I never wonder too hard, though, because if I’d truly been content with him, I wouldn’t have been so easily swayed by that hairy-faced bush pilot’s charm.
But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought long and hard about whether that choice tucked my desire for children into a sturdy coffin. I always assumed I would be a mother one day, once my career was established and the time was right. Longed for it. Nobody has to remind me of my climbing age and the challenges it might present, especially given our family’s history—the two miscarriages Mom had between Liz and Vicki, the one Liz had between her two girls. I remind myself of it every time I see a pregnant woman walk down the grocery store aisle or hear a baby’s cry.
Lately, I worry that I’ve already missed my chance and I just haven’t realized it yet.
I can feel Liz’s gaze boring into the back of my head as I set the last plate down. “I guess it’s good I never married him, then.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he’d never have had a chance to name a son Clancy.” It’s the running joke in our family that to be born with a Y chromosome, you have to be canine. Mom has three sisters, three daughters, and two—soon to be three—granddaughters.
The door to the kitchen swings open and a gust of cold air sweeps in. “We’re here! We’re here! Don’t start without us!” Vicki waddles in, her cheeks puffy, one hand on her swollen belly, the other on her back for support. She looks as wide as she is tall. Of the three of us, she’s the only one who inherited our mother’s petite stature.
Oliver follows closely after, his lanky arms saddled with bags of empty Tupperware containers that Mom will gleefully refill for their freezer. Having children who still need her in their twenties and thirties keeps her young, she always says.
The smile that fills my face when I see my twenty-nine-year-old baby sister is genuine. “You look good.”
“I look like a beached whale. Get this thing out of me already!” she wails.
Liz’s snicker vanishes in her glass of wine.
*
“Whatever happened to that guy you were seeing?” Vicki looks ready to explode in her chair, her cheeks flushed, her palms rubbing over her enormous belly in a futile effort to help digest her meal. “What was his name, Tom or Cody, something like that—thanks, babe.”
Oliver collects Vicki’s empty plate and gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze. I’d label him a doting husband to his uncomfortably pregnant wife, but he has always been that way, catering to Vicki’s every need.
In contrast, my other brother-in-law has never once put his own dishes into the dishwasher, let alone anyone else’s.
“Toby.” I pass my plate to Oliver’s waiting hand and nod my thanks. “It didn’t go anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He’s a really nice guy. He’s just not for me.” As I knew would be the case when I agreed to dinner with Jonah and Calla’s neighbor and friend.
“Oh.” Vicki’s brow furrows with disappointment. “That’s too bad. He seemed like your type.”
I laugh. “You’ve never even met him.”
“Well, yeah, I know, but you said he was big and burly and … and …” Vicki searches for words, settling on “hairy.” She caps that with a burp that earns giggles from Tillie and Nicole.
He sounded like Jonah is what she’s saying. Unlike Liz, Vicki has met my best friend before, and even though she married a man who couldn’t be more different—a gangly, baby-faced sweetheart with a total of four chest hairs （Vicki has counted）—she immediately saw Jonah’s rugged appeal.
But Toby is nothing like Jonah.
There is nobody out there like that guy.
“What about Cook?” Oliver chirps from the kitchen sink where he’s already scrubbing a dirty pot.
“Who, Steve Cook? Your boss?” Vicki’s face scrunches up. “Isn’t he living with someone?”
“Nah, they broke up. He’s single again. I think he’s, like, forty-two? Maybe forty-four?”
“Oh.” Vicki ponders that a second and then shrugs as if to say, Why not? “Yeah, you should try Steve.”
As if he were a pair of socks to test out.
Being the perpetually single Lehr sister—and the oldest, at that—for the past few years, I’m used to this. Every family dinner inevitably veers to the topic of my love life … or lack thereof. It’s usually Jim throwing out single friends’ names, though. Oliver must feel like he has to fill the void.