Chapter_10_Angels_in_

I didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe Wyatt thought I did.

But I didn’t.

Turns out the drama teacher is a father himself. Within seconds of talking with Mr. Aronson, I couldn’t help but confess to him that I’ve been having fears of becoming a dad.

“Congrats! Your nieces were so great,” Mr. Aronson said.

“Thanks so much. I’m having imposter syndrome because I’m about to become a dad myself but anyway...” I said.

I think he felt bad for me.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have left the cast party and gone halfway around the building to a moonlit football field to smoke pot with a cute stranger.

Of course I think Mr. Drama is cute—who wouldn’t? His resting aw, shucks face would grab anyone’s attention. I also admittedly enjoy that he’s a genuine fan of my old show.

But I’m innocent of any wrongdoing.

Plus, it’s not like this guy is the type to break up a relationship. He’s too... nice.

And it’s not like I would ever cheat on Wyatt. It’s one of the many things I love about us.

We’re both monogamous to a fault.

But I can see by the pained expression on Wyatt’s face as he approaches that he thinks I’m in the wrong. It’s a mixture of jealousy, suspicion and hurt, which kills me.

“What are you guys up to?” Wyatt asks, trying to hide his emotion with a forced casual tone. I feel guilty for no reason.

“It’s so great you guys are about to have a baby. I was just talking your husband’s ear off about my two-year-old and our adoption journey,” Mr. Aronson says brightly.

Wyatt and I share a look on his earnest use of the word journey.

“We’re not married though,” I clarify, glancing back at Wyatt, who looks away.

“Oh. Sorry. I just assumed. Boyfriends though, right?” Mr. Aronson needs to slap a label on us, which is understandable. Most people want to know if we’re married, and it’s always disappointing that I have to say we’re just boyfriends. Somehow that never feels like it’s enough.

“Yes. For now,” Wyatt jokes. We all laugh but my smile fades quickly. The truth in his jest stings a little.

“You guys are going to be amazing dads. I can feel it,” Mr. Aronson adds. He takes another quick puff then hands the joint to Wyatt, who politely declines. He offers it to me but I’ve had my share for the night.

“We should probably go,” I say.

“Yeah, the girls have to get home,” Wyatt adds.

“Of course!” Mr. Aronson says, holding out a pack of gum for all of us to take a stick.

The three of us walk back to the cast party where Wyatt and I collect the twins.

“Come back next year,” Mr. Aronson says to us as we head for the exit. He smiles wide and announces, “We’re doing Angels in America!”

We both smile. “You gotta love the guy,” I say on our way out, immediately regretting my choice of words.

“Do you though?” Wyatt asks.

In the car, on the way back to Wyatt’s mom’s house, there are two very distinct conversations happening.

“Why would you do that?” Wyatt whispers at me so the girls won’t hear.

“I want to play Roy Cohn in Angels,” Evelyn tells Melody in the back seat.

“I didn’t do anything. It was completely harmless. We just didn’t want to,” I mime smoking pot, “near the school,” I explain, whispering back.

“Why? You’re so not right for the role,” a confused Melody says to Evelyn.

“Make out or smoke pot?” Wyatt asks, overreacting.

“So? It’s called playing against type. Maybe I don’t want to play ingenues my whole life,” Evelyn says. “Roy Cohn is the villain I was born to play.”

“I didn’t make out with him. We were just having a good conversation about having kids and he offered me pot,” I explain.

“I want to play the Angel,” Melody says.

“I know but look at it from my perspective,” Wyatt says.

“Do you even know what Angels in America is about?” Evelyn scoffs at her sister.

“I’m sorry that it seemed like something was going on but, trust me, it wasn’t. So you have to let this go. It was all harmless,” I say to Wyatt.

“It’s about angels? In... America,” Melody guesses.

Evelyn groans audibly. Wyatt groans audibly.

“It just feels like sometimes you’re not interested in being equal partners with me,” Wyatt continues. I can’t believe he thinks that.

“What are you guys talking about up there?” Evelyn is done with her sister and wants in on the (other) adult conversation.

“We’re just talking about how great you both were tonight,” Wyatt says, smiling into the rearview mirror at our temporary little angels. “Your mom and dad would be so proud. Your uncles are very proud.”

“That’s not what you were talking about but okay,” Evelyn says, nothing getting past her.

After dropping the twins off, we drive the short distance to Wyatt’s childhood home in silence. I tell myself it’s because we’re both exhausted.

I know Wyatt is upset but I don’t want to argue. I’m pretty sure Wyatt doesn’t either.

Wyatt’s mom returns from the hospital just as we arrive and tells us Alex is doing just fine. She and Wyatt decide to have a glass of wine after a long day. Wanting to give them some mother and son bonding time, I head upstairs.

Wyatt’s childhood bedroom has become his mom’s hybrid guest bedroom/real estate satellite office/home gym.

I collapse into an air mattress that Beverly made up, surrounded by a treadmill, a rack of pink dumbbells and her desk piled high with placards of her smiling real estate headshot.

I feel guilty for... I’m not sure exactly?

