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But all too soon, we reach our destination. Archie parks in the brewery parking lot, and I let go of his chest as fast as if I’d been electrocuted. The daydream is over; now we’re back to reality, to a world where in two days we’ll say goodbye to each other for good. I’d better remember that and keep reminding myself: enjoy the time you have left, but start distancing yourself.
I hop off the bike and begin the act. Like a person without a care in the world, I unhook my helmet and hand it to him, saying, “That was amazing.”
Archie smiles, removing his helmet. And I have to suppress the instinct to run my fingers through his hair to flatten it out. Right now it’s deliciously disheveled, sticking out in all directions.
“You were a dream passenger,” Archie says, after securing both helmets to the bike. He comes close to me and pokes my nose. “Not a wobble in you.”
Ah, because he has no idea how precarious my knees feel right now. Wobbly doesn’t begin to cover it.
He raises a bent elbow, offering it to me. “Shall we?”
I nod, link our arms, and we head inside the brewery.
The visit, and the two pints of beer, relax the tension between us. But at lunch, Archie spaces out again. His attention seems to be focused elsewhere—a million miles away from our conversation. That is when there’s any talking happening at all and we’re not trapped in long, uncomfortable silences. I do my best to keep chatting, but whenever I ask him questions, Archie’s responses consist of one-word yes and no answers. And he never has any questions for me. Once we’ve made our order—we’re in a French bistro in Yountville—I can’t take the weirdness any longer and finally ask, “Are you sure you’re okay? Did something my sister tell you freak you out?”
Archie stares at me. And his gaze is present and not the least detached when he asks, “Did you really freeze your eggs?”
18
SUMMER
I’m going to kill my sister. Strangle her. Drown her in confetti.
I want the ground to open and swallow me whole. Or, better, I want a meteor to fall from the sky and obliterate us. I wish lightning would strike our table, even if we’re sitting under a porch and it’s not even raining. Or for the San Andreas fault to finally get a move on and bring The Big One. Because anything,anythingwould be better than having to answer this question.
I cover my face with my hands and peek at him from between my fingers. “I can’t believe she told you that.”
Archie makes a charming frown, a cross between amusement and embarrassment. Then he reaches for my hands and gently lowers them to the table. “Why? It isn’t a bad thing.”
“It’s very personal,” I say. “Why did you bring it up?”
Archie sighs. “These last few days… we had fun, didn’t we?”
Funisn’t supposed to be a negative word, but I’m seriously starting to despise it. What doesfunmean in his head? The constant uncertainty makes me snap, “Yeah, a blast. Only two days left; we’d better enjoy ourselves.”
I take a long sip of wine.
“That’s not what I meant,” Archie says. I can tell he’s struggling to find the right words. “What I wanted to say is that I’ve enjoyed being with you…” Loaded pause. “Honestly, more than I’ve enjoyed being with anyone else in the past.” I hate my heart for the leap it does in my chest. “And I was wondering if we could… maybe… uhm… see each other even after the wedding is over.” My treacherous heart keeps soaring into the air. “But then your sister…”
My heart is at that point in mid-air where it has to come down from its jump, and Archie’s last comment makes it lose focus and balance, and the poor organ ends up going down in an uncontrolled spin until it splatters on the floor of my rib cage.
“But then my sister brought frozen eggs into the picture, and it all became a bit much?” I suggest.
“Yeah, I mean, no. Not exactly. What do the frozen eggs mean? If it’s okay for me to ask. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Too late for that. My sister put all my cards on the table, so I might as well play my hand. I look at him and try really hard not to picture what a fantastic sperm donor he’d be, how beautiful our babies would look.
I go with a casual answer, trying to lighten the mood. “I won’t go into technical details, but the gist of it is that after thirty-five a woman’s fertility drops—”
An embarrassed cough behind me makes me stop. A server is hovering next to our table with two plates in his hands. I lean back in my chair and give him space to set the appetizers down. He does, and once he’s at a safe distance, I don’t even pretend I’m interested in my food.
“In short,” I continue, “I’m cheating biology to give myself more time to have kids.”
“More time.” Archie looks like he’s digesting this information. He picks up his fork and moves Brussels sprouts around on his plate. “But you definitely want kids?”
“Not tomorrow, but one day, yeah, I want to have kids.”
“And to get married.”
