Around nine that night, I’m playing a lively game of Scrabble with my computer, seventeen pounds of purring pet on my lap —my cat, Fat Mikey. A knock sounds on the door.
“Come on in,” I call, knowing who it is.
“Hey, Lucy,” Ethan says.
“Hi, Eth. How’s it going?” I tear myself away from the computer…I was just about to play zenith, which would totally slay Maven, my arch enemy computer foe, but humans come first. Or they should. I play the word discreetly, then close the lid of my computer. Take that, Maven!
“Everything’s great.”
My late husband’s brother, who has logged many hours in my apartment over the past five years, makes himself at home by opening the fridge.
“Can I have one of these?” he calls.
I swallow. “Sure. I made them for you.”
Earlier in the evening, I did what I often do — created a fabulous dessert. Inside the fridge are six ramekins of pineapple mango mousse, each one topped with a raspberry glaze. I figured Ethan will eat at least three, and I need to be on his good side.
“You want one?” he calls.
I can tell he’s already eating.
“No, thanks. They’re all yours.”
I don’t eat my own desserts. Haven’t in years.
“This is fantastic,” he says, coming into the living room.
“Glad you like it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“Hey, thanks for e-mailing those pictures of Nick,” he says, already scraping the ramekin clean.
“Oh, you’re welcome. He sure looked cute.”
Ethan and I grin at each other in a moment of mutual Nick adoration. On Wednesday, the nursery school put on a play about the life cycle of the butterfly. Nicky was a milkweed seed. It’s become my habit to photograph Nicky and e-mail pictures to Ethan while he’s traveling, since Parker, Nick’s mother, never seems to remember her camera.
“Um, listen, Ethan, we need to talk,” I say, cringing a little.
“Sure. Let me grab another one of these. They’re incredible.”
He goes back into the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open again.
“Actually, I have something to tell you, too.”
He returns to the living room “But ladies first.”
Sitting in the easy chair, he smiles at me. Ethan looks nothing like his brother, which is both a comfort and a sorrow. Unlike Jimmy, Ethan is a bit…well, average. Nice-looking, but kind of unremarkable. Medium brown eyes, somewhat disheveled brown hair, average height, average weight. Kind of a vanilla type of guy. He has a neat little beard, the kind so many baseball players favor — three days of stubble, basically, which gives him an attractive edginess, but he’s…well, he’s Ethan. He looks a bit like an elf in some ways — not the squeaky North Pole elves, but like a cool elf, a Tolkien elf, mischievous eyebrows and sly grin. He regards me patiently.
I swallow. Swallow again.
It’s a nervous habit of mine. Fat Mikey jumps into Ethan’s lap and head butts him until Ethan obliges the bossy animal by scratching his chin. Ethan rescued him from the pound a few years back, saying no one would take the ugly beast, and gave him to me. Fat Mikey has never forgotten just who sprung him from prison, and now favors Ethan with a rusty purr.
I clear my throat. “Well, listen. You know, ever since Jimmy died, you’ve been, just…well. Incredible. Such a good friend, Ethan.”
It’s true. I don’t have the words to voice my gratitude.
His mouth pulls up on one side. “Well. You’ve been great, too.”
I force a smile.
“Right. Um…well, here’s the thing, Ethan. You know that Corinne had a baby, of course. And it got me thinking that, well…” I clear my throat. “Well, I’d like to have a baby, too.”
Gah! This isn’t coming out the way I want it to.
His right eyebrow raises. “Really.”
“Yeah. I always wanted kids. You know. So, um…”
Why am I so nervous? It’s just Ethan. He’ll understand. “So I guess I’m ready to…start dating. I want to get married again. Have a family.”
Ethan leans forward, causing Fat Mikey to jump off his lap. “I see,” he says. I look at the floor for a second.
“Right.”
Risking a peek at Ethan, I add, “So we should probably stop sleeping together.”
