 7th. I suspect I’m in my eighth week. Or we are. I guess I’m a ‘we’ now. Unfortunately, yes. God’s playing a cruel trick.”

“I’m sorry. Is there a problem I can help with?”

“No. He’s wonderful, and I’m in love with him, and the entire situation is awful.”

“He doesn’t love you?”

“No, he does.”

“I’m confused.”

“So am I.”

* * *

I buy every book that has ever existed about pregnancy. I google like no one has ever googled before. I eat an entire Paul Newman’s frozen Margarita pizza. I desperately want a Sazerac. I google the effects of bourbon on a fetus and decide against it. It’s definitely our kid. I’m craving bourbon.

The two of us are lying in bed. It’s not doing much of anything. I keep staring at us, wondering if anyone else can tell my world expanded today. That all of a sudden, someone automatically became the most important person in my universe. I know without a shadow of a doubt, I’ll be an emergency contact.

79

Alex

I love this side deck. My parents put it on when I was in high school. It’s like our second living room. We spend an insane amount of time out here. The smell of the wood combined with grass and Mom’s herb cutting garden is drifting into my subconscious and making me feel safe. I’ve been killing it at work. And killing myself lately to get it all done. All of the boys are in relationships now, and it pisses me the fuck off. I managed to have a relationship and not lose a step at work. I’m picking up everyone’s pieces, and it’s getting to a point where I’m going to have to rage on my co-workers. I’ll wait until after the election because I’m kind of eating up the amount of travel I got going on right now.

I taped a segment for the HBO post-election doc episode this morning, and so now, I just get to be in Boston. Well, Brighton, with my mom and dad for two days. I’m kicking back in the greatest Adirondack chair with my laptop in front of me. A while back, my dad made these sort of wooden lap desks that fit over the chair. They’re kind of genius. He did it so he could sit on his beloved deck, have a beer, and watch the Red Sox game on his computer outside. I like working out here. After he caught me using it once when I showed up the next time, there were two of them. My dad is in his workshop, mom at the store, and all is right with the world.

It’s the first day I remember that Tess and I are broken up. Usually, when I finish a big chunk of work, I pick up my phone to text her. I always did, and I can’t seem to break that habit, even after almost six months of being broken up. We had an incredible blip in July, but for the most part, she’s been gone. And every day, until today, I pick up my phone to text her at least four times. Always forgetting she’s not a part of my life anymore. Then I have to sit in the sadness for a minute, shake it off, and dive back into work. Work is all there is.

I put my phone down for a moment and drift off in the warm September sun. As my eyes close, as I do every night and nap, I allow myself to see her in my mind. Tess may not exist in my life, but she sure as fuck still rules my brain. It’s often simple thoughts of the touch of her hand or her putting her feet on my lap. I save the really dirty thoughts for jerking off. The smell of her shampoo or the sound of a sigh when she’s written something wistful. These are the thoughts that allow me to get to sleep, the idea I can still own a piece of her, even abstractly. She’s my white noise.

* * *

I wake up to a beer being put on my “lap desk” and my computer being moved to the side. My father’s having his post-project Heineken, and I’m thrilled to join him. I instinctually reach for my phone and go to check my messages, and then I remember. It’s always a split second.

“Alex.”

“Dad.”

“Tell me what you’re working on so hard that’s got you snoozing in a chair. That’s an old man’s game, and you’re far from it.”

I laugh at him and launch into all the projects I’m balls deep in. He’s nodding and asking questions, and then his face changes slightly. It becomes softened and lighter somehow. His shoulders relax, and his entire posture eases into the chair as he releases tension I didn’t even know was there. Then I hear the car door close.

“Go help your mother with the groceries.” He smiles and stands up. I do, too, and head over to my mom. As we’re almost to her, she’s bending down to pick something up. I hear my father suck breath through his teeth.

“Dad.”

“Your mother has the same ass as the day I met her.”