Expiration Dates: A Novel (16 page)

My health was stable, the job was fun and demanding, and Josh was a good boyfriend. He even met my parents when they came up one weekend.

“He's smart,” my father said. “A very nice young man.”

I thought he was a real grown-up. It felt so good and right to be in a committed relationship. I'd missed it with Tae, whatever poor man's version we got, and I relished all the things I was getting back now. The dinners out; the walking down the street, holding hands; the movies on the weekends. I loved thinking about how other people saw us. What we looked like to them.

We were normal. And normal felt better than good. Normal felt like heaven.

The thing that always made me pause, though, is that I
couldn't tell how much he liked
me
. It was like once he cleared it with work there were no more options, we were just going to date. I wasn't sure how much he wanted a girlfriend versus how much he wanted me to be his.

Six months in I got my answer. Things had taken a turn the week before at work. The round of investing had fallen through. Flext was running dangerously low on cash, and there were talks of layoffs. What had once seemed like the golden ticket now felt like it was possibly expired. We were all on eggshells, and Josh was the worst. Stressed and apologetic. He knew it was his responsibility to keep all these people employed and wasn't sure he'd be able to do it.

We were at dinner on a Tuesday when he told me. He'd been strange all day, but I assumed it was work, the hovering possibility of having to shut all of this down.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “I'm going to be getting back together with Emily.”

He didn't pause; he just said it. I blinked at him. I had heard her name frequently in our time together, his ex, but I had no idea they were even in contact.

“Nothing has happened—I haven't cheated on you. I promise. I hope you'll believe me, although I'd understand if you don't. And if I could stop myself from feeling this way, I would. I don't want to hurt you. But we ran into each other on the train last week, and we got to talking, and I realized how much I still love her.” He looked away. He was measured, but he was upset. “She feels the same way.”

I believed him. Based off how he'd handled our beginning, I knew he was telling the truth.

“I don't know what to say,” I said. I couldn't tell if I was devastated or just shocked. They felt like the same thing.

He shook his head. He ran his hands through his hair. “I know. Me either. I like you so much. We have such a great time together, and you're fun and—”

I held my hand up. I didn't think I could hear more.

“I just,” he said. “She's the one.”

What I knew then was this: he had clearly been in love with her the whole time. I didn't know if it was betrayal, but I knew it didn't feel good. Suddenly this bubble I'd created for myself—one without heartache—burst. I wasn't the anonymous feel-good girl from LA. I was a girl with a history, and he was a man who couldn't let go of his.

“I'm happy for you, then,” I said. I didn't mean it. But I wanted to be mature. I wanted to, somehow, right the ship again. To put myself back in the driver's seat, to not feel at the mercy of someone else. I wanted to be in control.

“Do you really mean that?” He looked relieved. I couldn't understand how he could possibly be that stupid, how I hadn't known, how I had let so much time pass and ended up here. “Because I don't want you to go anywhere. The office needs you. You're an important part of our team.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

We didn't finish our dinner. When I got up, he didn't fight me on it. He didn't say, “Come on, eat your burger” or “One more drink” or “Let's just stay a bit longer.” He didn't want to; it was obvious. He wanted to go home to her. All that was standing in between this bar and their reconciliation was me.

Josh asked if he could order me a car. I shook my head.

“See you Monday,” he said. He sounded almost cheerful. I imagined him then, calling Emily. Telling her it had gone surprisingly well. I imagined her telling him to come over, quickly. All the lust and longing they'd buried down deep coming to the surface now. The relief they'd feel at finally getting to be together again. Heady, urgent kisses.

I had known, of course I had. I saw the paper. But time had gone too quickly. Six months into five minutes. I hadn't been paying attention. And then, I hadn't been ready.

I wasn't used to not being chosen, and I hated it. I hated feeling like someone else had the answers. Here, now, Josh had known things I didn't. It had only ever been the other way around.

I quit the following week—contracts are only good for problems in vacuums—and the start-up went belly-up the following year. I knew because I kept tabs on Flext and Josh—checking Instagram, googling keywords. Everyone was shocked and disappointed: the company that had shown such promise was dead in the water.

But a month after the dissolution of Flext, there was a wedding announcement: Josh and Emily had gotten married. A small outdoor ceremony at the bride's parents' house in Marin County. Only immediate family and a few close personal friends. A violinist played “Over the Rainbow” and Emily wore yellow flowers in her hair, per the
New York Times
. They looked radiant. In the attached photo, he was kissing her open palm.

