Do I need to grow old with someone?

Have I already missed my chance?

Nino and I sit at the table waiting for Z to come to dinner. He calls out, "One more minute!" from his bedroom more minutes than I can count. But I'm so happy he's home on break that I wait.

I ask Nino, "Do you remember when you used to count down the months until the kids were old enough to put themselves to bed?"

"Yeah. Does Z put himself to bed yet?"

I laugh.

Is this type of conversation fulfilling enough to sustain me for the next twenty years? Maybe. Nino knows me so well. I've seen that when people get old, if they find a new partner, they don't really get old with them.

My dad's third wife told him that he's too autistic for her and, in her own autistic flurry, moved out and told him to move out too so she could sell the house. He thought it was because she's a real estate agent. We had to tell him it was because she's a real estate agent getting a divorce.

A person can only grow old with someone they grew up with. Nino is the one I grew up with. Who knew that you can be divorced and still grow up with the person? It's a huge indictment of divorce, really. You can't properly raise your kids and get the partner out of your life.

Nino wants dinner by 8:30, and I can tell he's getting antsy as we wait for Z to do an outlandish display of anxious-attachment with his non-girlfriend.

"Be direct," I tell him. "You can't have a relationship with someone if you're not direct."

"We're not in a relationship!"

"Then can we have dinner? Dad's gonna get grouchy."

"I'm not grouchy. But I thought Z was gay. I mean, he can be whatever he wants. I'm just asking."

"She's not my girlfriend!"

I can see it's going to be a long night. Z is putting on a clean shirt, which means he's probably trying to win her back. If he ever had her at all.

I put everything on plates. I tell Nino that I found the drawing some kid made of us in NYC when we were at a pizza place. "Do you remember it?"

"Yeah," he says.

"It's a good memory of us going to visit our books."

"What?"

"We were on our way to New Jersey. When we stored books at my brother's."

"I don't remember."

I wash dishes while I wait for Z to not come to dinner. I think about how I'm always surprised by what Nino remembers. Or doesn't. Like how I remember our engagement and he doesn't. I remember he came to LA on a surprise visit, and I told him that he couldn't sleep over if we weren't getting married. Later that day he came to my office with a ring. I was so happy that I can still feel that happiness if I remember hard enough.

Nino remembers when we were at an open mic and one of the rappers asked me if I freestyle, and I said yes. I wish I could remember what I did, because Nino always says I was shockingly awesome. That's what I think about the engagement: he was shockingly awesome. It's like we are time in a bottle for each other.

We walk the dog so we don't have to do it after dinner since it will, at this point, be very late. The dog is always happier with Nino on the walk because herding isn't fun with one person.

I can choose to think about how Nino didn't pay child support and still can't manage his tone of voice. Or I can think about how he's the only other person who would wait this long for the chance to eat with Z.

We come back and Z is on the phone. I start eating the corn since Nino doesn't like it on the cob and Z doesn't like it cold. Then I start eating everything else. Then Nino starts eating too.

Too much later, Z comes in. He complains that everything is gone.

I think about apologizing. I consider going back to my standard worry that I'll do something wrong and then he'll stop coming home. Instead, I tell him that we can't wait for him for an infinite amount of time and that we'd already told him dinner was ready. Twice. "There's food in the fridge you can heat up."

He huffs at us about his love life and priorities and stomps out.

Nino says, "You handled that well."

I freeze. It's the first time he's said that in fifteen years.

And now, weeks later, I'm still thinking about it.

That's what I want for growing old.