2. 'Didn't seem relevant'

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Natalia

I miss being who I really am. I even miss my lab coat that I try to wear as little as possible when I'm at work. The stilettos I borrowed might look gorgeous, but my calves are mooing, and my toes are gripping the slippery leather for dear life. Although I love adding something to my height and pretending I'm not five four, comfort is of utmost importance when I spend seventy-five percent of my time in the lab on my feet.

The hall around us undulates with streams of bodies, din of voices, and waves of smells from finger foods to colognes to BO. I tug my skirt down. Tonight, I was supposed to feel like a superwoman in the first designer dress I've ever worn. Instead I feel like a fish out of water without my daily uniform of jeans or slacks and tops. I'm wearing a silky off-the-shoulder red number that requires a strapless push-up bra and a thong small enough not to show under the smooth area of my derrière.

"Stop fidgeting already," Samson whispers into my ear. I can feel my smile that I've been plastering on throughout the evening wilt. Samson's hand glides across my exposed shoulder blades and rests at the curve of my back. He squeezes my hip and digs his fingers into me a little too hard. "You look the best you've had in years. Just let the dress do the work. Don't spoil it."

I know this is a compliment, but somehow it makes me want to rip the dress off and get back into my casual garb. A tired-looking man with an alumni lanyard joins us at one of the tall bar tables. "So glad you came." He shakes Samson's hand and then mine. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."

"Sure." I don't recognize him, but Samson clearly knows the guy. They launch into a conversation I tune out as I tug on the front of the piece again before it exposes my underwear.

The dress glides down, but now it stretches so tight over me it emphasizes every curve of my body. Red goes well with my dark brown hair, but the number of stares I've gotten through the evening makes me inwardly curse my best friend Kate for talking me into renting this gown. We might both be the same height and clothing size, but with her proportions, she looks good in pretty much everything. My body is a puzzle to dress.

My sister used to joke that I have an hourglass shape, but only if you take the bottom half of a rather large hourglass and the top of a much smaller one and merge them together. It's not the dress's fault. It's not Kate's fault. It's not even Samson's fault. I'm the sole reason why this expensive piece isn't looking its best.

I'd much rather spend tonight re-running my calibration curve to make sure my particles are not too diluted this time, than smile and waste an evening on polite chatter with people I haven't seen in years and might not ever see again in my life. Even though I went to school here at UChicago, and Samson did his degree in Berkley, he insisted we attend my reunion to 'broaden the connections in our scientific community.' Samson's fingers dig a little bit deeper into my flesh. I lift my eyes to his, silently asking, "What?"

He frowns at me and returns his charming grin to the man opposite us. "We'd love for you to visit our lab," he says to him. His thumb taps my back, urging me to chime in.

"Yeah, sure." I hope I'm not agreeing to give away my firstborn.

"Marvelous," says the guy with the lanyard. "What's your email address?"

"Let me give you mine, and I'll pass the info to Natalia." Samson takes the other man's phone and types into it.

With another polite handshake accompanying his goodbye, the stranger leaves, and I face Samson. "What did I just agree to?"

"Relax." He pats my side. "I'm not signing you up to give another lecture without talking to you first, even though that was what got you onto the radar and helped you with the promotion." I clench my teeth. My excellent track record and the speedy clearance to move to animal studies is what got me the promotion.

Samson finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "He was interested in one of the open positions and was asking for a lab tour. He has a PhD from Harvard. And he did his post doc at Stanford. I think he'll be an excellent addition to your team."

The sip of champaign turns sour in my mouth. "We talked about it." I set the flute onto the cloth-covered table. I use my 'let's be reasonable' voice and keep my disappointment simmering on low. "I'm not going to do anyone any favors. I want a team I'd love to work with, not a team that looks good on paper."

"I'm just trying to help." Samson's sigh is supposed to make me feel guilty, but I refuse.

"I appreciate your help; you know I do." I amp up my 'let's me reasonable' tone and attempt to take my emotions off boil. "But I've been working to get the promotion for years. I know what I want. I trust my ability to get the right people on the team." I gently bump my shoulder into his bicep. "You should trust me too."

"I trust you." He sounds like he means the exact opposite. "It's just. . .sometimes you are so focused on your plan you forget about others around you."

What is that supposed to mean? "Are we still talking about my lab, or is this about something else?"