I thought about what it would feel like to be that cherished, to be that chosen, and for the first time in my life, I knew I wanted it. I wanted epic love, the kind that's reserved for the movies. I wanted someone to speak about me the way I knew Josh spoke
about Emily. I wanted rooftop nights and mornings in bed and the feeling of belonging. I wanted yellow flowers in my hair. I wanted everyone to look at me and him and say, “Isn't it ideal?”

But acknowledging a desire means acknowledging the what-if of that want. I wanted it, and that meant I was terrified—of never having it. Of never getting there.

It's a cliché to say you are scared of getting hurt. But what if the papers weren't just doling my life out in increments of time but also protecting me? From the pain of being blindsided. From never again having to say
I didn't see it coming.

After Josh I vowed to be better about trusting the papers. If they did not say forever, I wouldn't invest. I would stay cautious, aware.

I would believe them.

A month after our engagement Jake tells me he thinks we should have a September wedding. We are sitting outside Alfred's coffee shop in Melrose Place, an upscale enclave that houses designer boutiques and way too many green-juice storefronts. All around us people in expensive activewear walk their midsize dogs. I'm drinking an iced oat milk latte, and Jake has a chagaccino—their signature drink made with monk fruit and mushroom. It's actually excellent, but some primal force makes me refuse to order it. A little too Live Laugh Love.

“Jake,” I say. “That's less than four months.”

The sun is strong overhead, and we both have our sunglasses on. I'm wearing denim shorts, an oversize white T-shirt, and Birkenstocks. I wiggle my toes against the leather straps.

Jake shrugs. “Does that seem too soon?”

“What's the rush?”

Jake takes a long sip. And then he folds his hands on the table. “I want to have a conversation I think we've been avoiding.”

I press my palms around the plastic cup. I can feel my stomach start to hollow. “Yes?”

He exhales. “I want to talk about kids. I think we should.”

When I told Jake about my heart, he had questions. I tried to answer them as honestly as possible, but the baby thing is hard. It isn't off the table, but it's also not advisable. And that's just from a medical perspective. There are many ways to have a child, I just never believed I'd make that choice.

“OK.”

Jake takes my hand. His is cold, but so is mine. “This is not a pressurized conversation. At all. And we don't have to decide anything today. We can have another twenty of these.”

“Sounds fun.”

Jake remains serious. “I want you to be comfortable, Daphne. And I want us to be honest.” He pauses. “But the truth is I need to better understand where you're at.”

“With being able to do it?”

“With wanting it.”

A twentysomething girl and guy walk up to the counter to order. She leans into him, checking her phone. It looks so uncomplicated, so easeful. I envy it.

“I don't know,” I say. “I kind of decided it wasn't possible, and then I put it in a box, and I've never taken it out to think about whether I actually want it or not.” I look down at my cup. The ice is melting, creating a translucent layer of dirty water at the top. “I'm not sure the answer is yes.”

I don't look at him, but I feel him react. Because here's the truth, the thing neither of us is willing to say: Jake should be a father.

He should wake up for midnight feedings and research strollers and coach Little League teams. He should paper thighs with Band-Aids and make spaghetti five nights in a row. He should change diapers and set up plastic swing sets and fill up an iPhone with videos. He's that man. It's almost as if it's already happened.

“And I know you do,” I finish.

“Daph—”

“It's OK,” I say, looking up at him. “You said we should be honest.”

Jake nods. I see him swallow. When he speaks, his tone is measured. “I do want it,” he says. “I've always pictured myself as a father. But life hasn't turned out the way I imagined it. Not really at all.”

There is a sadness in his voice, a sort of melancholy I don't normally see in him, not even when he speaks about her.

“You shouldn't have to give up the things you want,” I tell him.

Jake smiles. He squeezes my hand. “I want you,” he says.

When I was young, back when my heart was an illusion of health, I figured I'd become a mother. There was no real want or desire attached to it, maybe I was too young for that anyway, it just seemed obvious. At some point—some far-off point in the future—I'd fall in love and get married and have a baby.

But life took a detour. And since we veered off course I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about what I would have wanted if we hadn't. Does it matter? There is only this life. This very one we are living. And in this one, children never made their way in.
I kept expecting them to—to wake up one day and think:
I need this. Now.
But it hasn't happened yet.

“I think you have to really ask yourself if you can give that up,” I say. “It's not a small thing.”

