Thought I Knew You(27)

I rolled my eyes. He was right. My face burned bright at the first sip, a reaction to sulfites, I’d read. I didn’t care, though. Not that night.

“It’s fine.” I took the wine and went into the kitchen, retrieving two glasses from the cabinet. I set them on the counter and reached into the drawer for the corkscrew. Greg made a deliberate coughing noise in my direction and reached up to retrieve a third glass, raising his eyebrows at me with a small smile.

Drew stood over Hannah’s portable cradle, which we had set up in the living room, studying her. She was in a rare state of contented sleep. I crept up behind him and passed him a glass, cradling my own in my other hand.

“She’s so small,” he whispered.

“I know. She’s cranky, though. Wait ’til you see.”



“Nah. Uncle Drew is here. You wait. She’ll be a different kid; she’ll be so happy to see me.”

I nudged him with my elbow.

He nudged me back. “I can’t believe you’re a mom, now.”

“Right? I’m in charge of another person. God help us.”

“Oh, stop. You’re the most responsible person I know. You’ll be fine. Uncle Drew is going to have to show her how to have fun, though.”

Hannah twitched and then settled back into sleep with a soft baby moan. When I looked up, Drew was watching me, and our eyes caught, trapped by the shared sensation of a door closing. He gave me a small, sad smile.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, ran his hand along the side of the cradle, then straightened and rubbed his hands together. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

Drew and I cooked in a routine performed on sensory memory, having made dinners together for years, throughout college and beyond, whenever we’d gotten together. He always chopped onions. I always made the sauce. We had our strengths and our traditions.

Greg comforted Hannah as she screamed. The respite of concentrating on something other than Hannah, her needs, her comfort—or lack thereof—provided a balm for my remaining baby blues.

Drew nurtured a variety of mushrooms in butter, slapping my hand away as I tried to pick. Over Chicken Marsala, we reverted back to conversations about people from our childhood and from high school. At first, I tried to include Greg, but as I drank, I forgot. Greg shrank further and further into himself, tending to Hannah and finally getting up to put her to bed. We moved to the living room, where Drew and I reminisced about his parents—his mom’s homemade blueberry pie and his dad’s insistence that before Drew could get his license, he had to replace all the tires on the car.

“I miss them,” Drew said, letting his head rest against the couch cushion.



I assumed the same position and watched him. “Me, too. Remember your mom’s confused sayings? Brightest bulb in the drawer?”

“Yes! Oh, my God. Pitch white.” We howled.

Greg appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. I stood up, aware somehow that I had gone a bit too far, but grateful for Greg’s willingness to put himself last, even if for only one night. Glancing at the kitchen, where the dishes were piled on the counter, I inwardly groaned.

“Drew and I will take care of it, honey. Go on up,” Greg said, his voice light.

I watched him skeptically, looking for signs. Was he jealous? Angry? He didn’t seem so. “Are you sure? I can do it tomorrow…”

“Go to bed. We’ll start, and as far as we get, we get. Then, we can pick it up tomorrow.”

Knowing I only had about two hours of sleep before I was up again for a feeding, I walked down the hall. Shielded by the staircase, I paused in the hallway, listening. What would they talk about? Me? I stood silent and still, but heard only the sounds of glasses clanking as they made their way into the dishwasher.

I started up the steps, and then stopped when I heard Greg’s voice. “I wonder how long you’ve been in love with my wife.”

My heart hammered. Why would he say that? And then a new thought, What would Drew’s answer be? I leaned forward, keeping out of sight as much as I could.

Greg spoke again, a register lower. “… married me… sometimes… don’t know why, but she did…”

I tried to imagine Drew, what he would say. I waited for his reply, but heard nothing except the clattering of silverware.

I was paralyzed by humiliation. For Greg. For myself. For Drew. Was Greg right? All Drew had ever done was reject me. Was I that transparent? I crept up the steps.

As I waited in bed, staring into the dark, Greg’s words raced through my mind. Did he really think Drew was in love with me? If so, why had he never said anything to me? Why would he just fade in and out of the room, leaving Drew and me to catch up, talk, laugh? It didn’t make sense.