"Never mind." Samson fidgets with his empty glass and looks over to the corner where he can get a refill. "It's not the right time or place."

"You brought it up." I shrug. The silky strap slides off my shoulder, and Samson adjusts it back into place. His fingers are cold yet clammy against my skin. A tell-tale sign he's nervous about something. What's going on? What did I do wrong this time? I rest my palm on his elbow. "What am I doing that's not taking other people into account?"

Samson swivels his head. "Not here." He wraps his fist around my wrist and sprints toward the courtyard much faster than my five-inch heels allow me. My feet move quickly, but my knees barely bend. I must look like a geometry compass in the hands of a child playing soldiers. Samson stops in the corner of the empty courtyard and takes both of my hands in his. "You know I love you, right?"

We exchanged our I love yous in year two of our relationship, only six months behind my plan, but my chest tingles from a splatter of acidic doubt that's eating me on the inside. I nod.

"Please, don't take this the wrong way, because I'm doing this to make your life easier." He lifts our linked hands higher and twists the gold engagement ring with a tiny sapphire he gave me after I followed him to Chicago in year eight of our relationship, three months ahead of schedule. Samson rubs his thumb over the ring. "I know you said now that you're the manager, the only two points left on your plan are marriage and trying for a baby." He lays our hands on his chest and presses them into his shirt between the two lapels of the tux he rented especially for this occasion. "I don't think this is something we should rush into."

Rush into? "We've been together for ten years. Engaged for two. We've talked about my plan on our first date, and you were on board with every step."

"I didn't know how stressful working toward getting us to this point in our lives would be." He rubs his temple with is free hand. My nails might be turning blue under the red nail polish from how hard his grip is. "Do you want to be like Sharon? Leaving her experiment when her daycare calls because her daughter is throwing up and having to redo all her work again only to get a call that her son needs to be picked up at school early because of the heatwave?"

Sharon is a single mom. The boiling pot of emotions in my gut roils. I search his eyes, but he chooses to look at the pavers under our feet. "We'll figure it out," I say. "There are two of us. We're a team." Or does he imply I don't understand how much time and commitment kids will need from us? I extricate my hand from his grasp and place it on his cheek. The familiar soft strands of his beard reassure me. I always figure stuff out. "We'll make it work."

Sampson swipes my fingers off his face. His eyes are steely. No trace of the earlier smile. "I don't want to make it work." His voice matches the steel in his eyes. "I like my life as it is right now. I don't want to rock a perfectly good boat. We have a great apartment. Nice cars. Money to finally go on a vacation without counting pennies." His voice rises with every sentence, and I'm glad we're alone in the courtyard. "We have the lab, and the resources we need to create the drugs that would help millions of people. Earth is already overpopulated. Why do we need to contribute to that?"

Unlike with the conversation with the man earlier, I hear every word that comes out of Samson's mouth. They are etched on my heart, that's fuming with confusion, fear, and anguish. "You said you wanted to have kids. We were looking at cribs online last night."

He shakes his head. A curly lock falls on his smooth forehead. "I've never said I wanted kids."

"Point number 8 on my plan?" I reach up and move his hair back off his face. "The one I have a heart drawn over? The one we've discussed every December during our yearly planning?"

He takes a step back. "We always said we'll reassess after you become a manager, and once we have the marriage plans settled."

"I am a manager now. We put the deposit for the venue for April. Kate is taking me dress shop-"

"We can still get married." Samson moves his hand up to stop me from interjecting. "That's not what I'm talking about. But looking at cribs yesterday, that solidified in my mind that I'm not ready for kids."

Now I take a step back. My mind screeches to a halt. "When will you be ready?"

He shakes his head again, as if it's going to stack his thoughts into the proper slots. "Maybe in a year." His intonation rises and so does my hope. "Maybe never." The lightning of his 'never' strikes me where I stand. I teeter on my heels, and he holds on to my arms to steady me. "I don't know," he whispers. His whisper might as well be the loudest thunder that follows the lightning.

"Never?" I rip my hands out of his. "Why have you never said that you had doubts?"

He takes two steps to the wall of the building, turns, passes me, turns, and passes me again. He stops in front of me. "I'm saying it now, and you're not listening."

