What Came First (18 page)

“It’s my girl’s birthday,” Cris told the waitress in the dark, stuffy, not-awesome bar, speaking loudly to be heard over the guy playing guitar on the little stage. Cris had his arm around Tanya. She giggled. It wasn’t her birthday.

The guitar was okay for background music, kind of like what we played at Sears. I didn’t even mind that the speakers were up too loud because it made it easier to tune out Cris.

“Happy birthday!” the waitress shouted to Tanya.

Tanya giggled some more.

“So what you got goin’ on?” Cris asked. “You know, for birthdays. You got a free piece of cake, or maybe a special drink . . .”

“No. Sorry.”

“Ah, come on . . . Please? For me?” Cris leaned back and spread his bulky, tattooed arms. Cris was a personal trainer. Tanya thought that was just So! Amazing!—even though it turned out that the gym was a really convenient place for him to pick up bimbos.

The waitress laughed. “I’ll talk to the bartender. See if he can work something out.”

“Awesome! You’re
awesome
!”

The guy onstage stopped playing for a minute, and then he said, “Here’s something I wrote.” He tested a couple of notes on the guitar and started playing a song that sounded exactly like the last one.

Cris yelled, “Rock on, dude!” He must have done some front-loading on the booze. We hadn’t even gotten our first round yet.

The waitress brought Tanya this creamy drink with a chocolate liqueur. “Bartender calls it a liquid chocolate cake.” Because they didn’t have any candles, the bartender had stuck an umbrella in the drink. “So you could blow on that,” the waitress told Tanya.

Cris said something about what else Tanya could blow. Of course he did. Then he asked the waitress for matches and set the umbrella on fire.

It could have been a lot worse. When the umbrella flared, Tanya and I screamed. The waitress threw a napkin on the flame and it went out. Cris laughed his stupid head off. The waitress stopped smiling at him.

Tanya said, “It’s not funny,” and burst into tears.

Cris said, “Oh, baby,” and then asked the waitress for another free drink since this one was ruined. She said no.

When the guitar guy finished his song, Cris said, “Hey! Dude! Play ‘Happy Birthday.’ My girl’s twenty-one today!”

The guitar guy ignored him, played another song, and then took a break. Tanya stopped crying and Cris stopped being loud. Instead he started whispering in her ear and kissing her neck.

When Cris and Tanya started making out, I just had to get away, so I took my drink and went to the bar. There were only a few stools, and it wasn’t until I sat down that I realized I was next to the guitar guy.

“Happy birthday,” he said. He was wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers.

“It’s not my birthday.” I was wearing tight jeans and a shirt that showed off my boobs.

“Yeah, I know.” He didn’t look at my boobs. I couldn’t decide whether I was flattered or insulted.

“It’s not my friend’s birthday either. Her boyfriend just said that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

The guitar guy grinned. The smile lit up his whole face. I thought,
He’s cute. Not my usual type, but maybe that’s a good thing.

Confession: one of the reasons I hated Cris so much was because he was my type. He had a great body, he was a flirt, he seemed charming until you got to know him. He reminded me of at least three ex-boyfriends. I kept telling Tanya. “He’s not going to marry you. He’s not going to change. Trust me, I’ve been there
.
” But she wouldn’t listen.

“I like your music,” I told the guitar guy, even though I’d already forgotten what it sounded like.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m Vanessa, by the way.”

“Eric.”

“Hi, Eric.”

“Hi, Vanessa.”

We grinned at each other. Held each other’s eyes. I thought,
I should feel nervous right now, but I don’t.

He asked how I knew Tanya, and I told him about Sears. He said he was getting tired of the music scene and was thinking about getting a regular job. Or maybe traveling. We talked about working with the public, how sometimes it was fun but that people could be real jerks.

We talked so long the bartender had to tell him to go back onstage. The next set, it was like he was singing just to me. It’s not like anyone else was really listening, I guess, but he sang a couple of love songs and I just knew it: there was something between us.

