“Did you check?”
“Shut up.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then the conversation turned ugly.
I lectured him.
Protection.
Responsibility.
Age.
His lifestyle.
Ryan snapped.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m the family idiot.”
“You got a twenty-two-year-old pregnant.”
“And you think you’re perfect.”
“I never said that.”
“Mom and Dad did.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You think I was the favorite?”
“Everybody loved you.”
“They worried about me.”
“That’s not the same.”
“They bragged about you.”
Ryan’s voice rose.
“Matthew got promoted.”
“Matthew bought a house.”
“Matthew married Jennifer.”
“Matthew has kids.”
“Why can’t you be more like Matthew?”
I stared into the darkness.
Ryan continued.
“And you sit there acting like nobody ever helped you.”
“I never said that.”
“When your marriage blew up, whose couch?”
Silence.
“Who kept Jennifer out when you couldn’t face her?”
Silence.
“Who let you stay a week?”
I swallowed.
“You.”
“Who fought those kids who used to mess with you in high school?”
“You.”
“Who has always been there?”
I closed my eyes.
Ryan was right.
I had spent my life resenting him for having things I thought came easily.
He had spent his life believing my parents expected him to become me.
We had both been jealous of an incomplete picture.
“You’re right.”
Silence.
“What?”
“You’re right.”
Ryan sounded suspicious.
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Stroke?”
“Shut up.”
I laughed.
Then got serious.
“You have been there.”
He said nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
Long pause.
“Thanks.”
I asked about the baby.
Two months.
Keeping it.
Ryan sounded terrified.
“I don’t know how to be a dad.”
“Nobody does.”
“You did.”
“No.”
I laughed.
“I panicked when Jennifer got pregnant.”
“You always seemed like you knew everything.”
“That’s because you saw me after I lied to everyone.”
Ryan laughed softly.
“What if I screw this kid up?”
“You will.”
“Great.”
“Then apologize.”
I sat back.
“Learn.”
“Show up.”
“You can do that.”
“You actually think I can?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you called me.”
He was quiet.
“You’re scared about what kind of father you’ll be.”
“That means you already care.”
We talked until sunrise.
For the first time, I told Ryan I had always been jealous of him.
He nearly choked.
Then admitted he had always been jealous of me.
That conversation changed something fundamental.
I stopped seeing responsibility as boring.
I stopped seeing stability as proof I lacked excitement.
Those traits were mine.
I had earned them.
I could improve without hating the original version of myself.
Victor’s lesson finally made sense.
My worth was not what Jennifer rejected.
It was not what Rachel approved.
It was not what Ryan envied.
It existed before all three.
Weeks later, Victor told me we were done.
“With training?”
“With babysitting you.”
I stared.
“Nice.”
“You don’t need me.”
“Debatable.”
“You know how to train.”
He counted.
“You know how to eat.”
Another finger.
“You know how to suffer without turning it into identity.”
I laughed.
“That one’s new.”
Then he looked across the gym.
Rachel was stretching near the cycling studio.
“You still planning to pretend she doesn’t exist?”
I looked away.
Victor sighed.
“Go talk to her.”
“She probably hates me.”
“Then find out.”
“She’ll laugh.”
“Then at least you can stop staring from across the room like a stalker.”
I hated him.
He was right.
I caught Rachel before she reached the locker room.
“Hey.”
She stopped.
Immediately uncomfortable.
“Hi.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine.”
Great.
I nearly left.
Instead:
“Can we talk?”
Rachel nodded.
“When?”
“Now?”
She looked surprised.
“I need to shower.”
“After.”
“Okay.”
We met at a nearby diner.
For twenty minutes, we talked about everything except what happened.
Finally, I stopped.
“About that night.”
Rachel looked down.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I do.”
“It’s fine.”
“No.”
She looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
“My ex did the same thing.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Not exactly.”
She laughed sadly.
“He stopped wanting me.”
She looked down at herself.
“He used to call me Porky.”
I stared.
“What kind of idiot does that?”
“He poked my stomach in front of friends.”
Her voice cracked.
“So when you stopped that night, I figured I had done it again.”
“Rachel.”
“I thought maybe you weren’t attracted to me.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I took her hands.
“I am very attracted to you.”
She looked skeptical.
“You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes filled.
“Then tell me.”
So I did.
Jennifer.
Kevin.
The bedroom.
The insults.
The weight.
The shame.
Rachel listened.
When I finished, she stared at me.
Then burst out laughing.
I pulled my hands back.
“Seriously?”
“No!”
She grabbed them again.
“I’m sorry.”
She could barely breathe.
“I’m laughing at us.”
“What?”
“Your wife told you you were fat and bad in bed.”
“Yes.”
“My husband told me I was fat and bad in bed.”
I stared.
Then laughed.
Rachel laughed harder.
We ended up sitting in a booth comparing insults from our former spouses.
It was ridiculous.
Painful.
Liberating.
For once, the insults sounded stupid instead of true.
Rachel wiped her eyes.
“I went all out that night.”
“I noticed.”
“I wanted to feel desirable.”
“You were.”
“Then you ran.”
“I know.”
“So I thought I failed.”
I nodded.
“I was so terrified of proving Jennifer right that I basically proved her right.”
Rachel smiled.
“Two emotionally damaged geniuses.”
“Apparently.”
I raised my coffee.
“New rule.”
“What?”
“No proving exes wrong.”
She lifted hers.
“Agreed.”
“No pressure.”
“Fine.”
“Just date.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
Then she smiled.
“And if we eventually sleep together, we can consider it a bonus.”
I almost spit out my coffee.
We laughed.
Across the restaurant, someone saw us.
I did not notice.
Jennifer did.
I discovered that weeks later.
By then, the divorce papers had been sitting on her dresser for a month.
Unsigned.
I confronted her.
She was sitting on the bed applying lotion.
The whole scene annoyed me.
“When are you signing?”
“I need a lawyer.”
“You’ve had a month.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You wanted the divorce.”
She looked up.
“Why are you suddenly rushing?”
I stared.