Jake pauses, thoughtful. “So the answer is no? Is that what you're saying?”

“I'm saying I don't know if I'll ever want to open that box.”

I can see Jake struggling, processing this, and part of me is angry. Because we're already engaged. Because he's already committed to this. Did he do it because he assumed I'd change my mind?
We'll get married, of course she'll want a baby.

“Daphne,” he says. He grabs both my hands in his. He looks straight into my eyes. “If all I got was you, it would be more than enough for me. I just want to know what you want your life to be like. I want you to always make choices based on what you want, not what you think you can or can't have.”

He leans across and kisses me. I feel his lips on mine—solid and centered. But I can't help but feel as we sit there, the day passing all around us, that he doesn't get it. What I want doesn't exist. Not here, not in this life. And the next best thing is not ignoring that reality. The next best thing is acceptance of what is. If I can't be healthy, I do not want to pretend I am. I want the ease that comes from acknowledging that I'm not. I want the truth.

I often wonder what our responsibility is to other people, how much we owe them. Whose job is it to look out for our own happiness. Us, or the people who love us? It's both, of course. We owe ourselves and each other. But in what order?

As I look at Jake sitting across from me I feel the desire to protect him palpably—I feel it down deep into my bones. And
then I consider something else, something that is hard to look at but impossible, now, to ignore. I wonder if I've been seeing that desire—honoring it, recognizing it—and calling it love.

Protection and love are not the same thing. Love says,
I will try and I will fail
. Love says,
Despite
. Love says,
And yet and yet and yet.

And then I think about Jake, about everything he has endured, about everything that happened in his life before he ever met me. I wonder if we are both trying to rescue me, and what happens when we realize we cannot.

It's a hundred degrees outside.”

Hugo and I are at the Silver Lake Reservoir, walking the flat loop with Murphy. The dog has a spring in his step today, and the pace is brisk. After a few minutes, I tug him to slow down.

It's after seven, but the sun is barely descending. It's almost summer in Los Angeles. Everywhere there is growth—the water is clear, the weeds are green and blowing in the breeze, and the flowers are little pops of yellow all around us. Overhead, a bird calls and dives, skimming the surface.

Jake is out of town for a few days on a work trip to New York, and I have the apartment to myself. So far it's been a lot of reality TV and takeout for one in the air-conditioning. Saber has shown no interest in leaving the cool sixty-eight degrees, so today it's just Murphy and me.

“Don't be dramatic,” Hugo says. “It's seventy-eight, tops.”

He's not wrong, but even in a sundress and sneakers, I'm sweating. I can feel beads of moisture hanging at my hairline.

This is mine and Hugo's first solo outing since Jake and I got engaged, which was a month ago already. I told him on the phone. He seemed genuinely happy for me. We've texted some, but things have been more reserved between us. I thought when I saw him today our behavior would be reflective of our online exchanges—short, no details—but he's still Hugo.

Jake and I haven't started planning a wedding, but we agree it should be small. Twenty people on the beach, maybe drinks and dinner after in the sand. No fuss. Not a lot of money spent. Just intimate and beautiful. Good food, good music, good wine.

“Well it
feels
like it's a hundred degrees.”

Hugo looks at me, suddenly alarmed. “Are you OK?” he asks.

I side-eye him. “What do you mean by that?”

Hugo redirects his gaze to Murphy. “It's just a question.”

“I'm fine,” I say. I grab his arm and shake it back and forth. I see him relax. “I've honestly been feeling pretty good lately.”

Hugo nods. Murphy has stopped walking, his ears pricked, and Hugo bends down to scratch his head.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “Hey, monsieur. Murph and turf.”

Murphy looks up, somewhat wearily.

“Jake took him to the beach last weekend,” I say. “He threw a stick, and Murphy just stared at it. I could fully hear his judgment. Jake still thinks there's a dog in there.”

Murphy nuzzles into Hugo as he continues to rub his head, chin, the fur under his ears.

“How dare anyone treat you like an animal?” Hugo says. “The indignity. Don't they know you are a prince among men?”

Murphy steps out of Hugo's grasp, requiring some space, and Hugo straightens.

He's wearing olive-colored shorts and a gray T-shirt. His sunglasses are looped over the collar of his shirt, revealing a few chest hairs.

“So you're really going to do this?” he says.

I roll back my shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“You're really going to get married.”

