Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(25)

“Good?”

I nod. “You know what, you’re a really good guy.”

He hums an acknowledgment.

“Thank you again. For agreeing to be my donor.” And because it feels safe, and sort of like we’re friends sharing secrets in the quiet hush of the night I say, “I’m so glad you came.”

“It’s no big deal.” He frowns and opens up his jacket for me to step out of.

“Right.” I step back and shiver at the wind and the chill.

I look around and check the cross streets. We’re not far from my apartment, maybe a ten-minute walk. “Do you want to come up to my place and have some coffee before you catch the train?”

Josh gives me a funny look. “For what?”

I shake my head, confused at his question, then I remember what he said at the New Year’s Party. I don’t think we should have sex, Gemma.

I flush and start walking. “I just figured you might want some coffee before a long train trip back north. No big deal.”

“Okay, sure.”

I look over at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

Josh’s phone starts to chirp. He frowns and pulls it out of his pocket. The display says Dylan. My brother. Josh sends it to voicemail and pops it back in his pocket.

“You can answer it,” I say.

Josh shrugs, but then the phone starts to ring again. He pulls it out. Dylan’s calling again. He looks at me and I gesture for him to answer.

“What’s up?”

I hear Dylan on the other end but can’t make out what he’s saying.

“No, I’m in the city.”

Josh listens for a minute, then, “Just getting dinner.” And, “What do you mean, with who? No. No.”

I give Josh a bemused smile. My brother sounds like a mother hen.

“I’m with Gemma. Yeah. Your sister Gemma,” Josh finally says.

Then Josh frowns and holds out the phone. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

I take the phone and put it to my ear. “What?”

“Why are you out with Josh?” he says in an annoying big-brother voice, no preliminaries whatsoever.

I look at Josh and open my eyes wide. I haven’t told my family anything about my decision to do IVF, and if it’s not successful then I probably won’t tell them ever. Sometimes, when you have a dream, it’s too precious or too fragile to share with anyone. You have to keep it in the dark, like a seedling, and nurse it and let it grow before you share it with the world.

“Gemma?”

“What? I ran into him in Midtown at a pizza place. Why are you so nosy? Gah, you’re a worse busybody than Mom.”

“Gemma, you’re my kid sister. I do not want you messing around with my best friend.”

My mouth falls open. I cannot believe he just went there. “Dylan. First off, I’m thirty-two years old, I run my own life. Second, this is not some cheesy made-for-TV movie where I have an overprotective brother that dictates my life. Third, screw off, and I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

Josh is watching me and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

I hear my mom in the background, shouting something about pot roast to my brother. Dylan calls back, “No, Ma, he’s in the city with Gemma, he can’t come.”

Then he says, “Whatever, Gemma. Obviously you and Josh aren’t hooking up. You’re not his type, and you’re all about that Ian dude anyway. I’m just saying, hang on, Mom wants to talk to you.”

I hear the phone rustle as Dylan hands it to my mom. Josh raises his eyebrows at me. “My mom,” I mouth.

He smothers another laugh.

“Gemma, sweetie. I dry-cleaned the orange dress for you. You should pick it up this weekend when you babysit for Leah.”

Oh blah. The pumpkin dress.

“Sure, Mom. I will.”

“Good, sweetie. And tell Josh that he forgot his coat here the other day and I sent it to the dry-cleaners as well. He can grab it tomorrow.”

“Okay, Mom. Will do.”

Then Dylan’s back on the line. “Let me talk to Josh.”

I smirk and hand the phone back to him. He looks at it like it’s a snake, but takes it. “Hello?” he asks cautiously. He listens for a full minute. I wrap my arms around myself and try to stay warm in the evening chill.

Then Josh says, “Yeah. I know. No. It’s too late. No. I’ll crash in the city at my place tonight. Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He drops the phone back in his pocket.

We’ve been walking at a good pace for the entire phone conversation and we’ve made it to my apartment.

“Well…” I clear my throat and gesture at the brick walk-up. “We made it. Home sweet home.”

I put my keys into the lock and open the door. The fluorescent light in the entry buzzes. My walk-up is similar to thousands of others in the city. Mostly brick or stone five-story buildings from the 1800s and 1900s, segmented into small apartments joined by a dimly lit stairwell. There’s a narrow entry with mailboxes in the wall, slightly grimy tile floors, and cracked plaster walls.

“I’m on the second floor,” I say, and I lead Josh up the creaky stairs.

I unlock the deadbolt and the door lock, then swing open the thick wood door and flip on the lights.