Confidential(78)

“I can’t believe I might be a father soon!” He laughed, as if dazed.

“Haven’t you done this before?”

“Honestly, no one chose my sperm the last time around. I guess I don’t look that good on paper.”

Huh. I’d come away from our conversation that day thinking he’d already made someone a mother. I must have misunderstood. “Were you bummed? Or were you relieved? You got to take the money and run.”

“It wasn’t much money. But yes, I was both bummed and relieved. Remember, I was young. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Do you know now?”

Another semidazed laugh.

“Well, I know what I want,” I said. “And she—or he—might be inside me.” Now I was the one laughing, with pure anticipatory joy. The joy of soon being joyous. “Do you think she’s listening right now?”

“Your gut still says girl?”

“It’s hoping for a girl.”

“How come?”

I contemplated the crackling of my pseudo-fire. “I don’t know. Girls seem easier to understand.”

“Because you are one?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Just to play devil’s advocate, boys are less complicated. They’re more primal, less evolved, and they’re more likely to worship you.”

“Stereotype much?”

He chuckled. “You’ve found me out. Therapists can be judgmental, too.”

“Were you judging me all those sessions, and you’re good at concealing it?”

“I’m a human being. Judgments come with the territory. But when I’m in that chair, in that office, I’m a better version of myself. I can stay open-minded and suspend disbelief, and I’m seeing the best in other people. And I’m always getting surprised.”

“So it’s not an act; you just change once you walk out of the office?” That wasn’t exactly welcome information. My initial affinity had been toward Dr. Michael. But no need to panic. I reminded myself that since Michael and I had been—what to call it? Courting?—I was still drawn to him.

“You make it sound like Superman and the phone booth,” he joked.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I like you, Greer. I like that you’re just the same inside that room as you are out. You’re a challenge. You challenge me.”

There was nothing to worry about. Michael and I had been feeling each other since the day we met. It could be that I was finally part of some great romance that started with a very unusual meet-cute and ended with a family. I noticed that I’d been unconsciously running my hand over my flat belly.

“Hello?” he asked. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

Quite the opposite. “I’m just reflecting.”

“On?”

“How we started.”

He let out a little sigh. “Part of me wishes we could freeze this moment and just live here in the fantasy, where anything’s possible. Reality kills everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t mind me. It’s been a long day.”

It was the first time in the conversation we were on different pages emotionally. His melancholy was bleeding through the phone line. “Has something happened?”

“I just had a breakup, that’s all.”

It wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t. I’d never asked, just assumed. Just hoped. “Did you break up with her, or did she finally manage to shake you off her pant leg?” I was trying to sound light, but the answer made a big difference.

“I broke up with her. The last embers were extinguished last night.”

“Is it because of our arrangement?”

“No, it had been coming for a while. She didn’t know anything about this or about you.”

That was a sign of how wrong they’d been for each other, that he couldn’t even tell her about something this life changing. Unless it was a sign that he didn’t intend to have it change his life at all.

That was his prerogative. We’d signed all the papers, and he was free to do whatever he wanted. There was no obligation for him to be involved; I’d made sure he had no parental rights. The paperwork was written up much like that between an adoptive parent and a birth mother: If he wanted visitation, he could see the child up to twice a month, but he could never sue for custody. He was guaranteed limited access; I had control. He wasn’t forced to have a relationship with his child or with me, but I’d been hoping that he’d want them. That he’d want us, me and the baby likely growing inside me.

“I’d want her to have your eyes,” he said. “You have beautiful eyes.” It was a non sequitur but a damn good one.

“I’d want her to have your emotional intelligence.”

“Your grit.”

I laughed. “I didn’t know anyone said ‘grit’ anymore. Do you want her to have my gumption, too?”

“Yes, absolutely. But let’s not stop there.”

I settled back into the couch and let him sweet-talk me, my hands roaming over my abdomen lightly, like a prayer.





CHAPTER 64