I’ll admit, it was a moment of weakness on my part. When the drama teacher offered me pot, I saw it as a chance to let loose a little, take advantage of the babymoon we’re supposed to be on. I needed to share how I’m worried about becoming a dad and that I won’t measure up to Wyatt.

Sometimes it’s easier to open up to a stranger than the ones we love.

I must’ve fallen asleep because Wyatt wakes me when he returns from downstairs. As he changes into his old gray Boston Bruins sleeping T-shirt, a fun thought pops into my head.

“Should we have make-up sex?” I ask, completely serious.

“Nope,” Wyatt states emphatically, turning his back to me as he folds his clothes in a perfectly neat stack.

I’m scared we’re never going to be intimate again. Especially after we have the baby. “Why not?” I ask.

“Because we haven’t made up.”

“Are we actually fighting? We could try and make up,” I suggest.

“Why don’t you go call your suburban Sondheim.”

“Oh, come on. He was a fan and wanted to tell me all about his kid and his adoption journey. Plus, he had weed and that’s it. Fine, I liked his glasses. But that’s really it.”

We hear footsteps approach and Wyatt slips onto the air mattress behind me, draping his arm over my body, as if nothing is wrong. His mom faintly knocks and pushes the door open. She appears almost in soft focus, wearing the nicest black nightgown thingy I’ve ever seen. It could easily double as a cocktail dress. She even dresses up to go to sleep.

“You two have everything you need?” she asks, placing two fancy bottles of sparkling water on a dresser.

“We’re so good right now, Mom,” Wyatt says.

I smile wide, feeling Wyatt give my thigh a tight squeeze under the covers. “We’re great,” I manage to let out.

“Stay hydrated and I’ll see you in the morning. Love you both.” She blows a kiss and leaves. The click of the door shutting coincides with Wyatt moving away from me.

It makes me feel like a toy he no longer wants.

“If she suspects anything, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Wyatt whispers. “Trying to figure out why we’re fighting will become her new hobby.”

“I’m not fighting. You’re fighting.”

“I’m not the one that snuck around to the football field, all hot for teacher,” Wyatt says.

Seeing Wyatt in bed next to me now, I know my boyfriend always has the competition beat. From his tuft of dark chest hair poking out of his T-shirt to his meaty calves that peek out of the blanket. No one has made me sizzle quite the same way before or after I met Wyatt.

“Nothing happened and nothing would’ve happened for the eightieth time,” I say. It’s troubling that Wyatt refuses to see this. “Aren’t we past petty jealousy at this point?”

“You’ve been so unpredictable lately that it’s just setting off some alarm bells.”

“Then let this be a lesson you can always trust me,” I try to smooth things over. “Okay?”

He lets out a sigh and I can smell the minty fresh Crest toothpaste on his breath as he tries to get comfortable on the cramped air mattress. He doesn’t answer, mulling this over.

The truth is, I was also using Mr. Aronson as a sounding board for my worries going into parenthood. Are you able to get any sleep? How do you know what a crying baby needs? What if the kid doesn’t even like you?

I sneak a glance at Wyatt, who’s staring at the same contours in the cottage cheese ceiling he probably stared at when he was a closeted gay kid, unsure of how to come out.

I toss and turn in my stew of regret and humiliation for something I didn’t even do.

“I can’t sleep,” Wyatt says.

We can hear his mom snoring now.

“Me neither,” I say. But not because his mom is snoring. Because I don’t know how to make any of this right.

“I overreacted,” he admits. “I’m probably overthinking everything right now.”

“You? Nah,” I joke. “We need to talk about a lot of things,” I continue, hopeful we can get past this.

“I know, but not in my childhood bedroom that’s been converted into a multipurpose room with my mom snoring down the hall.”

“Fair enough,” I whisper with some disappointment.

The baggage between us has piled up like a broken airport carousel. I’m knee-deep in my insecurity about having a baby and losing my job isn’t helping.

I can almost feel Wyatt thinking I won’t be a good dad.

Before my thoughts get too heavy, my eye catches a section of the far wall cabinet filled with Wyatt’s hockey medals and trophies. The last hint left that this was ever his bedroom.

“It’s still so wild to me that you were a high school hockey star,” I say.

“My brother was the real star,” Wyatt says. “You should see his trophy case.”

“Still can’t believe what a jock you were,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“You think my bubble butt was born in a gym?” Wyatt asks, eyes closed.

At least Wyatt can crack a joke. That means he’s letting the teacher business go. We need to find a way to enjoy the next couple weeks.

But we also need to organize the messy drawers of our relationship. Our trust is broken if Wyatt thinks his partner of twelve years was about to hook up with his nieces’ drama teacher.

Maybe I also need to understand why I felt the urge to escape my uncle duties to hang out with a stranger I’d just met. It was our one night of pretend fathering. Is the responsibility of parenting scaring me this much?

Maybe the larger issue isn’t me and Wyatt.

Maybe it’s just me.

Before I know it, Wyatt is asleep. I’m comforted by the sound of his deep breathing, which harmonizes with his mom, the crickets outside and the random creaks of the house.

There’s a safety that surrounds me like a warm hug. A feeling that makes me miss my own childhood home and parents.

As I’m about to fall asleep, I make a decision.

We’re going to make a detour to see my family in Chicago.