It’s been four months since he left her at the emergency room （she said not to come in, that she was calling her parents）， and he can still picture her clearly—the whole range he saw that day. Earlier, her smile, how she seemed to hold her breath before she let out a laugh. But then her shock as she gripped his arm and told him about the car accident.
Ahmed Ghannam pulls up to Damon and Suzette’s house, knowing she’s inside, knowing the newish Volkswagen with the Georgia plates is hers. He parks his car beside it, and his stomach flips.
He looks down at his gray suede shoes, knowing he ran the brush over them for her, knowing he wouldn’t be wearing these pants if she weren’t here. Or the starched linen shirt tucked in. He walks up the steps, and there is a wreath of forsythia on the door, and he thinks he can see her through the glass. He breathes and knocks lightly.
He clears his throat. The door swings open. “You dickhead, late as usual,” Damon says, and glances into the house to see if the coast is clear. He quickly flips Ahmed his middle finger.
“Man, some greeting, Romeo,” Ahmed says, and grips the side of his buddy’s arm. Damon pulls him into a hug. He can see the blur of Suzette and Ginger, but he pretends to keep his cool. He looks Damon up and down. “Shit, you’re not fat yet,” he says. “I was hoping all these months of married bliss would have porked you up.”
Damon laughs. Ahmed loves this guy—loves him like a brother. Has known him since they were kids. Tall, lanky Damon with his slicked hair—slicked to keep the curls from getting out of control. Damon with his almost-Boston accent. Ahmed straightens himself, and waves to acknowledge the women.
Suzette with her blond wavy hair, who has set out cheese and grapes, is looking up at him. “A-team has arrived!” she calls. Next to her stands Ginger, who looks even better than she did at the wedding. Not that she didn’t look beautiful then. He just has a thing for women with less makeup. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and she wears a long, thin cardigan with blue stripes over a black T-shirt, and jeans. He loves a girl in jeans.
“Hi, ladies,” Ahmed says. He swallows hard, and Damon puts his hand on his shoulder and walks him in.
“The party can start,” Damon says.
“You know it.” There are appetizers on white plates. Suzette is pouring wine in good crystal glasses. By the dining room table a big china cabinet is lit up with a collection of white bowls and pitchers inside. He wonders, as he always does when he’s there, what it’s like to live in this house. To look around at your wife and your big place and know it’s all yours, that you’ve finally arrived. To switch the lights off at night and then come down the stairs in the morning and see the place aglow in new sun. He wants this. Something like this. For years he has.
It’s fun being single, but not all he hoped. Not the buffet of girls he thought it would be, the wild trips. In his twenties, he had liked the low expectations, the nothing-special apartment with hardly anything in the fridge, the long, long Sundays, the different dates he would bring to weddings and work functions at his accounting firm. But there comes a time when people stop allowing this. When the college kids on spring break don’t want a thirty-year-old doing shots with them. When you’re out and all you see is men your age wearing wedding rings and holding kids.
Now he wants kids. He has always wanted kids. There is some opening in his heart for them. He knows it. His brother, who is so much older （Ahmed always wondered if he was an accident—sometimes his parents treated him as though he was an inconvenience）， is the version of a son his parents wanted. Ra and his wife are both university professors, and they have two boys, five and three. Ahmed loves playing with his nephews, taking them out and playing soccer. He loves hearing them squeal when he kicks it high and they scramble after it. When they were babies, sometimes they’d fall asleep on him, and he’d think This isn’t bad. His parents would love if he caught up to Ra. They make constant jabs about him finding a wife, but he pretends he likes his life the way it is. He has done well—important accounts in Wharton and beyond, and he has been told he has partner potential.
Sure it’s nice to just watch football and take naps and stay out late at night, but lately he feels like he’s just waiting to read a child a book or tuck them into bed, clicking on a nightlight. He wants to go to a huge toy store with a kid sitting in a cart, and another one walking beside him, both grabbing and grabbing for things. He wants to buy Lego sets and for them to spend days on a big Lego building. He wants a wife he can walk through town with, lazily pushing a stroller. Damon and Suzette will have kids. They definitely will. Some of his other friends are on their second and third already. Ra keeps telling him, “Don’t worry. You will meet your match, and you’ll have what I have.” He hopes.