Baby proof

deal? Is Maura doing the same thing now? I clear my throat and gently say, 'Do you think this is a little quick? Have you really thought this through?'

'It's been a long time coming, Claudia,' Maura says. 'Enough is enough.'

'What are you going to tell the kids?' I say.

'I don't know yet,' she says. 'The boys are too young. I guess that's a good thing.'

'Yeah,' I say, thinking that they will likely have few, if any, memories of their parents together.

'So. Daphne's going to take the boys on Friday night, and I was hoping you could take Zoe for the weekend?'

'Absolutely,' I say.

'Thank you,' she says.

We are both quiet for a moment. Then she clears her throat and says briskly, 'So this is it. T-minus-five days as Mr. and Mrs. Stepford.'

There is something about Maura's situation that makes me feel even more desperate to talk to Ben. So as soon as I hang up with my sister, I bang out the rest of the e-mail. I write:

Ben-Hope you're well. I'm sorry for how our last conversation ended; I hate fighting with you. I was wondering if we could get together sometime soon? I have something I want to talk to you about. Let me know… Claudia.

I take a deep breath and hit send before I can change my mind. Then I put my head in my hands and pray Ben puts me out of my misery soon. Ten minutes pass and nothing comes. I go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee, remembering what I always used to tell Jess. 'A watched phone doesn't ring.' I return to an empty in-box. A moment later, my e-mail notifier dings. But the message is not from Ben. Nor is the next or the next. I turn my volume down on my computer and position my chair away from my screen. I allow myself only one check per half hour. Still nothing.

As the day wears on, I go from being nervous to downright ornery. I feel irrationally annoyed at every friend who chooses today, of all days, to say hello or pass along a joke. And when Jess forwards me a playful exchange between Michael and her with the subject line Isn't he cute?, I feel my first stab of envy over their relationship. I'm not at all bitter, but definitely a bit begrudging. It's not fair, I think, and then instantly dislike myself for having one of the single most maladjusted and counterproductive thoughts a woman in a crisis can have. Life's not fair, I tell myself. Everyone over the age of ten knows that. Then, I feel my heart twist as I have an even sadder, more sobering thought: You have no one to blame but yourself.

twenty-seven

Four excruciating days pass with no word from Ben. I picture an array of depressing scenarios: Ben so gloriously indifferent that he lets my e-mail get buried in his in-box, forgetting to write me back altogether; Ben scoffing at the screen and deleting my e-mail in disgust; Ben forwarding my e-mail to Tucker and the two of them sharing a good chuckle about how desperate I sound. I consider calling Annie and asking her if she's talked to him, if she knows anything about his life. After all, she was certainly pretty free with the details of my relationship with Richard. But I just don't want to go down that road. I don't want anything to get lost in translation. Plus, I don't entirely trust that Annie has my best interest at heart. I know I'm her friend, but she's Ben's friend, too-and by now she could even be close to Tucker.

Jess agrees. 'Just deal with him directly,' she says.

'What if I never hear back from him?' I say.

'You will… He's probably out of the office, working on an off-site project or something. Either that or he wants to make you sweat. And if he's making you sweat, he still cares.'

'You're right,' I say, but in my head, I'm steeling myself for the possibility that my window of opportunity has closed for good. That I might never talk to Ben again.

On Friday afternoon, after a long lunch with one of my favorite agents, I hunker down to read a few unsolicited manuscripts, otherwise known as slush because most are sloppy, uninspired muck. They are so dreadful, in fact, that most houses and editors won't even accept them. It's just not worth the time or limited editorial resources. To this point, in thirteen years of reading slush, I've only brought one manuscript to editorial meeting, and it was shot down in about six minutes flat.

Ben once asked me why I bothered with those kinds of odds. 'You don't buy lottery tickets or gamble,' he said, 'so why do you read slush?'

I explained to him that it wasn't entirely rational. I told him that part of it stemmed from my deeply rooted neurosis that developed in my junior days, a sense of wanting to be thorough, cover all my bases. You never knew where the next great novel could be lurking. But beyond that, I told him that I just liked the idea of slush.

'How so?' he asked me as he skimmed a particularly brutal query letter over my shoulder. 'You like the idea of boring storylines and scads of grammatical errors?'

'It's hard to explain,' I told him. 'It's just that slush is so democratic. I like the idea of giving a shot to the struggling writer. I like the idea of the underdog overcoming the odds and achieving greatness.'

'Well, it's a good thing for me you feel that way,' Ben said, kissing me. 'Because I sort of came from the slush pile of blind dates.'

I laughed and told him that was very true. 'Just look what I would have missed if I had blown off that date.'

From that day on, whenever Ben wore mismatched socks, or burned toast, or did anything haphazard, I'd call him my slushy husband. It was one of our many inside jokes.

So it is very fitting that Ben finally e-mails me as I am perusing a few slush manuscripts that Rosemary screened for me as the most promising of the dismal lot. I glance up when my notifier dings, and am shocked to finally see his name in my in-box. My heart races, and I sit there, my mouth slightly agape, paralyzed with fear. Something about his bolded Benjamin Davenport looks so ominous. Or maybe it's the no subject that follows. I am suddenly convinced that his words will be terse and grim: I don't see any point in getting together; I have nothing to say to you.

A full hour passes before I work up the nerve to open his e-mail. I read his three sentences twice, searching for meaning: Next week is hectic. How about after Thanksgiving? Does Monday work for you?

Nothing. I can glean nothing from his e-mail, but it certainly doesn't seem promising that he bypassed my name or any sort of soft closing. And I simply can't believe I had to wait four days for three ambiguous sentences. But by and large, I feel relieved. It's better than what it could have been. I still have a dash of hope as I send my response: Sure. Pete's Tavern at 12?

As New York's oldest pub in continuous operation, Pete's is a bit of a tourist trap, but Ben and I never minded. We spent many a late night cozied up at the bar, so as soon as I hit send I worry what he'll think of my sentimental choice of venue. But his response comes nearly instantaneously. See you then. Have a good-Thanksgiving.

Highly doubtful, I think as I scratch a big red reject across one writer's treasured manuscript.

Later that night, as I'm returning home from work, I spot Maura and Zoe scurrying along the sidewalk toward Jess's apartment. Maura is holding Zoe by one hand and carrying her Dora the Explorer sleeping bag and monogrammed canvas L.L. Bean bag in the other. Both of Zoe's pink Keds are untied, the laces dragging behind her on the damp pavement. When she finally sees me, she squeals, 'Aunt Claudia!' as if I'm famous. Zoe does wonders for my self-esteem.