What Came First Read Online Free PDF Page A

vial left in a freezer somewhere, waiting for me.

    The Rhode Island Red’s squawking grows louder, more frantic. Her head moves around, even as she stays planted on the laying spot.
    “She’s doing it, Mom! She’s laying!”
    On the other side of the yard, the other chickens go about their business, walking, pecking, clucking. The Rhodie screams like a seagull and suddenly grows quiet.
    I log off the Web site and follow Ian to the coop, where he reaches under the chicken, searching for his treasure.
    The bird stands up.
    There is nothing there.

5
    Vanessa
    From the bedroom, I can hear Eric cleaning up the kitchen and putting everything away. He’s good about little things like that, even if he’s bad about big things like marriage. Every time he crosses the living room, I think he’s going to come see me in the bedroom. No way am I making the first move.
    Unfortunately, my stomach didn’t get the memo about playing hard to get. Finally I can’t stand the hunger pains anymore, and I open the bedroom door. Eric sits on the couch, reading a library book and listening to music. He looks up and turns off the iPod. When he doesn’t say anything, I hurry through the room and open the refrigerator. But now I don’t know what to eat.
    I burst into tears. “Is this it? Is it over?”
    He puts down his book and comes to me. I sob in his arms. The fridge stays open, like our own personal cold front.
    He says, “Shh, shh, shh.” In a comforting way, not like “Shut up.”
    He heats a messy slice of eggplant Parmesan in the microwave. I sit on the couch, balance the plate in my lap, cry and eat at the same time, which turns out to be kind of dangerous when I almost choke on a piece of really hot cheese. Eric keeps his arm around me, just getting up once to bring me a box of tissues. The tissue box is purple. It is hard to find purple tissue boxes. Eric bought it just for me.
    “Do you want to break up?” I ask when I can speak without gasping.
    “No.” He dabs my tears.
    “But you don’t want to marry me.”
    He’s quiet for a while. “If I was going to marry anyone, I’d marry you. It’s just . . . I know you want . . . I don’t know if . . .” He’s quiet again.
    “What?”
    “Being married, it seems so . . . final. Not that I want to be with anyone else, because I don’t. But I haven’t figured out what I want to do with my life. And the thing is, I don’t even want to figure that out yet. I’m just not ready to limit my options.”
    “And marrying me . . . that would be limiting.”
    “Not the you part. The marriage part. I’m committed to you, and you’re committed to me. We know that. What difference does it make whether we stand up in front of a roomful of people and someone hands us a piece of paper? I don’t need that piece of paper.”
    “But I do.” I put the plate on the coffee table and take another tissue.
    Eric strokes my hair. We are quiet for a little while, and then he goes, “I was just thinking . . . when you were in the bedroom, I was thinking . . . what if we went to Eastern Europe?”
    “You mean on vacation?” I know he doesn’t mean on vacation, but a girl can hope. A year after we met, Eric dropped everything, including me and his music career, and went to Thailand, Indonesia, Vietnam, and a couple of Asian countries I’d never heard of. Everyone said I was crazy to wait for him, but when he came back, eleven months later, he asked me to live with him, which I stupidly thought was a natural step on the way to marriage. Three years later, I’m not so sure.
    “We can stay as long as we want,” he says. “It’s kind of incredible, when you think of all the places I’ve been, that I’ve never even seen Slovakia or Hungary, or, God, Bosnia . Bosnia would be awesome. And if you came . . .” He stops stroking my hair and gazes into the distance like he’s watching a movie of our imaginary lives.
    “I have a job,” I remind him. “We have an apartment.”
    “You