And that was one of the many reasons Mark was so appealing. Marrying Mark, having a family with Mark, would fill in the blanks. It would give her a life to step into, with all the milestones preordained. She’d have his babies. Manage their house and their schedule and, eventually, their family’s schedule. She would book their vacations, buy their clothes and groceries, do their laundry, prepare their meals—or hire someone who would. It was a world at the ready; a carriage with luxurious fittings and a destination selected. All Abby had to do was climb aboard.
And it wasn’t like she doubted Mark, who’d been her summer camp sweetheart; who’d met her when she was thirteen and had loved her when Abby had been in desperate need of love and affirmation. Mark wasn’t looking for a skinny girl, nor was he convinced that there was one residing inside Abby, just waiting for the right set of circumstances, or some combination of surgical interventions and weight-loss drugs, to emerge. He understood that Abby had made a different set of choices from his own about weight and food and her body, and he respected those choices. At least, he did his best, although she’d caught him relocating her ice cream to the very back of the freezer （where it would, inevitably, get freezer burn）， and, once or twice, he’d thrown out her leftover samosas or pork buns. Accidentally, he’d said. Abby wasn’t sure.
Mark didn’t eat carbs. Mark didn’t eat desserts. He’d once told her that, if he wanted something sweet, he’d brush his teeth, or floss with cinnamon dental floss. When Abby told him that was the saddest thing she’d ever heard, he’d stiffened, looking chagrined.
“It has to be this way for me,” he’d said. “The surgery was a tool. I’m the one who has to keep on top of the food, and the exercise. It’s just easier for me to not eat sugar than to try to eat just a little bit, or just once in a while.”
“I understand,” said Abby, who didn’t. She couldn’t imagine a life without any sugar, ever, and was not sure such a life would be worth living. Eventually, she got to the point where she rarely ate desserts around Mark, keeping ice cream and brioche and chocolate croissants at her apartment instead of at his, limiting herself to the occasional pain au chocolat or warm pita when they were out.
Mark was worth it. He’d never seemed ashamed of her. He’d been happy to take Abby out on dates, proud to introduce her to his friends. Eight weeks into their relationship, he’d brought her home to remeet his parents, who lived out on Long Island, and with whom he had a warm and functional relationship, the kind that Abby admired. She and Mark both liked reading and doing puzzles, strolling along Forbidden Drive or exploring the city’s neighborhoods. And if Abby had more of an appetite for dancing and live music and karaoke nights than Mark did, if the sex was consistently satisfying without ever making her feel like the world had rearranged itself, those were quibbles, minor complaints, barely worth a mention.
Abby didn’t understand her own hesitation. All she knew was that the thought of actually giving up her apartment, emptying its rooms, taking her posters off the wall, her dishes out of the cabinets, carrying her furniture down the stairs, commingling her belongings with Mark’s, made her knees feel trembly, and her belly feel like she’d swallowed frozen rocks.
Mark was talking about heated bathroom floors when Abby’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She felt an unseemly rush of relief as she pushed her chair back. “It’s Lizzie,” she said.
Mark nodded, gesturing for her to take the call. That was Mark. He was not threatened by Abby’s friendships. He didn’t resent the other people in her life or begrudge the time she spent away from him. He was wonderful. Practically perfect in every way. So why wasn’t she jumping at the chance to move in with him? Why wasn’t he enough?
Abby pressed her phone to her ear and hurried away from the table, threading her way through the high-ceilinged, tiled rooms, hearing laughter and conversations, passing the hostess’s stand, and stepping out onto the sidewalk.
“Abby?” Lizzie said.
“Sorry, yes. Hi. I’m here.” Abby realized she’d forgotten even to say hello. “Are you okay?”
Lizzie, who was in her sixties, had gone through a bout of breast cancer eighteen months ago. Abby had driven her friend to appointments and, on the day of Lizzie’s lumpectomy, sat in the waiting room until the surgeon came out and said, “Good news!” She’d taken Lizzie to her subsequent radiation sessions and to follow-up mammograms and MRIs. Lizzie had healed, and had tolerated the treatments well, and so far, everything looked fine, but they were still in the five-year window, and Abby still worried.