It's not a question, and it doesn't feel like one. He looks straight at me when he says it. We are not alone at the reservoir, but for sunset, it's not particularly crowded. A few runners jog by; a father pushes a stroller. But in this moment it feels like we're the only two people here.

“Why?” I ask. But it's not a question, either, not really.

“I guess I'm wondering if you're happy.”

I blink at his question.
What?
“That's ridiculous,” I say. “You're the one who
told
me to be happy.”

Hugo nods. “I know I did. Yeah, I told you to embrace it.” He clears his throat. He squints into the sun. “Was I right?”

“That I should be happy? I don't know, Hugo, feels like a good bet.”

I cross my arms. Hugo drops his gaze down to mine.

“I've been thinking about what you said, about the day we broke up,” Hugo says. “You were right. I couldn't handle it.”

Despite the summer heat, I feel a cold chill go up my spine. “It doesn't matter. Hugo, this is ancient history.” I start to walk again, tugging Murphy on. “It was so many years ago.”

“Yes,” Hugo says. “It does. I couldn't handle it back then. What you told me scared the shit out of me.”

I stop abruptly. “OK, fine. You didn't like that I was sick. It doesn't matter—we're not together. Why are we even talking about this? You said yourself you weren't giving me any excuses.”

“You're right,” Hugo says. “I'm not here to give you excuses. But the truth is something different.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “And what's that?”

“You think I stopped giving a shit because we stopped sleeping together.” Hugo stares at me. “The truth is I had to teach myself how to handle it because I didn't want to lose you.”

Murphy starts tugging on the leash. He spots a bunny—his kryptonite. The only thing that will cause Murphy to behave with any semblance of animation. I hold firm to his leash.

I feel a righteous anger begin to burn in me. It ignites, straight out of my core.

“Do you want some kind of trophy or something? Congratulations, you figured out how to be friends with someone with a heart condition! I'll throw you a parade. How brave of you to confess that.” I can also feel the venom rising in me. It feels vicious, poisonous. I want to eject it all.

Hugo looks agitated. “Fuck, Daph, will you just listen to me?”

“What?” I say. I can hear myself snarl. “Why are you doing this? What do you want? We're taking a
walk
, Hugo.”

And then he stops. It's as if the whole world hovers. I can feel the stillness around us—the crest of a wave right before it curls and tumbles.

“You want to know what I want?” he says. He moves closer to me—so close I can feel his body—all of the tiny atoms vibrating to make Hugo, Hugo. “I want to take you home right now. I want to not let you sleep a single fucking wink tonight. I want to hold
you and touch you and make up for five years of not doing either. And then I want to wake up with you and take you to breakfast, and I want to talk about where we should live and how we're going to fit all your shit there—Yeah, Daph, I want that. I want you. For as long as it lasts. Fifty years or five or fifteen fucking minutes.”

My feet are rooted to the ground. My hands have gone entirely numb. From somewhere in the distance, I hear the call of a bird overhead.

“But you know what I want more than anything?” Hugo continues. “More than I even want you?”

The world seems to turn on its axis—I feel like we're all falling, hurtling toward an unexplored edge. I do not know how I could possibly answer. I do not know how I'll ever be able to speak again.

“I want the truth. I want the truth for you. For you, and for Jake, and for me, honestly. However inconvenient that shit is.”

“You want the truth?” I say. I can feel the fire in me—building in my abdomen, making its way up my throat and out my mouth, now. Everything he feels so free to say. Everything I have to hold. “The truth isn't just inconvenient, Hugo. Do you know what the truth is? It's a death sentence when you're twenty years old. It's never being able to run a mile. It's never being able to carry a baby. It's being with the man I'm supposed to marry but knowing I'm hurting him by even agreeing to it.
That's
your precious truth, Hugo. You don't get to stand here and say that the truth is the same for me as it is for you. To confess all of this and—what? Expect it to matter? My life has limitations you couldn't possibly know about. You don't get it. You never will.”

“Bullshit,” Hugo says. And then he reaches forward and pulls me in, puts his arms on my shoulders and holds them there. I can feel the warmth of his palms, the steadfast grip of his fingers. I can feel myself rage up against him. “That's not the truth; that's your story about it. And they aren't the same thing.”

My muscles contract. Everything shrinking inward, tighter, closer.

I look at him, defiant. “How the hell would you know?”

“Because,” Hugo says. His eyes look into mine—solid black pools. They look like rocks in the water—landing, skipping the surface. “I wrote Jake's note.”