Waiting For Ethan (17 page)

O
n Saturday night Ethan and I are lying on opposite ends of my couch watching a movie. His legs are draped over mine, and my foot begins to tingle because it's at such an awkward angle. I pull it out from under him. His body weight shifts, but he says nothing. A few minutes later I hear snoring. I look over at him. His eyes are closed tight while his mouth hangs open. When I used to think about meeting Ethan, I imagined us going to fancy restaurants, plays, and concerts on Saturday nights.

My cell phone rings. I reach for it on the coffee table in front of me and see my mother's face flash across the screen. Ethan startles awake.

“We're leaving a week from Wednesday,” she says.

Finally! This is the latest they've ever stayed in the Sunshine State. Usually they're home by early April, in time for the start of the golf league at Westham Country Club. This is also the first year I haven't visited them in Florida, so it's the longest I've ever gone without seeing them.

“That's great!” I say as Ethan stretches his arms above his head. I watch him pull out his phone and press a few buttons. I still haven't told my mother about him. I imagine what would happen if somehow she found out he is still married. “We raised you better than that!” I can see the veins in her forehead bulging. “Adultery is a mortal sin. You are going to hell. On the express elevator.” She'd probably be crying. “Get out. Get out now. I never want to see you again.” Yup, definitely best to wait until Ethan's divorce is final to tell her about him.

“Any news on the Murphys' house?” she asks now.

“No, but Neesha looked at it while she was here.” Complete silence. “Mom, are you still there?”

“I'm here,” she says. “Don't tell me she's thinking of buying that house.”

“She's trying to talk her husband into moving back.”

My mother sighs. “Hopefully, he has more sense than she does. She's only doing this because Ajee put the idea in her head.”

It's useless fighting with my mom about Ajee. She will never give the woman any credit. “Well, I hope she does move back,” I say.

My mother is silent. I picture her counting to ten. “Gina, even if she does, it doesn't mean you're going to meet and marry a man named Ethan.”

“I met him.” Oh crap. She goaded me into it.

“You met a man named Ethan?” The disbelief in her voice suggests I just told her Elvis is alive and well and living in Westham.

“He's here with me now.” Ethan glances at me. “You can meet him when you're home. We'll all go to dinner.” All that's coming from the other end of the phone is heavy breathing. Oh boy, did I just shock her into cardiac arrest? “Mom, are you all right?”

“How did you meet?”

I tell her the story.

“Well,” she says. “I guess the odds were that at some time you would meet someone with that name.”

“Unbelievable. You still refuse to give Ajee any credit.”

She sighs. “Ajee was not psychic, Gina. She didn't know you were going to meet a man named Ethan.”

“She didn't just say I was going to meet a man named Ethan. She said I was going to marry one.”

Ethan's watching me intently now. He clenches and unclenches both fists repeatedly.

“So you and this Ethan have discussed marriage?”

“We've talked about it.”

Next to me Ethan exhales loudly, stands, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator. I hear a pop top snap open and turn to look at him. While my mother remains speechless on the other end, I watch him guzzle down a beer.

“I thought you'd be happy,” I finally say to her.

“Oh Gina, I just wish Ajee had never—”

“Never mind, Mom. See you soon.”

“Right,” she says. “You and my future son-in-law.”

“What was that all about?” Ethan asks. He's back in the living room, perched on the end of the sofa cushion, his back straight and both feet on the ground. His beer is already gone.

“My mother refuses to believe that Ajee got the predictions right.”

Ethan taps his foot on the rug. “Gina—” he begins but is interrupted by his beeping phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, smiles, and then hands it to me. It's a text message with a picture of Brady asleep on a bed, his head resting on a pillow. The message is from Amber. It reads,
“Wore out our sweet boy today. Took him for a long run on the beach.”

He turns his back to me as he types a response to Amber's text. I rewind the movie to the scene we were on before my mother called. A few minutes later, his cell phone buzzes again. This time instead of sharing the message with me, he quickly shuts off his phone and slides it back in his pocket.

 

On Sunday morning, we walk the block to the bakery. The door is propped open, and the aroma of baking bread drifts out to the sidewalk, where the owner hurriedly sets out small round tables.

Inside a man sits at a table, sipping coffee and reading on a tablet. A few tables away, a woman pulls her hand off her laptop's keyboard to break off a piece of a donut.

