He laughed.
“What? Why are you laughing?” I asked, kicking him in the shin.
“She says that to everyone! She thinks everyone should have kids. All women need children to be happy in her eyes. That doesn’t mean she knows what the hell she’s talking about, though.”
“Yeah, yeah, now you tell me. But really, she got me thinking. What if I do want kids someday? I can’t have them with a twenty-four year old. That’s ridiculous.” I laughed, an image springing to mind of Jack pushing a baby carriage.
Funny.
“Why not? Have you asked him?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I don’t know! We talked about it once, in a very random way, and he said he didn’t want kids—for sure he didn’t want kids. And I thought I didn’t either. I still don’t know, I just—Jesus this is a mess,” I said, shaking my head.
“So, you broke up with a guy you’re in love with because of kids you don’t even know you want, and you didn’t even tell him that? Wow, did I dodge a bullet last night.” He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Shut up, O’Connell!” I threatened, kicking him a little higher on the shin. He quickly moved his legs out of the line of fire, then looked at me seriously.
“Besides, Grace, no guy wants kids when he’s—how old did you say he is?”
“Twenty-four. He’s twenty-four.” I sighed.
“Grace, for the record, when I was twenty-four the last thing on my mind was having kids. If you’d asked me then, I would probably have said no way.” He sipped his coffee.
***
That afternoon, as I traipsed through the city on one of my walks, I thought about what Michael had said. I really never did explain things to Jack.
No shit.
I found myself in front of a movie theater, and on impulse I bought a ticket and went in to see Time. I was overcome when I saw Jack onscreen. He was larger than life and beautiful and sweet and funny and brilliant.
I would like to say that I paid attention to the plot and the story, but all I could see was my Jack. I cried and cried, and ate an entire bucket of popcorn.
I passed on the Milk Duds.
As I left the theater, I thought again about whether or not I wanted kids, and what I really was giving up. I walked back to my apartment, changed into a pair of leggings and a fleece, and went out for a run. I had to work off all that popcorn.
I ran over to Central Park and followed my normal path, up to the reservoir and back again. I cursed myself for forgetting my iPod. For the last few weeks, whenever I ran I made sure to turn my old-school gangsta rap up loud. That way Eazy-E, NWA, and Ice T kept my thoughts at bay.
As I ran today, though, no such luck.
I thought about Jack and his grin. His hands and his lips. His humor and wit. His good heart. I thought about how much he loved me.
Flashes of The Wizard of Oz kept coming to me, and I thought of Dorothy, who had to go all the way to Oz and back before she realized she had everything she truly wanted right in her own backyard.
I came upon a family walking together. The man held a baby, and the woman pushed the stroller. A little girl in pigtails walked in front of them. I smiled and stopped to stretch a little. I watched them as I stretched, and as I watched, I waited.
I waited to feel something. I waited for something to happen. I waited for something to strike me over the head, like a giant gong or a sign that said:
THAT’S IT, GRACE.
THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT.
THAT’S A FAMILY. GO GET ONE.
As I waited for the gong, as I waited to try and feel something, a small, quiet voice spoke up.
What are you waiting for?
Shh! I’m waiting for a sign.
What do you think I am?
You’re not a sign. You’re the idiot who got me in trouble in the first place. You’re the one that convinced me to break up with Jack.
No, love, you did that on your own.
Then what the hell are you saying? What the hell kind of sign are you?
You want a family? Who defines what a family is?
An image appeared: Holly and Nick parading into my bedroom, laughing and carrying on. Another image: Holly and me sitting on my back patio, cocktails in hand, laughing until we cried. Holly and me sitting on the floor in front of her fridge, passing the Easy Cheese. Michael and me arguing politics while others rolled their eyes. Michael and me sharing a bagel, a schmear, and The New York Times. Nick driving me home from the airport.
Jack.
Jack shirtless and shoeless, playing guitar for me while I made our bed. Jack holding my boobies while I washed his hair. Jack lying next to me in bed, Chex Mix bag between us. Jack driving to Santa Barbara with his hand on my knee. Jack asleep in my lap as I played with his hair and scratched his scalp. Jack in my home, in our bed, naked, watching Golden Girls.
There’s your family.
Who says you can’t have kids someday, with Jack? People change their minds. You have time. And can you imagine two funnier parents on the face of this earth? Or no kids, and the two of you spend your lives together. Not a bad way to sail off into the sunset, eh?
One more image came to me: Jack listening to me sing to him at open mic night.
What was the song you sang?
“Strong Enough.” But it was never a question of whether he was strong enough.
No, but are you strong enough to be his girl?
I thought so.
Why do you doubt yourself? Who cares what the press calls you?
I do.
Get the fuck over it. That boy—that man—loves you. He needs you. You walked away just when he needed you to be strong enough.
Sweet Nuts. Johnny Bite Down. George.
I inhaled so deeply I almost choked.
Stop being afraid.
Don’t worry so much about what you think you should have. Take care of what you do have. Or did have.
Oh no, what have I done?
Nothing that can’t be fixed.
I’d been afraid so long, I almost didn’t recognize it as fear. But it was, and it was ugly. I’d carried fear with me my entire life. Fear was what made me leave L.A. the first time. Fear was what made me give up the dreams I’d had for a lifetime—only now I’d found a way to get what I wanted. Why was I still letting fear come between me and Jack?
If I could create the perfect man for me, he would bear a striking resemblance to my George. And he was right: I did push happiness away. I used errant thoughts and passing fancies to distract me from what was real, what was true. Why the hell did I care that he was twenty-four? Maybe he was supposed to be twenty-four.
Fear. It was a fickle bitch. It was time to let it go.
One last image, unbidden, flashed to my mind: Me, at my heaviest, drowning in sadness.
No more.
No more.
I want him back.
Well, now, hold on a second there, sassafras. Who says he wants you back?
That stopped me cold. Would he want me back?
Last time I checked, you left his ass on his big night—walked away from him at his premiere. Embarrassed him in front of his family, then broke his heart. Who says he’ll take you back?
Jesus, what a fucking mess. I was such an asshole. Everything had been about me lately—What did I want? What was best for me?—I never stopped to think how hard all this was on Jack. I took my love from him when he needed it most. I was a weakling, totally wrapped up in my own head, when all he wanted was my heart. And all he needed was my support.