A Last Time for Everything

Prologue

December

Arthur Peterson stood patiently in the hallway, waiting to find out if his life was about to change.

Positioned just outside the bathroom door, he could hear everything.

The cheap, builder-grade material had a way of not only not dampening sounds but somehow amplifying them.

On quiet nights, when the upstairs neighbors weren’t stomping around and violently dragging heavy chains across the floor or whatever it was they did up there, Arthur and Wren could hear each other wipe.

Wipe! Safe to say there were no secrets in this household.

The amphitheater-like properties of the apartment’s layout were working overtime tonight. Arthur could hear every rip of the box coming from inside the bathroom, every peel of the wrapper, and soon, every single drip-drop that would determine the next eighteen-plus years of his life.

He waited, leaning against the wall, but not too hard lest the plasterboard give way. (Arthur knew almost nothing about construction, home repair, or general handiness, but he knew deep in his soul that the drywall in their apartment had to be thinner than the standard. Glorified papier-maché.)

He waited still and heard nothing.

“Babe? Did you fall in?”

“Yes,” Wren called through the door. “I’ve fallen in and am now making my way through the Baltimore City sewage system.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” he said flatly. Wren wasn’t a strong swimmer, he knew that much.

“I did briefly drop the test in, though. Five-second rule is a thing, right? It’s probably fine.”

“You should get another one. God knows what kind of residue is floating around in that toilet. If that one’s positive it might mean I’m pregnant.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Hold on.” There was a shuffling, another ripping of a box, and more crinkling wrappers.

Arthur didn’t love the idea of Wren in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the perma-yellow toilet (they cleaned it frequently—he cleaned it frequently—to no avail), going this alone.

He wanted to be in there with her, to hold her hand, even though he wasn’t certain it would help the situation.

While it seemed romantic in a sense, practically, holding hands with someone who was peeing would have its challenges.

“We don’t have to do this right now, you know,” he reminded her.

It hadn’t exactly been the most well-planned-out operation.

Wren had…something. Call it a feeling, a gut instinct, or a feminine intuition.

Some magical, almost spiritual divination that a miracle was occurring inside her.

Or “My fucking tits hurt,” as she had so eloquently put it at the time.

A quick trip to the Dollar Tree for a six-pack of tests and here they were.

“Yes, we do. I won’t be able to enjoy the New Year’s party knowing the champagne might be poisoning the baby, if there is a baby.”

Their friends Charlie and Tristan were hosting a gathering for everyone to watch the ball drop.

There’d be fancy dress, passed hors d’oeuvres, and many loud arguments about whether Dick Clark was still alive.

It could easily be settled by a two-second Google search, but it would be more fun to shout back and forth about it instead.

“You could just not drink,” Arthur said. “I mean we could just not drink.”

“I’m not even going to acknowledge that.”

Silence. The anticipation was going to kill him if this went on any longer.

“I think I forgot how to pee,” Wren said after a few moments.

“Sorry?”

“You know when you become aware of every blink or breath and suddenly you don’t remember how to do it automatically anymore? I think I’ve got the opposite of that. I can’t remember how it’s supposed to work. Can you distract me?”

She was probably dehydrated. The woman was incapable of drinking water, only energy drinks, coffee, and red wine.

He had to trick her into drinking water by sweetening it up with those little squeeze pouches, pure extract of Red 40.

It was like trying to get a kid to eat broccoli by chopping it up and hiding it in mac and cheese.

At least, he’d always heard that was a good technique, until he saw a psychologist on TikTok declare that it caused kids to develop trust issues later in life.

“Um…Got any New Year’s resolutions?” he asked. It seemed an appropriate question to pass the time. Midnight was just a few hours away, after all.

“Nothing concrete. I want to do something new with my hair, maybe.”

“Already?” She’d just gotten it cut short a few weeks ago on a whim, unable to wait until summer to chop it all off. He liked it at every length. She always asked him for his opinion, as if he’d have one other than she’d look great whatever she decided to do.

“I might go shorter, or try a new color.”

“Or try shaving it all off. I’ve always said you have a sexy head shape.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. How about you?”

“I’m mostly just thinking about this potentially-becoming-a-father thing.”

