Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(50)

“I never thought I could love a houseplant.” I smile up at him. I used to think of him as a houseplant, always there but never noticed. I don’t think of him like that anymore. “Houseplants are so nice.”




She said, “I never thought I could love a houseplant.”

He stops talking and stares at me, a stunned expression on his face. Then he takes what looks like an incredibly painful swallow.

I stare at the way the fluorescent light shines down on his skin. There are little sparks of light that catch and reflect off the strands of his dark hair. His eyelashes are long and darker than his hair, and for a second I’m fascinated by how long they are. Unfairly long.

He’s taken his finger away from my face and I turn my head into the pillow. He’s going in and out of focus again. He’s wearing a T-shirt today with a character on it that looks familiar, I think it’s from one of his drawings. Maybe it’s one of his own characters. I smile at the slashes of color and look back up at Josh.

He’s staring at the far wall and it almost looks like he’s berating himself for something stupid he’s done. Or did.

“What did you do?” I ask.

He shakes his head and then looks down at me. “What?”

I stare at him. And the way he looks at me makes my chest ache. Makes it hurt so much. I try to think back to the last thing we were talking about. It was just a few seconds, maybe minutes ago, something about houseplants? I try to grasp onto it, but it falls away from me like water running through open hands. I can’t remember.

There’s only flashes, like skewed reflections in a mirror of what was.

I lick my lips and try to blink myself back into reality. I push myself up onto my elbows and glance at the clock. It’s been thirty minutes since the retrieval. I feel fine. I feel good.

Then, I remember, the retrieval.

“Did Dr. Ingraham say he got any eggs?”

Maybe that’s why he looks so upset, maybe none of the eggs were good quality.

Josh frowns. “What?”

“Did he get any eggs?”

Josh gives me a careful look. “We already talked about this. Remember?”

I shake my head, and am rewarded with a bit of dizziness. “No. Um.” I try to think back and just get strands and flashes of haziness. “Not really. Did it go okay?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks, he gives me a searching look.

I frown at him, mostly because it’s really frustrating to not be able to grasp ahold of the conversation we just had. I wrinkle my brow and try really hard. “Maybe…we talked about princesses? And houseplants?” Then I shake my head. “No. That’s too weird.”

Josh closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them all the seriousness is gone, and that spark of amusement is back. But this time, that amusement makes me feel sad.

“Don’t laugh,” I say.

He smiles and holds out his hands. “Maybe I’m laughing at myself.”

Oh.

“We’re you able to do your thing? In ‘The Production Room’?”

He gives me a superior, full-of-himself look. “Of course. Did you doubt Kral for even a second?”

I give a short laugh. “And I had eggs?”

He nods. “Six.”

I let out a long, relieved sigh. I reach over and take his hand, link my fingers through his.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with tears, and worry, and hope. “Thank you for being here. For being my friend.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods, and stays still, his hand wrapped in mine.





20





It’s Thursday, and instead of meeting at Clive’s Comics, Brook called to tell me to meet the group at an address in Tribeca.

“Wear a dress, something hot. Not your usual ugly sweater sack thingy. Carly is hosting,” she said.

I frowned and looked down at the caterpillar green sweater I was wearing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I was asking about the ugly sweater comment but Brook said, “It means Carly’s hosting. At her place. It’ll be like an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous times ten thousand. Trust me. Wear a dress. Oh, and she said to bring a date.”

“What? Why?”

But then Brook was sniping at someone on the other end of the line about mandatory minimums and hard-ass judges and then she said, “I’m due in court. See you at seven.”

I was still at work when she called, so I sent Ian an email asking if he was up for going out tonight. Sorry, babe, he wrote back, I’m in Philly today.

How hadn’t I known that he was out of town?

“Did you know Ian was in Philly today?” I asked Lavinia.

She just gave me a flat look and said, “Do I look like a calendar?”

Back at my place, I’m in my bra and underwear rifling through a pile of clothes.

“Green sweater. Maroon sweater. Gray sweater.” I toss clothes from the floor onto my bed. “Sweater, cardigan, shawl, sweater.” Okay, maybe Brook has a point. When I get to the bottom of the pile I see a flash of bright orange.

“Pumpkin dress,” I say. I pick it up and hold it out in front of me. It’s still as tiny and orange as ever. But my mom did have it dry-cleaned so at least it isn’t dirty.