I had only met one man in my life that I’d honestly describe as boring. He had those kind of eyes that seemed to get deeper the longer you looked into them, and never wore sweatpants. He was an architect who came from a family of architects, which just meant he was rich and pretentious. 

He talked about his job, his family, his current project, his last project. Not only that, but he also talked about his grandparents’ house in Massachusetts that his great-great-grandfather designed and built, which made me want to stab a knife into my hand to wake myself up from the nightmare I was experiencing.

His favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla. His favorite color is blue. He prefers white socks to black. He’s never broken a bone or sprained a muscle. He’s lived in the same childhood home his entire life. His favorite holiday is New Year’s Eve because of “what it represents.” Summer is his favorite season, and it’s not because of the vacations.

That agonizing feeling I had every time he spoke didn’t change, the same way he never stopped talking about that house. For the next five years, not a single day went by where Mr. Boring didn’t talk about the Massachusetts house. The way the inside has been perfectly preserved. How the family photos hung in the hallway. His favorite part of the house is the layout, he said he couldn’t have done it any better.

It wasn’t because he wasn’t funny, or smart, or attractive. I would believe it if you said lots of people found him those things. I just didn’t feel that spark. On August 14th, I married that same man.

“We are homeowners to a house with six columns!” I beam up at the old yellow house that I’ve heard so much about. 

Teddy spent so many summers here being spoiled by his grandparents, who were retired and had run out of things to spend money on. Both of our birthdays are in the winter, but his grandparents gave him a half-birthday party at the beginning of every summer. When I told him “that’s a little extreme. You didn’t need two birthdays”, he said, “They just felt bad they couldn’t ever be there for my actual birthday and wanted to make it up to me.”

“It’s just beautiful, innit!” My husband responds in a weak British accent; his idea of being funny. He also thinks it’s funny that once our baby is born we strictly speak in accents, so the child will have one. 

“Teddy, no British accents today, please.” 

“Right, sorry,” He grins and kisses my forehead. “Going in?”

“No, I actually want to look at the house a little longer. I’ll catch up.” Even though the summer sun is beaming too eagerly, I do want to prepare myself for what’s waiting on the inside. And what it means for me. Because, honestly, I’m scared.

I’m scared of owning a house. I’m scared of having this baby, and I’m scared of being by myself like this for much longer. We’ve never confronted this, and I certainly don’t want to bring it up, but I wish he would. I wish he would start a fight. I wish he would get angry with me. It would be better than this mundane groove we’ve found ourselves in; wake up, he makes breakfast, he tells me about the dream he had last night, he takes a shower, kisses me goodbye, leaves for work, returns at 7:39, we eat dinner, he tells me about his current project, asks me how me and the baby are feeling, tells me how tired he feels, we watch a movie, he falls asleep right before it gets interesting, he wakes up after it ends, asks me what I thought of it, gives his own review even though he didn’t see any of it, compares it to his favorite movie (Saving Private Ryan), and then he kisses me goodnight and we both go to bed. Because certainly he feels as unhinged as I do, right? Owning a house together just solidifies this routine as what the rest of my life is going to look like. 

Maybe it was when Teddy’s parents called me “trailer trash”. Maybe it was when Teddy told me to quit my job because he makes enough for the both of us. Maybe it was when I moved away from my entire family. I just can’t help but feel alone. My whole world is sitting in our apartment – now house – and waiting. Waiting for Teddy to get back. Waiting for something to happen. Expecting. Anticipating. Something dramatic or something worth celebrating. Someone to talk to.

Along with the six columns, the front of the house has nine windows; four on the first floor and five on the second. It’s strange that they made an odd number of windows work for a symmetrical house. When I told Teddy this earlier, he said, “That’s a good observation!” like I was a kid in school. The red brick patio contrasts the yellow siding (not in a good way) and doesn’t have a single scratch on it. Not even a bug crawling. Upon further inspection, the first brick on the right side of the door has “T. D.” carved into it. For Teddy Desai? More likely for his grandfather, Theodore Desai I. I married Theodore Desai V and will give birth to Theodore Desai VI.

Teddy is very proud of his great-grandfather – is there another great in there? – for building this house. He says his grandfather took the initiative of starting the “Greek Revival” house trend, which I think is a bit of a stretch. Obviously, Teddy, as the architect, knows more about what the style means for history, but I’m not impressed by it. It’s too perfect. The lush green grass and hedges are trimmed without a stray leaf, and I’m starting to believe they’re plastic. If I was wittier, I would make a metaphor that the plastic bushes are realer than Teddy’s family. Because Teddy’s family is fake. Like plastic. 

