The Backup Plan

The morning Norah got dumped, I was in a meeting about server costs.

I came out at 3:40. She was at her desk with her hands flat on the keyboard, not typing. Not drinking her coffee. Not answering her phone, which lit up twice and went dark twice.

Renee went over and asked her something. Norah didn't answer. Renee asked again. Nothing.

Renee came back to my side of the pod and said, quietly, "Justin called off the wedding."

"Why?"

"She did the bloodwork before the wedding. The doctor told her she probably can't carry a pregnancy. His family won't allow it."

My mouse stopped.

"The ring?"

"His mother went and got it back last night. Drove over, took the ring off the kitchen counter where Norah had left it, and told Norah's mom the caterer's deposit was already refunded." Renee's mouth twisted. "Norah's mom called her, begging. The woman said, 'My son can find someone else. Why would he marry a woman who can't give him kids.'"

I closed my laptop. I went downstairs and bought two bowls of wonton soup from the cart on the corner, and I carried them back up.

I crouched down next to her chair. I put the bowl by her hand.

"Norah."

Nothing.

"Eat something hot."

Her voice came out thin. "I'm not hungry."

"They're no good cold. If you don't eat it, I'm dumping it."

She turned her head and looked at me. Her eyes were red but dry.

And I said the thing I hadn't planned to say.

"My mom's been on me about bringing someone home by Christmas. Do me a favor. Come with me."

She blinked.

"What?"

"You heard me. I'm not talking about a weekend. I'm talking about you and me, for real."

"Ethan." Her lips moved around the words. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Yeah."

"It's not funny."

"I know it's not."

She stared at me.

Then it came out of me, the part I'd been holding since before she ever knew my name.

"Four years ago. First day you worked here. You knocked my cup off my desk and you leaned down to clean it up and you looked at me and said sorry. I fell for you right there. Never got better."

She stared at me a long time after that. Longer than the first time.

Then she picked up the wontons and ate one.

She ate three more and her shoulders started to shake. Tears went into the bowl, one at a time, and she kept eating.

I stayed crouched there. I didn't move. My hands opened and closed and opened again. I wanted to put my hand on her head and I didn't.

That night I texted her: I wasn't joking.

She wrote back: I know.

For the next month I brought her breakfast every morning. Egg sandwich, breakfast burrito, soup from the deli on Fifth, the pork buns she liked from the bakery near the office. She started at "You don't have to do that," moved to "Get the ones with pork next time," and ended at "You're two minutes late."

Thirty-eight days later we were walking out of the building after a late night. She stopped on the sidewalk.

"Ethan."

"Yeah."

"Are you serious about this?"

"Yeah."

"I'm two years older than you."

"I know."

"I might never be able to give you kids."

"I know."

"Your mother—"

"Leave my mother to me. She's already asking when she gets to meet you."

Norah stood with her back to me for a while. The streetlight threw her shadow four feet long across the pavement. She turned around.

"If you want out, this is your last chance."

I walked up one step. "I don't want out."

Two weeks later we were at the city clerk's office. There was a line of eight people ahead of us, most of them younger than us. A guy in front of us kept checking his phone. The clerk had a photo of a golden retriever taped to her monitor.

When we came out, Norah was holding the license so hard her knuckles went white.

"Ethan."

"Yeah."

"What is it you actually want?"

I thought about it.

"You. Because you're beautiful."

She laughed. She laughed and then she started crying, and I tried to wipe it with my sleeve and she smacked my hand away.

"That's disgusting."

I pulled my hand back and grinned at her.

It was a good day. Sun all over the courthouse steps.

I told my mother two weeks ago. She already knew about the diagnosis and she'd already said yes to meeting her. Norah didn't know I'd told her, and I wasn't going to add that to everything else.

She was carrying enough.

There was one other thing I was carrying, and it was sitting in my laptop bag.

An email had come in three days before. I hadn't opened it in front of anyone. I hadn't told Norah.