"I am listening." My heart struggles to keep up; blood whooshes in my ears; my knees tremble. "Your now is ten years too late." I keep tears out of my voice. "I told you my plan on our very first date. Graduating with a PhD was on the list. Finishing a post doc was on the list. Getting a job that will allow me to pursue my passion was on the list. Becoming a manager was on the list. Marriage was on the list." I poke my finger into his chest with each item. "Kids were on that list." I slam the heel of my palm into him.

He catches my shoulders and moves me as far from him as his arms allow. "You're treating your plan like it's a contract I signed in blood." He leans his head to the side. "I love how organized you are, and that vision board of yours is impressive. I'm glad most of the things worked out as you wanted them, but life is not perfect." He lets go of me. "Things change."

My stomach lurches at his version of my life. I swallow the rising bile, and the smile that creeps onto my lips must be scary, because Samson backs away.

"Everything in my plan happened because I made it happen." I speak low and slow. "I worked hard to tick off every checkbox. And yes, things change." I breathe out my frustration. It's a miracle I don't light the air on fire. I ball my fists to keep myself in place and latch my gaze onto his. "Getting a blue car instead of a red is a change I can live with. But not having kids is something I can't live with."

"You can."

"I can't." My answer is more of a bark than speech. I know what I can and can't live without.

"You're just angry." He changes his expression to a soothing half-grin. "What if I say this is not a 100% no to kids but just a not right now?"

I bite my lip and scrape some of the lipstick off with my teeth. "When did you decide that you don't want kids?"

Samson rolls his eyes. "Not like I marked it on the calendar or anything."

"When?" Will he tell me the truth his time? I feel a tear slide down my cheek.

He sighs. "I don't think I've ever wanted them."

More tears roll, and I'm no longer in control of them. "How come you never told me that?" My lips tremble; my voice too.

"Didn't seem relevant to our lives yet." Samson rocks on the balls of his feet.

"Yet?" There's a silent, salty waterfall on my face.

"Natalia." He approaches me and takes out the matching red kerchief I folded and stuck into his pocket earlier this evening in our apartment. "You said we're a team. You said we'll work it out. We can get a dog. You've always wanted a dog." He wipes some of the moisture off my chin.

"No." I shove the silky cloth away.

"You're being inflexible again."

"I am not inflexible." I run the back of my hand against my face, that's a sticky mess of my foundation, tears, and mascara. "We moved to the city you found a job at-"

"Because my specialty is rarer than yours. You found a job here too. A great one. You are the manager, not me." He raises his eyebrows in frustration.

He has no right to be frustrated with me right now. "We got the apartment in the building you wanted-"

"Because you said you didn't care as long as you had a place to run nearby." He rapid fires his counterargument.

My heartbeat slows. I'm not doing this to prove anything to him, because he's the one who's not listening. I just want to say my part, even if it goes into his one ear and out the other. I straighten. "We even got the wedding venue you wanted."

"Not like anyone from your family is going to come." He adjusts his jacket and refastens the button. "And my mother liked that ballroom. The wedding location didn't seem important to you."

"Maybe it wasn't." I move my shoulders back. "But having kids is." I inspect the man I've spent ten years with, the man I can no longer be with, and I see my hopes and dreams for this year crumpled in a trash can. "I've wanted kids since I was a kid. I told you that. That's not something I'll ever change my mind about. If you'd have told me that you didn't want kids on our first date, or at least that you were unsure, I would've respected your choice. We all should get the right to decide on this important topic. We could've stayed friends. But you lied to me." I suck in a breath. "There's no compromise, no solution where I have a child and you don't, and we are a couple together."

"You could join a Big Sister program. Mentor."

"Stop." I cover my ears to protect them from his nonsense. "Just stop before you make it worse." I'll figure it out. I'll make another plan to get what I want.

"I'm making it worse?" He almost squeaks in protest. "I'm trying to find a way forward for us. You're the one who's-"

"I said stop." I lift my chin. "I can't be the one you blame for everything all the time. I'm done." I take the ring off my finger and slap it into his open palm. "I'm done following you. I'm going to follow me."

Samson huffs. "You're being ridiculous." He waves his hand in the direction of my fifteen-year college reunion that's still going on. "You're not going to break off our engagement in the middle of a party."

"I just did." I turn my back to him and stroll out the door.

There's no looking back.


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