nothing compared to the freak illnesses. It took me months to adjust to the food and water—even filtered, it was rough. But when you get a rash and a fever, the first thought is always This is it. This is how it ends.”
“What was it? The rash?”
“A reaction to the malaria prophylaxis. Super rare. I was convinced I had malaria, not a reaction from the medicine designed to keep me safe from it. Made for an interesting week.”
“I can’t believe you’re joking about that,” I said on a chuckle.
He shrugged, sobering a little. “It’s the only way to get through it. You can’t see that much pain and poverty without armor. And somehow, they found joy every day. Those kids were always smiling. The villagers welcomed me into their homes and shared what little food they had. If America turned into that world, it’d be worse than The Walking Dead.”
“It must have been hard to come home.”
“It gutted me. To see so much excess, so much wealth and health and stuff. I tried to hang on to that feeling, to remember that divide, but it got harder and harder as the months passed. It’s why I won’t get a smart phone. It’s one of my last hold outs.” He was quiet for a moment. “Being there solidified my belief that I didn’t want to bring kids into this world. But now … well, now I can say with absolute certainty that I was wrong. Because now I can teach her how to care, how to give, how to love. I can’t imagine a more valuable contribution to the world than that. And I can’t think of another person on the face of the earth I’d want to raise her with.”
I covered the ache in my chest with a smile, saying flippantly, “If you hadn’t spent so much time on the other side of the world, I’d say you needed to get out more if it’s me you want to do this with.”
“Don’t do that,” he said softly, turning me to face him. The earnest expression on his face disarmed me. “Don’t joke, not about this. I mean what I say.”
“I know you do,” I admitted.
“The thought of having a child with Marnie ended a marriage. But with you …” He shook his head, glanced at the ground. “This doesn’t scare me. Not with you here with me.”
“Bas, that’s easy to say now. You weren’t there through sleepless nights, teething or croup or colic. She’s a little person now. It’s easy to imagine being her parent because she’s smiling and bossing you around and giving you earthworm genealogy.”
“No, it’s not that.” He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, leaving ruts in the dense locks. “I didn’t know that loving Cilla could overpower my fear. But when it came to Marnie … I guess it all comes down to trust. It was impossible not to imagine even if I’d never do it. I knew without a doubt that if we did have a child, Marnie and I would never agree on how to raise them—we couldn’t agree on anything. And then there was the fear that if things went bad, she’d use a child as leverage. But I want to believe that you’ve done what I would have done. That we would have worked together in a way Marnie and I never have.”
I didn’t respond right away, instead taking a moment to move to the table where the vessels we’d prepared for this batch waited. As I poured through the openings of the wick holders, I said, “You can’t know that, not for sure. She never got that chance. And neither did we.” And then I changed the subject. Laterally, at least. “What happened today?”
“It was as bad as I expected. She’s hurt and angry. I don’t blame her.”
“Me neither,” I said quietly, sadly.
“I did her wrong,” he admitted. “I knew deep down it wouldn’t work out. I knew she didn’t really understand that I meant what I said about having kids. But I married her anyway and hurt her worse than I ever would have otherwise. And now, this. It’s the twist of a knife.”
“Why did you? Marry her.”
He didn’t even have to think—he must have done enough of that on his own. “Because my mother was dying, and Marnie was the only solid thing in my entire life. She was the buoy we hung onto through the hurricane. I love her—I always have in my way. I think