“So, you gonna go home?”
“Not sure yet.” He stuffed the cigarette pack into his pocket. “Probably,” he said. “It’s too cold to sleep here again.”
XII.
We are told to grow up. We are told to be men. We are told to graduate. Get a job. Get married. Buy a house in the suburbs. Have kids. But I wonder, when we become men, do we really put away childish things or do we costume them in a pressed shirt and a Windsor knot?
XIII.
When we were ready and began to try to have kids, it did not happen—not right away. We tried for months. And for months we were disappointed. We turned to calendars and thermometers and math—still nothing. I worried that I wasn’t capable of creating life—that something was wrong with me.
XIV.
“So, you going to try for a third?” Mike asked. His wife was pregnant with their fourth. He’d had three girls so far and while he wouldn’t admit it, I thought he was trying for a boy. I expected the question and I had my answer ready. “Nope. One of each—we’re done.”
Mike laughed. “That’s what Aaron said, too. You know he’s on number five?”
I didn’t know. I had lost touch with Aaron a couple of years after graduation. I’d heard he got married and moved into his mom’s old house after she passed—his old house.
“You talked to Aaron?” I asked.
“Yeah, I bump into him sometimes—at the bar by the shop.”
“Five kids, huh?” I shook my head. I wanted to ask Mike more about Aaron—find out what’s been going on. But those days were the past and best to be left there. “Five kids,” I re-peated, “Well, not me. I’m done.” I paused for a second. “Things are perfect. Just like we planned.”
And we did plan. Two kids . . . that’s it. Two boys, two girls, one of each . . . didn’t matter. Two kids.
“You can’t plan everything,” Mike said.
“This,” I said, “I can.”
But I knew Mike was right. There is always a chance—no matter how safe you play it. I re-ally didn’t want a third kid, or a fourth, or a fifth. I was happy and wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t want to risk what I had. I didn’t want to regret anything.