When Eric finished it was after midnight. Tanya and Cris had long since stumbled out of the almost-empty bar. I felt bad for Eric, that no one seemed to be listening to him. When I said that to him, he just shrugged and said, “At this point, I’d be more surprised if anyone did pay attention.”

We sat at a table and talked some more. He told me his father had died a couple of years earlier and he wasn’t dealing with it very well. I told him mine had died when I was a kid and that you don’t ever get over it, but at least you get used to it.

We stayed till last call. I thought he’d ask me to go home with him. I didn’t know what I was going to say. But instead he just walked me to my car, which was parked down the street. He asked if I was okay to drive, and I said yeah.

He said good night and turned to go.

I said, “Wait.” I was going to ask him if he wanted my phone number. Instead I kissed him. We held each other for a long, long time and then exchanged phone numbers. Later I asked him why he hadn’t asked for mine in the first place. Was he just going to walk away and forget about me? He said he’d been planning to find me in the Sears houseware department the next day. He was going to buy some pots and pans and then ask if he could make me dinner. How weird: Eric’s most romantic gesture is something he never actually did.

Five months later, we went to Cris and Tanya’s wedding. Eric offered to play guitar for free, but they said thanks, they had a DJ. Six months after that, Eric flew off to Asia, and I thought I’d never see him again. And then he came back and I stupidly thought he was mine.

At six o’clock, Ian and I are in the office, sitting in our twin desk chairs, staring at the computer screen. We’ve left our half-eaten grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. Dinner was early, and neither of us was very hungry (though after last night I appreciated Carmen’s stab at a meat-free meal).

“How will we know when he’s online?” Ian asks.

“We’ll hear a beep. And then a message will pop up asking if we’ll accept a video call.”

I’ve used Skype at work, and the program was easy to set up on our home computer (a Mac that Ian and I supposedly share but that we both tacitly recognize as his since I’ve got my laptop from work). After our discussion last night, Eric Fergus and I set each other up as contacts.

“What if he doesn’t call?” Ian asks.

“He’ll call. Well—he’ll Skype, anyway.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll Skype him.”

I’ve prepared a list of questions, most dealing with family and medical history, but with a few “fun facts” type inquiries that Ian might enjoy, such as, “Did you have any pets when you were a kid?” And, “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Which reminds me: if Eric Fergus dropped out of medical school, what career path did he ultimately take? I make a note to ask him.

But he doesn’t call. Or Skype. Ian sits very, very still, staring at the screen. His Angels baseball shirt, two sizes too big, makes his frame look even slighter than it is. Without explanation, he changed into the shirt after dinner, before we settled in front of the laptop. Ian doesn’t even like baseball (the shirt was a gift), but I think he has it in his mind that males bond over sports. Which I suppose they do.

At six-fifteen, I click Eric’s name on my Skype screen and select the green “video call” button. Ian watches without speaking. The computer beeps four times before a message pops up on the screen:
call failed.

At six-sixteen, I dial his home number.

The woman answers. I refuse to feel bad about the intrusion. Had Eric Fergus Skyped us when he said he would, we could have avoided any awkwardness. Besides, according to Wendy, they’re not even married.

“He’s not here,” the girlfriend informs me.

My jaw tenses with anger, but I strive to keep my tone professional. “Mr. Fergus and I had a Skype call scheduled for six P.M., but I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“I’ll tell him you called.” She hangs up without a good-bye.

“What did they say?” Ian asks.

“He’s running late. We might have to reschedule.”

Ian’s eyes get shiny. Oh God. First the chicken, now this.

At six-thirty, I try to draw Ian out of the office with the promise of chocolate chip mint ice cream.

Still in his office desk chair, he asks, “Can we call again?”

“Not today, buddy. Maybe tomorrow.”

I scoop chocolate chip mint ice cream into two big bowls and carry them to the couch. Ian pads out of the office and sits next to me.