I order a blueberry muffin and iced tea. Ethan gets a lemon pastry and coffee. We take our food outside and sit at one of the tables the owner has just set up. The sun beats down on us. After a few minutes, I'm so warm that I stand and remove my jean jacket. As I hang it over the back of my chair, a man, a pregnant woman, and a little boy pass our table. The boy stops to look at Ethan, who is wearing sunglasses that wrap around his head. “Hello,” I say to the boy, crouching down to his height.

He points at Ethan. “Glasses,” he says.

I nod as I stand and return to my seat.

The boy reaches up, clearly wanting Ethan to give him the glasses. Ethan glances at him and then turns away and bites into his pastry. The mother reaches for the little boy's hand. “Let's not bother these nice people while they eat,” she says.

“Glasses,” the boy screams, and now he's bouncing on his feet and waving his hand at Ethan, who continues to ignore him.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say. “He needs his glasses.”

The father bends down and lifts the boy, carrying him away from our table and into the bakery.

“Sorry,” the mother says.

“It's no problem,” I say, but she's looking at Ethan. He nods. It's so subtle, though, that I doubt she even notices.

As she starts to walk away, Ethan says, “I hate when people can't control their kids.”

I glance up. The mother pauses in the doorway. We make eye contact, and then she keeps going.

“Why were you so rude to them?”

Ethan laughs. “How was I rude?” he asks. “I was trying to eat, and the kid wouldn't leave me alone.”

“He was three. He doesn't know better.”

“His parents do.” I take a bite of my muffin. Ethan shrugs.

“Do you think our kids are going to behave perfectly all the time?”

“Whoa.” He slams his pastry back to the table. “Now you have us married off with kids?”

“Yup, a boy and a girl, of course.” I smile as I say it.

Ethan takes another bite of his breakfast and chews very deliberately. “I guess I should make it really clear. I don't want kids.”

“What?” Above us, the sun disappears behind a cloud.

Ethan crams the rest of his Danish into his mouth before responding. “I'm too old and set in my ways now. Plus they're a financial drain.”

I reach behind me for my jacket and wrap it around my shoulders. “So, is it that you don't want kids, or you think you can't afford them because I—”

“Gina,” he says very deliberately. “This is nonnegotiable. I am not having kids.” The couple with the little boy exits the bakery. I look at the mother's stomach. She's at least seven months along.

“You might change your mind.” My mouth is dry, and I gulp down my iced tea.

“I won't.”

In the distance, a horn from a train sounds, or maybe it's the alarm on my biological clock trying to awaken me. I am thirty-six years old and dating a man who doesn't want children.

M
y windshield wipers squeak as I sit in gridlock on Monday morning. The noise irritates me, so I switch them off and watch the raindrops bounce off the window. The weather matches my mood. I have waited almost twenty-five years to meet Ethan, only to learn he doesn't want children. While Ethan slept peacefully next to me last night, I tossed and turned, weighing my options. Not wanting kids should be a deal breaker, a sign that he is not the right Ethan. I could break up with him, but then what? In four months, I will be thirty-seven years old. Does that leave me enough time to meet someone else, fall in love, get married, and have kids? Probably not. My punishment for not listening to Ajee would be being completely alone. If I listen to her, I can at least end up with Ethan, with whom I have great chemistry and ... I tried to think of things we have in common. The list was short. Just one item. Love of Mexican food. He doesn't read novels; he doesn't like movies; he doesn't like kids. That's what I kept coming back to.

The driver behind me blasts his horn. Guess he's mad that I haven't moved my car into the available two inches of space in front of me. The horn blasts again. I fight an urge to throw my car into Reverse and accelerate backward.

My cell phone rings, and Neesha's face flashes on the screen. “There's an opening in Boston,” she screams. “Ashley's putting in for a transfer today.”

“Wait, what?”

“It's a great opportunity,” she says. “I called Patricia. There are still no offers on my house. If he gets the transfer, we're making one.”

Neesha's still talking, but in my mind I hear Ajee on that warm summer day when we were thirteen years old:
“You will move away before the start of high school, and you will not return again until you are an adult with children of your own. Yes, you and your family will own this very house.”

