He scoffs and shakes his head, which starts my blood simmering.
“I don’t get what you’re doing here…what the hell is this reaction? There’s no issue. It’s negative.”
His hesitance to discuss anything long-term is one thing because we haven’t even been dating a year, but this?
“Is any part of you disappointed you’re not pregnant?” The acidic drip of accusation pushes the knife in deeper.
“I don’t like the way you’re acting,” I snap, sidestepping him to break free of the tension in the room. He grabs my wrist, stopping my retreat, his voice void of any sign of tenderness—a far cry from the man I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with. I jerk my arm away as he eyes me. In those seconds of confusion, everything changes. I can feel an unraveling inside him. It’s almost as if he’s been waiting for this moment. The distance between us goes from molecularly close to galaxies apart though there isn’t more than a few inches between us.
“Answer me, Whitney.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not your kid. And you don’t have one coming, so I don’t see the point in this.”
“Whitney,” his tone levels me, but I lift my chin, undeterred and completely over shying away from the real questions I want to ask. Over his hot and cold and fluctuating guard.
“I could imagine it.”
“Meaning yes. Did you at all hope you were pregnant?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it fucking matters.” The haunted look in his eyes can’t be for me. This isn’t the Eli who playfully tucks me in at night and reads me chapters of his boring books. This isn’t the Eli who hovers above, murmuring praises to me as he worships my body. This isn’t the Eli who makes me tuna fish sandwiches and puts a vitamin on top when I’ve been too busy studying and forget to eat.
The man in front of me is so cold, he’s unrecognizable.
I swallow. “First of all, I wouldn’t dream of thinking about something so serious without discussing it with you. Again, Eli, the test is negative, so what is your problem?”
“You’re always talking about your perfect family. It’s not hard to imagine that’s what you want.”
“Isn’t that what most women want? A beautiful man who loves them enough to make a life with them, to someday create a family with? You’re acting like it’s a fucking crime.”
“I think I’ve made myself pretty clear where I stand with all of that.”
“All of that?” I snap. “All of that? Is the idea of marriage and children so disgusting to you?”
“I didn’t say it was disgusting.”
“You don’t have to. Your face said it for you.”
He blows out a stressed breath. “I have an interview in an hour and a half, Whitney. We don’t need to get into this now.”
“You started it, so tough shit. I’ve spent eight months tiptoeing around this, but you have never been so vicious about it. Is this really your stance? Does someday and maybe really translate to never for you?”
He rips off his shirt and eyes the test before toeing off his Nikes.
“I’m curious, Eli, when would be a good time to talk about our future? You graduate in two fucking weeks, and you haven’t so much as discussed what comes next with me. Is the day you get your diploma our expiration date?”
He grips the counter and hangs his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Pain engulfs me as I gape at him. “You don’t fucking know?”
“I overreacted. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck the test, look at me,” I demand. He turns to me, his jaw set, his eyes distant.
“Tell me why you pursued me. If a future with me is so abhorrent, why the hell did you stay with me when I showed you who I was and what I’m about?”
He scrubs his face. “I never wanted to…”
“Lead me on? Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Whitney—”
“Lead. Me. On? You started a full-blown relationship with me, making fucking sure I couldn’t possibly want anyone else.”
Eight months. Eight months of my life I trusted him, and despite his hang-ups and hesitance, I let myself believe we had some semblance of a future. Even when Grammy P’s voice cautioned me, ‘a hesitant man isn’t a man to put your hopes into,’ I allowed myself to freefall for him. Sadly, I didn’t fully hear or understand her warning until now.