It was eight months ago, on the way to work, during a unseasonably December morning in Soho, that Gretchen told me that she was pregnant.
“Pregnant. But we’re gay,” I said.
“No, you’re a lesbian. I’m bi-sexual.”
“Are we going to argue semantics again? I wish you never took that course at NYU.”
“I’m not talking about language. I’m talking about reality.”
“I know, I know. Language is reality.”
“Laura, I’m pregnant.”
“How can you be pregnant?”
“It’s what happens sometimes when you fuck a guy.”
“You fucked a guy?”
“I’m in love with a guy.”
“You’re in love with a guy?”
“What are you saying, Gretchen?”
“I’m moving out. I’m moving in with Ryan. I’ve been seeing him for five months already. I’m going to have a baby.”
We were crossing the street at the time. The snow from last week’s storm was melting, turning into mush.
“It’s betrayal,” I said, as we jumped over a puddle.
“I know this is hard to hear. It’s hard for me too.”
“It’s not just betrayal of me. It’s a betrayal of all lesbians. Of the entire community. You can’t fuck a guy and have his baby. Unless we do it together.”
“Ryan’s a gentle man. An illustrator of children’s books. The heart doesn’t know gender. It just knows love.”
“And what about me? What am I going to do?”
“We’ll always be friends. I love you, too. I want you in my life. I want you to be the baby’s godmother.”
“I’m not going to be that baby’s godmother. I don’t give a shit about your shitty baby.”
That was eight months ago. Since then, I have gone on a few dates with women I met online, but nothing interesting. No chemistry. Not like I had with Gretchen.
Today, I received an email to the baptism of her baby, (a baptism!?) but I deleted it.