I hand him the remote: “Your choice.”

I know he will pick the Disney Channel and he does—but not before getting back up to open the office door as wide as it will go so we can hear the beep if anyone Skypes us.

The computer remains silent.

Eric gets home a little before eight, his beat-up black laptop case slung over his shoulder. I can barely look him in the eye. I feel so betrayed, like he’s been out having sex with another woman. And, worse, like I told him it was okay.

“I didn’t make anything for dinner.” My voice catches in my throat.

“We have any burritos left?”

I so do not feel like making jokes. I don’t smile.

He puts his laptop case on the floor next to the couch and steps closer to me. I keep my eyes on the ground and try not to cry.

And then he goes, “I think we should get married.”

Stunned, I check his face. He is smiling, just a little bit.

“For real?” I ask.

He nods.

“I, I . . .” I’m supposed to feel happy. Ecstatic. This is the moment I’ve been waiting, hoping, and praying for. And yet . . .

“I don’t understand.”

“I had an epiphany tonight,” he says.

“Um . . .”

“I realized something.”

My shoulders stiffen. “I know what ‘epiphany’ means.” (Sort of.)

“Sorry,” he says.

“I just don’t get—I mean, you go Skype your kid. And then you come back and you . . .”

“I didn’t Skype him,” he says. “And he’s not my kid. I mean, he’s got my DNA. But that doesn’t make him mine.”

I say, “That lady called. His mother. I thought you were just late.”

He shakes his head.

“But why?”

He takes me in his arms. “Because it would hurt you too much. This whole situation has been hurting you too much. And I keep doing things that make you feel bad, and . . .”

I squeeze him tight and wait for tears to fall. But they don’t. Is that because I’m not sad? Or because I’m not happy?

“I realized something tonight,” he says, still holding me. “I was on my way to Starbucks for the Skype call. It didn’t seem right to do it from home. But I was still feeling like shit because of what it was doing to you, and it hit me. I donated sperm when I was, what? Twenty-three? That’s young but not really—my parents got married at that age. And now this kid, he’s eight already. All this time has passed and I’m thirty-two and still waiting for my life to begin. And, yeah, maybe I’m not going to have the kind of big career I always thought I’d have, in medicine or music or whatever, but I’ve got a steady job and a wonderful woman—and this is my life. And I just need to accept that.”

I take a step back. I’m still not crying. “So what you’re saying is that you’ll settle for me?”

His face turns red. “No. Oh God. This is the worst proposal ever. I just meant my career. I guess I felt like I had to know what I was doing for my life before I . . . whatever. But if I wait till . . . whatever, it could be too late and you might be gone. And that would be the biggest mistake I ever made.”

He is totally right: this proposal sucks. He’s had five years to come up with the perfect words, the perfect setting, the perfect
everything,
and this is what I get?

“Maybe I should just shut up,” he says.

“Not yet.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Ask me,” I say.

“What?”

“Ask me.”

Finally, he gets it. It’s not too late to do this right. It’s not too late for anything.

He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “Vanessa Rodriguez, will you marry me?”

“Yes. I will.”

We kiss.

I do not cry.

Together, we go into the kitchen to heat burritos. The phone is lying on the counter, right where I left it after speaking to that woman. Laura. The single mother.

“You should meet the kid,” I say.

“What?”

“The kid. That little boy. You should meet him. Otherwise, he’s always going to wonder . . . and maybe you will too. It’s better to just do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

He kisses my forehead. “You’re the best. You know that?”

“I don’t have to know it. Just you do.”

“But what does the bug man do?” Harrison asks, peering out the back slider. Outside, the exterminator, wearing a beige jumpsuit with a tank strapped to his back, sprays the bottom of the stucco wall that separates our yard from the neighbors’. We are three days into spring break, and Harrison has already scouted two black widows and one brown recluse spider in our yard. It is time for some serious pesticides, the more toxic, the better.