Henry packed the table arrangements back into boxes, extracting the dainty flowers from a battleground of soiled napkins, spilled booze, and discarded menus. Dave and Kamile didn’t want to keep the arrangements, so whatever the other guests hadn’t taken, they’d donate to a local assisted-living facility. It was an excuse to stay till the end, really: he and Gor wanted to keep an eye on Liv, especially given the free-flowing alcohol. But the wedding had turned out pretty much perfectly. Possibly the part where the bride mentioned the hashtag in her vows was a little odd. But otherwise, gorgeous.
Henry finished one box and started another.
Clay and Zia. Huh. If they got married, maybe Henry would get to make a speech. Zia and Clay are a passionate couple. I walked in on them about to share their first kiss… in a public bathroom! Henry had made a dozen speeches at weddings over the years. People said he was good at them. He just always imagined the sort of speech he’d want to hear at his own wedding.
In the weeks following his birthday and the infamous stand mixer, Henry had begun to feel increasingly insecure. Maybe he’d been too subtle about wanting to get married, maybe not. Either way, it was obvious Gorman didn’t want to marry him. But instead of addressing the issue as he typically would, his lack of confidence made him fold back on himself. Maybe he should just let the idea go. Gay marriage as fiction, as performed normativity—could he make it his truth, if he had to?
It seemed impossible. Painful. Dangerous. Why?
Because if he followed the impulse all the way to its logical root, he wanted a baby.
Henry’s hand stilled in midair. He’d never let the desire form so perfectly, so unapologetically. Instead, Henry buried his paternal urges under layers of practicality and, somewhat shamefully, fear. Even in progressive Brooklyn, he and Gorman were far from a typical family: an interracial gay couple, a generation apart in age. But how much longer could Henry deny the precious and delicate truth that he wanted to be a father? He’d never just wanted a proposal—he wanted shelter for a family. An indication Gorman wanted one too. Marriage was a need for a love that was strong and reciprocal enough to create the future he was terrified to imagine.
“Can I have a flower?” Behind him stood a little girl, her small face pink and puffy with sleep.
Henry’s heart just about fainted. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”
He selected a white frizzle tulip. The child accepted it gravely, just as her mom came up behind her. They looked so alike: same close-set eyes, same narrow chin.
“What do you say to the nice man?” Mom prompted, and the girl responded with the requisite “Thank you,” cut short by a big yawn.
They left. Henry felt his smile fade.
For straight couples, the news they might not be able to conceive a child was devastating, a turn of events they’d spend thousands of dollars and years of effort to overcome. Because what greater achievement could there be in making a person with the person you love? The literal expression of your union, there in a child that has Mom’s pretty eyes and Dad’s sense of humor. Straight people expected shared DNA would form their family and anything less was subpar. But subpar was where gay couples started and no one ever said anything about it. The tragedy that Henry could not make a baby with Gorman, or even bring up the notion of children in the first place, was a sadness he alone had to carry.
He hefted the crate of arrangements and headed for the car.