“Hah, good one.” I muttered to myself. “You’re soooo funny.”

I decided to give up looking at the house and to walk inside. I kind of have the rest of my life to study what it looks like. Six columns and all.

The interior decor is wildly outdated. With a closed floor plan like this, I have no idea what door to go through first. Teddy calls himself an “architectural conservationist”, so I know I won’t have any luck of updating the house. Doesn’t every new president get to redecorate the White House?

With the best effort I could as a very pregnant woman who just climbed five steps, I called out, “Teddy?”

Teddy was ecstatic when I told him I was pregnant. We never really talked about what we wanted regarding kids, but I knew I didn’t want them. A part of me was hoping Teddy didn’t want kids either, but that was a long shot. Teddy loved anything that had to do with life. He loved all kinds of life. He said, “I just feel so lucky, Valerie.”

I never had any doubt that Teddy loved me. That part was obvious to me. What wasn’t obvious was whether I deserved his love. Soon after we had first gotten married, and before his grandparents died, Teddy had just gotten signed onto a huge project and had to travel – I don’t remember where to, I just know it was far, and he would be gone for a long time. This was the start of him being gone for three months at a time. He would call and text regularly about how much he missed me, but that he also really enjoyed being somewhere new. I wish I could go someplace new.

Being by myself gave me this feeling that made my chest lighter and my steps quicker. I didn’t wake up until noon, I actually left the apartment, I tried oat milk in my coffee, and I never watched a movie before bed. I had my own routine that didn’t burn me out. 

I thought I loved Teddy. But love isn’t dread. Love isn’t hoping they do something wrong, so you have a reason to hate them. Love isn’t wishing they never come home. Love isn’t praying you don’t wake up in the morning. 

Every night, I dream of the night I met someone else. We’re both at my friend Stacey’s dinner party. He was a work friend of hers, and I was the friend from high school to prove to everyone how charitable she has always been. He’s wearing a geometric patterned button up that resembles a wallpaper, but the first two buttons are purposefully left undone. Stacey used to say the sluttiest thing a man can do is wear buttoned up shirts unbuttoned. But I don’t think he was wearing his shirt like that to be slutty. 

He asks me, “What do you do?”

I found myself wanting to impress him. I wanted to lie to him and say I’m something impressive like a nurse or, like Teddy, an architect instead of what I really was; unemployed. But in the dream, I’m the architect. We talk more, we eat Stacey’s lasagna, and we laugh quietly to each other about how it’s undercooked. 

 In the dream, there’s a knock at the door that I go to answer. It’s Teddy. He’s not upset, not mad, at me for even thinking of the man at the dinner party that way, and takes me home. In reality, I never tell the man at the dinner party that I’m married, and he asks for my number at the end of the night.

There was this longing inside of me that desired to cater to his every need. The man at the dinner party, that is. I pictured myself making him breakfast. Running errands and walking the park together, we would have fun just being next to each other. I wanted to do the mundane with him.

He liked the way I parted my hair and the way I dressed. He would remember how I liked my coffee, but know that my cravings would be different depending on the weather. He would always make plans and not just ask if I wanted to do something. We never did the same thing twice. He was Mr. Everything-I-Dreamed-Of. Mr. Funny. Mr. Listened-To-Me. Mr. Perfect.

And for two years, everything was perfect. But then I got pregnant. And Teddy returned from work for good. And then Teddy’s grandparents died. And then I found myself breaking it off with the man from the dinner party before I could tell him that I’m having his baby. And then we moved to Massachusetts. And then I found myself in front of the six columns.

I had this compulsion to scream at the top of my lungs, pull my hair, thrash around on the ground, but I stood there and waited for Teddy to find me at the entrance hall. In a boyish fashion that only existed in teen romance fictions, Teddy comes running from the far end of the hallway. All the buttons of his shirt are done.

“Did you get a good look at the house, love?” He says this as he tucks my hair behind my ear. Endearing, I assume.

“It’s beautiful.” I nod. “I would want to spend all my summers here, too.”

“Well, how does everyday sound?”

Like hell. He grabs my left hand and guides me back down the hallway, saying that’s where the rest of the family is at. As he fidgets with my wedding ring, my mind wanders. Wanders to what every day in this house could possibly be like, what I’m going to do when this baby is born. What Mr. Perfect is up to. 

Teddy stops in front of wooden double doors before he whispers, “I love you”. I wish my heart tugged even a little bit. He leads me into the room where everyone is standing around a dining table with clean smiles on their faces and wine glasses in their hands.

“Happy birthday!”