What was he supposed to do with this impending news, finally get that six-pack he’d always wanted? Run a half-marathon? Download a chess app and get obliterated by eleven-year-olds from Germany? No. Self-improvement would have to wait.

“There’s gotta be something. Maybe this could finally be the year you make some progress on grad school?”

“I have been making progress. I’m just going at my own pace.”

“You narrowed it from, what, ten schools down to eight? You’re a machine.”

“Yes. And I’ll whittle it down further when I’m good and ready.”

“Oh, classic Arthur,” she chuckled.

She didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it. Wren liked to do things willy-nilly, off the cuff.

For example, she never took a list when it was her turn to grab groceries, which was lunacy to him, and exactly how they ended up with so many gimmick foods in the pantry and fridge—things like Cool Ranch Oreos, Dunkaroos-flavored coffee creamer, Sour Patch Kids–infused wine.

He shopped the sales and made an attempt to consider the entire spectrum of nutrients the human body needed; Wren shopped on vibes and vibes alone.

She went with her heart and her gut, and he loved those things about her.

But going back to school to get his master’s was not a willy-nilly decision.

He wanted to make the right choice, not to mention make sure he got the timing just right.

His future depended on it. Their future.

But before he could think about it any further, a sigh of relief came from Wren.

A moment later, she flushed the toilet and stepped out, dark hair clinging to a slightly damp forehead.

Her usually pale cheeks lit up with just the faintest bit of red.

Her skin freckled with goose bumps. She was frazzled but silent.

Come on, out with it, woman! he thought.

“So?” was all he could think of to say. He was suddenly warm, his skin all tingly. If there were any more words in him, they were all stuck in his throat.

“It has to bake for a few minutes.” Right. Of course. He knew that. “You want a drink?”

She pushed past him and crossed the small living room, which didn’t take long, and curled around the wall and into the kitchen.

The entire apartment was only a handful of strides long, covered in thick, stiff carpeting that had apparently been the victim of a horrible glue spill at some point.

In certain spots, it was hard enough to break skin. Arthur followed, carefully.

In the kitchen, Wren whipped the fridge open and grabbed a beer (Natty Boh, the city’s official beer even though it wasn’t technically made there; it was all Wren ever bought) and shoved it into Arthur’s chest.

“What’s this for? How long do we need to wait?”

She moved to the microwave and set a timer for three minutes, pressing extra hard on the finicky buttons, the thin protective layer of plastic meant to protect them from splatters bubbling and peeling off in chunks, then turned back and took a deep breath.

“I have to tell you something before we look. You know, just in case.”

Now he was the frazzled one. I have to tell you something. Right now? It had to be bad. If the adrenaline hadn’t gotten to him yet, it was happening now. His heart began to thud and he felt sweat quickly pooling in all the most embarrassing places.

“OK,” he said. The beer hadn’t seemed appealing or necessary at first, but now he suddenly found himself taking a long pull.

She took a breath, as if gathering herself, and he prepared for the worst. Maybe there was a baby, but it wasn’t his.

Or maybe, and more likely, this was just the catalyst she needed to realize that she didn’t love him.

Wasn’t in love with him, anyway. Not anymore.

I’m having your baby, and also I’m leaving you, he imagined her saying.

And why not? The noticeable hotness differential between them had always made him a little uneasy.

Wren was edgy, with piercing blue eyes and an “I woke up like this” beauty that any living human, man or woman, would kill for.

In photos, Arthur often felt like the bafflingly average-looking boyfriend draped on the arm of an A-list celebrity, the one who people figured had to be a rich producer or something.

Nerdy but not in the sexy way, thin, a beard that didn’t look quite right at any length.

And, though they had been together for about eight years, give or take, they weren’t married.

He began to strategize: What would he do if this was the day he’d always feared might come? What would he say if—

“Arthur?”

“Hey,” he said, snapping back to the moment, embarrassed at how quickly he had spiraled just now. It was just the nerves chattering inside him, that was all. He had to suppress the urge to draw finger guns in order to show her how cool and casual he was.

“Yeah, hi. I said I need to tell you something. And since the test will be fully baked in about”—Wren looked at the microwave clock—“two and a half more minutes, you’ll have a limited amount of time to be mad at me, so here goes.”