“Ouch,” the husband said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m bogging things down. It’s not this guy’s story.”
“No, please,” the wife said.
Okay. Audrey dialed back the intensity of the relationship then, but in a subtle way, because they still talked and texted, still saw a lot of each other professionally, and presumably Paul the not-yet Lover went on suffering that feverish first-love anxiety for another year and a half. Finally, one morning, Audrey closed the door to her office and told Paul she was ready to leave her husband. She canceled her afternoon meetings and they cabbed separately to Paul the about-to-be Lover’s apartment and then one night, two months later, Paul found himself pacing that same apartment, waiting for Audrey to call.
He can’t text her, that’s the rule, but he must have stayed up for hours, checking the time every thirty seconds. For two months he’s lived with this heightened intensity, this clarity about the life he wants, which includes, by the way, becoming a de facto stepfather to two kids he hasn’t met, and now that life is looking like it was a mirage all along.
So the next morning when Audrey pulls him aside and explains that she can’t really explain but there’s an emergency, nothing life-threatening, but it means she can’t tell her husband yet, don’t worry, she will, but not for a few days, it’s a relief. The rest of the day, though, it sure seems like she’s avoiding him, and when it comes time for the fancy dinner with the luminaries, rather than sit there in a trance at the kids’ end of the table, he taps Audrey on the shoulder and says that under the circumstances he would just as soon not come.
“Poor Paul the Lover,” the husband said.
No kidding, right?
Audrey hasn’t been avoiding him, she’s just running the conference. Which goes great. The industry people are fantastic, the students love it. She feels terrible about Paul and dinner, tells him he should come, connections matter, but his seat is empty. Then she ends up leaving in a flurry of apologies before the food even arrives, because all she can think about is the baby.
When she gets home she steps into the three-season porch, sees it’s in disarray, and jumps when Paul the Husband pops up from behind the couch. She shouldn’t lead with this, she knows, but she asks him what the hell he’s doing out here—it’s the middle of winter, and if the baby’s out here he’s being carried. But he will be out here come spring, Paul says, and disappears again.
Under the couch? she says, but he doesn’t answer, just throws a paper towel in the garbage can and tears another one. What’s that empty bucket for? she asks, and Paul looks at her. Oh. The report is that he threw up twice and had to lie down a few times, but he’s finished the living room, the foyer, the dining room, the kitchen, and the family room, which, granted, involved moving around all the rugs and furniture, but Audrey’s been gone ten hours and she was expecting him to be further along.
Paul, when he finishes the porch, says he has to get off his knees, he’s going to vacuum, but he fades fast. Audrey stays up until two finishing the books and toys, not counting stuffed animals, and wiping down every surface, every chair leg, every doorknob, that the baby might put his hands on. In the morning, she sees a bucket of soapy water and two rolls of paper towels in the older boy’s room but finds Paul in the basement, vacuuming. He’s sorry, he says, he can’t even touch the floor with his knees, can Audrey handle the upstairs bedrooms? And the bathrooms?