Page 7 of Glad You're Here

Iwoke the following day with a splitting headache and a mouth full of cotton. Thank goodness Thea had cut me off after five drinks, or I’d be bowing to the porcelain god in my hotel bathroom.

Thea was incredible — like every teenage boy fantasy I’d ever had and buried. Her dark purple, almost black hair was fantastic, and her fuck everything attitude had my head spinning.

Okay. Maybe the head-spinning came from the hangover and not Thea. Still, she was cool. She reminded me of the kind of girl I would’ve made out with at an MCR concert if I’d ever been allowed to attend.

Durango was a good random choice. Thea was cool.

I winced as I recalled a few moments toward the night’s end. I knew I’d talked her ear off about Mormonism. That probably bored her half to death. Also, did I call her a sandwich? I had no game.

I splashed a little water on my face and reached for my razor. Somewhere along the line, Mormon culture dictated that God liked clean-shaven men more than bearded ones. It’s ironic, considering that most early church prophets, including my namesake, sported full beards. I gripped my razor’s smooth, black handle but didn’t lift it to my face. I’d been shaving daily from the age of seventeen but never once stopped to ask myself if I liked how my face looked.

After examining myself in the mirror, I determined that I didn’t like shaving. I set the razor on the edge of the sink and ran my hand over the stubble on my jaw and chin. Gina hated it when I missed a day shaving. “It feels like sandpaper!” she’d whine at me. “You look like a homeless man.”

It was fitting since, technically, I was homeless now. Gina got to keep the four-bedroom house we were supposed to fill with children.

I blinked at my reflection, waiting for the pain to surface. Gina and I couldn’t have kids, no matter how hard we prayed or how many fertility treatments we tried. I allegedly had a low sperm count, and Gina suffered from endometriosis. Our chances of procreating were slim to none.

Every unsuccessful pregnancy attempt pierced another hole through our fragile marriage. Sex quickly became a source of anguish for us. Usually, simply the word pregnancy would send Gina into a tailspin of depression, and it would fill me with pain. She’d never call it depression, though. Faithful Mormon women didn’t get depressed. They smiled and served and exemplified the light of Christ. Room for depression didn’t exist.

That still made me sad for her. And somehow, I felt responsible for her pain. I should have fixed it. I should have given her all the babies she wanted.

Holy shit.

All of the babies she wanted.

We tried to get pregnant every time she brought it up. I never did. We discussed fertility treatments and adoption when she wanted to—I never so much as googled the processes. I’d never made a baby names list. I had zero opinions on crib or stroller brands. I didn’t even hold my nieces and nephews when they were born.

When I closed my eyes and pictured my future, there were never kids running around.

What if I’d never felt pain? What if that ugly feeling I’d had all of these years was guilt over not wanting the children we couldn’t have, over causing my wife so much anguish?

Huh. Wow. I didn’t want kids.

Should I sit down for this?

I waited for the realization to hit me like a ton of bricks. This was huge. But instead of bricks hitting me, they lifted off my shoulders.

I shook my head and made for the kitchenette. I’d had a whole lot of self-discovery for one morning. Now, I needed some protein and coconut water. I’d read that those helped hangovers.

While I fried myself a couple of eggs, I saw the black phone number scrawled on my wrist. The ache in my stomach made me never want to consume alcohol again, but the thought of green eyes and purple hair had me feeling pretty confident that I’d head to the bar again tonight.

Unfortunately, that meant I’d have to call or text Thea. I hadn’t asked a girl out in over twelve years, and even then, it didn’t require an ounce of courage to invite Gina to dinner and a movie. Everyone expected us to get married after I returned from my mission. My mother practically dialed her number for me and handed me the phone.

I tried to ignore the nerves already taking root and forced myself to eat the breakfast I’d prepared. My head and stomach approved of the nutrition and hydration. I took a deep breath and picked up my phone. The new background, a photo I took at Kolob Canyon, stared up at me. I’d changed it from the photo of Gina months before she suggested divorce— proof that I subconsciously knew things were over between us long before we signed the papers.

I shouldn’t feel guilty that Thea made me smile and sent my heart racing.

But 10:45 am was too early to text. And I could text because she said I couldn’t use her number for a date. You were supposed to call for dates, but texting for hangouts was fine.

Unless the rules had changed?

“Dang-it,” I whispered to myself.

I typed out a text message but waited until 11:07 to send it.

Hi, Thea. It’s Brigham — or, I guess it’s Levi now. :) I had fun hanging out with you last night. Would you be interested in meeting me at The Station again tonight?

I hurriedly sent a follow-up.