Of course Ashley's transfer will go through, and there's no doubt the Murphys will accept Neesha's offer. She's moving back to Towering Heights Lane just like her grandmother said.

I think about what Ajee said to me: “
You will get tired of waiting. You will doubt that he will come, but he will. You must wait. You must wait for Ethan.
” Well, I
am
tired of waiting, but I guess I just need to be patient a little longer. Ethan will come through. He will change his mind about having children. He has to.

The traffic in front of me has crawled a foot forward, and the psycho in the car behind me is now leaning on his horn because I haven't moved. I shift into Reverse and turn to glare at him. The beeping stops. He motions with his arms as if to say,
What the hell are you doing?
I put the car back in Drive and inch forward.

“How are things with Ethan?” Neesha asks.

“They're great,” I say, needing my words to be true.

 

I race into the building at 8:55. Today Luci, Jamie, and I are attending the 9:07 meeting to watch Cooper present our idea for speeding up the editing process. As I step off the elevator, Luci is about to board. She glances at her watch. “Hurry up.” I run down the hall to our office, grab a notebook and rush back to Luci. We ride the elevator upstairs in silence and enter the executive boardroom at 9:05. Jamie and Cooper are the only ones there. Cooper nods at Luci and me while straightening his tie. Dressed in a suit and sitting at the head of the table in this large boardroom, he seems more like the TechVisions's Senior Vice President Cooper than the playful man I have come to know over the past few months.

At exactly 9:07, the other executives file into the room and take their places around the table, filling the remaining seventeen seats. Luci, Jamie, and I are sitting in a row of folding chairs set up to the right of the table, next to the windows. Our position in the room makes it clear we are not here to participate but to observe. “Good morning,” Cooper begins. His voice sounds deeper than usual. “Today we are joined by the editing team: director of editing services, Jamie Welch, and his staff, Luci Chin and . . .” He looks over at me and pauses. “And . . .” My eyes widen in surprise. “And . . .” Luci elbows me.

Unbelievable. “Gina Rossi,” I say.

Cooper pushes his tongue against the side of his mouth so that his left cheek puffs out. “Gina Rossi,” he says quietly.

“Over the past several weeks, Gina and I examined several possibilities for maximizing efficiencies in the editing process.” He looks at me as he says my name. “We have determined the best opportunity to improve the turnaround time is to implement an analyst rating system.” Here in this room he is slow-talking Cooper, the vice president who doesn't know me.

Luci glances at the clock and then bends toward my ear. “At this rate, we'll be here all day,” she whispers. Jamie shoots us a look, and Luci leans away from me.

“The degree of editing a report receives will be determined by the analyst's rating.” Cooper's tone is authoritative, and his colleagues are all turned in their chairs toward him. He goes on to describe the different levels of editing. As I listen to him speak and observe how the other executives are enraptured by his every word, I realize how foolish I have been to daydream about him. He is a well-respected senior vice president. I am a copy editor whose name he can't even remember. Of course, he isn't interested in me. I bet Monique is a doctor or lawyer or maybe even an engineer.

When Cooper finishes his presentation, the executives grill Luci, Jamie, and me about how we determined the ratings. Jamie answers all the questions. Every now and then, Luci clarifies something. I sit silently with my hands folded on my lap. I feel Cooper watching me and can sense his disappointment.
Say something, anything
, I imagine him thinking. When the questions are done, the vice presidents agree to take a few days reviewing Cooper's proposal before deciding whether to accept it, and the three of us are dismissed.

 

After Monday, the rest of the week drags. I don't see Ethan because he's redoing a kitchen for a house on Nantucket and is staying on the island. Cooper no longer calls or e-mails. I guess now that our project is over, he has no reason to. Even lunch is boring. Most days, Luci eats with Peter instead of me. They sit at a corner table in the cafeteria, talking nonstop and laughing as other employees cast sideways glances at them.

Neesha calls every day. She's definitely not as good at waiting as I am, because she begins each of our conversations with the same inpatient whine, “We still haven't heard.” Then she goes on to talk about renovations she's planning for the house, including a sunroom in the back.

We haven't heard back from the 9:07, and Jamie says it may be a week or so before we do. In the meantime, it's full edits for everyone as usual. Cooper hasn't submitted any reports this week, but Gail Germain has. Of course I'm stuck working on them.