Emily Giffin - Baby proof

I know it might ruffle Jess's feathers, but I risk it and tell her that Trey's wife probably thought she would maintain a good marriage with a child back in their early days. Trey probably thought so, too. Jess juts her jaw in protest, but I continue, "And I know for a fact that when Maura and Scott were hooking up strong in Scott's Jacuzzi and all over the rest of his bachelor pad, Maura would never have believed he'd someday cheat on her. That things would get so… depressing ."

Jess continues, "Those are the exceptions. Most couples are even happier with children."

"I don't think so. The unhappy ones seem to be more the rule… Then you have Daphne's situation," I say.

"Daphne seems to have a solid marriage," Jess says.

"They do," I say. "But right now I think she and Tony seem so obsessed with having a baby that that one issue has completely swallowed them up. They don't talk about anything else. They don't think about anything else. They're… becoming boring."

Jess laughs and says, "Weren't they always sort of boring?"

Jess is the only person I let criticize my family. Still, I can't resist defending Daphne. "Boring in a very sweet way," I say, thinking of how excited she gets about things like scrapbooking. "I'd actually call her simple, not boring. Refreshingly simple… but lately she and Tony are just plain grim. Not that I blame them…"

Jess sighs loudly and says, "Well, anyway. The point is… there are plenty of happy couples who have kids."

"Maybe," I say. "But I have no confidence that we'd be joining their ranks. And I'm not trying to turn my life into some kind of science experiment."

"Like the Mest mice?" Jess asks.

"Like the Mest mice," I say.

I stay at Jess's place, only returning to my apartment once in four days, when I know Ben is at work, so that I can pick up my cell phone and some more clothes. I keep waiting for him to call me, but he doesn't. Not once. I guess I really don't expect him to, but every time I check my voice mail and hear "no new messages," I feel a fresh wave of devastation. Of course, I don't call him, either, so I hope that he is feeling the same way as he checks his messages in vain. Something tells me he's not, though, and there's something about this hunch that makes my pain feel exponentially worse. The whole "misery loves company" thing never applies more than when you're breaking up. The thought that the other person is doing fine is simply too much to bear.

Jess insists that I'm being paranoid-that of course Ben's just as sad as I am-but I have two good reasons for believing I'm in a worse state than he is. I share the first reason with Jess one night over Chinese delivery, reminding her that Ben is blessed with the ability to wall himself off from pain and settle into a comfortable numbness. You always hear that it's not healthy to repress emotions like this, but whenever I watch Ben skate on the surface of sadness, coping like a champ, I can't help feeling envious. I have never been able to shut down that part of my brain. I think of last year when Ben's cousin and best friend, Mark, was diagnosed with stage four testicular cancer. Ben remained stoic, almost defiant, throughout the whole ordeal, even when that phone call came in the middle of the night with the news that Mark was gone.

As Ben climbed back into bed after that brief conversation with Mark's mom, I asked if he wanted to talk. Ben shook his head before turning off the light and whispering, "Not really. There's not a lot to say."

I wanted to tell him that there was a lot to say. We could talk about Mark's way too short but still full life. We could talk about Ben's boyhood memories of the cousin who always felt more like a brother. We could talk about their days at Brown, each of them passing up their first-choice college so they could go to school together. We could talk about the end, how painful it was watching Mark slip away. We could talk about what would come next, the eulogy I knew Ben had been writing in his head for weeks.

But Ben said nothing. I remember sensing in the dark that he was wide awake, so I stayed up, too, in case he changed his mind and wanted to talk, or at the very least cry. But he didn't cry. Not that night or the next day. Not even at the funeral when his beautiful eulogy brought everyone else to tears.

It took six long months for Ben to break down. We were standing in the cereal aisle in Fairway when he picked up a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, a look of sheer devastation on his face. I didn't have to ask what he was thinking about. He made it home and into our bedroom before I heard that strange, scary sound of a grown man stifling sobs. When he emerged, a long while later, his eyes were red and puffy. I had never seen him like that. He hugged me hard and his voice cracked as he said, "I miss him so fucking much."

"Not that I'm comparing our breakup to Mark's death," I say after I tell her the story.

Jess nods and says, "I know. But if you guys really do breakup, it sort of will be like a death."

"Yeah. Especially because Ben and I don't do that 'stay in touch with exes' shtick," I say. "If this is over, it's over . I don't want to be Ben's friend."

Jess sighs and then says, "Well. Maybe it's not over."

"I really think it is, though," I say. "Just think. It took Ben six months to really face the fact that Mark was gone. By the time he lets himself miss me, it'll be way too late."

Jess looks worried, which makes me think about the second reason Ben is suffering less than I am. This one I don't share with Jess. I have never said it aloud-or even written it in my journal. It is something I have always been aware of on some level, but have not allowed myself to dwell on. Until now, there wasn't any point in addressing it.

The reason is this: I am pretty sure that I love Ben more than he loves me. I know he loves me a lot. I know he loves me more than he loved Nicole or anyone else. But I still think I love him more . It's one of those things you never know for certain because there's no way to enter all the relationship data in a computer and have it spit out a definitive answer. You can't quantify love, and if you try, you can wind up focusing on misleading factors. Stuff that really has more to do with personality-the fact that some people are simply more expressive or emotional or needy in a relationship. But beyond such smokescreens, the answer is there. Love is seldom-almost never-an even proposition. Someone always loves more.

In our relationship, that person is me. With some couples, it can switch back and forth. But in the beginning, middle, and end of ours, I think I've consistently loved him more. Ben would tell me I'm being ridiculous-but if somehow he were forced to answer honestly, I think he'd acknowledge the truth of my claim. I think he'd also agree that it has nothing to do with our merits as people. I think we're roughly equally smart, successful, funny, and attractive, which seems to comprise the Big Four in the crass business of mate comparison. I am Ben's approximate equal and have always felt secure, confident, and worthy. But still. I happen to love Ben slightly more, which has the effect of making you fear losing someone more than if it were the other way around.

Which brings me to another point. I think I have always had the misguided sense that worry and fear serve as an insurance policy of sorts. On a subconscious level, I subscribe to the notion that if you worry about something, it is somehow less likely to happen. Well, I am here to say that it doesn't work like that. The very thing you fear the most can still happen anyway. And when it does, you feel that much more cheated for having feared it in the first place.