The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(6)

I was wearing his ring when, a year and a half ago, I started talking about babies over Chinese take-out. Instead of saying what he usually did—"I’d love to see you pregnant” or “You women and your baby-talk”—he said, “Listen, Marley…I’ve been fixed.”

Fucking Corey had a vasectomy during his marriage to his first wife. When I lost my shit and demanded to know why he’d never told me, he gave our relationship the final blow: “C’mon, Marley, you weren’t serious! You’re on call every other weekend. Also, Mar, I mean this with utmost affection but…you’re not maternal. You’re a great physician. You don’t want your own rug-rat, not really.”

“I have always said that!”

“And you say you want to move to Africa!”

Africa is, in fact, near the top of my bucket list, fuck you very much.

I moved out the next morning. The next month, I missed my period, which sent me running, in a panic, to my OBGYN. She sent me home with a prescription for Xanax and contact info for her favorite psychotherapist. I spent three months in therapy before I felt like I had moved far enough past Corey to see clearly.

Verdict: I want a baby. Why? Because I do. Because I want to be a mother. I just do. Why do I need a reason? More to the point: why do I need a husband?

Yes, it’s true, it would be ideal if my child had a present father. But that doesn’t mean a baby born to me alone would have a less-than-awesome life. Men could mentor him or her. I’m a big fan of the idea that women can mentor—in a sense, “mother”—children, even if they don’t give birth to any. Why couldn’t male friends and relatives do the same for my baby?

I did some soul searching, and I still felt good about it. So I found a good sperm bank, vetted some donors, and never looked back until I lost my angel at thirteen weeks.

Mom has no idea. She’s not someone I trust with my emotions, so I didn’t tell her any of the trying-to-conceive bit. I didn’t even tell Zach. Kat and Lainey knew, and several of my girlfriends from Chicago. But that’s it.

I’m going to keep it that way until I’m past twelve weeks again. That’s what I focus on as I pedal past the Fate Hotel and take a right, toward the grocery store. Just a few more months. I can hang in here a few more months, right?

Right.

By the time I lock my bike to a lamp post near the store’s front doors, I’ve put my mother’s desire for a grandchild out of my mind. I stand beside the Coke machines and pull out my phone, to go over my list.

A quick glance at the screen reveals I’ve gotten four lunch invites. One is from my Grandma Ellis—my late Dad’s mom—asking if I want to go to Meg’s Soup Saucer. I do, of course, but I already have plans: Kat and Lainey are taking me for tacos. Kat’s text says, ‘Is noon okay? Can’t believe you live here now!! Cartwheels!’ The third text is from my brother, Zach. ‘Do you need me to help you unload the truck, or take it to the return spot? Want to grab lunch?’ And then there’s the one from my landlady, Miss Shorter: ‘I’ve got some fresh bread for you, honey. Come by when you can, and I’ll make you some chicken salad, too.’

Well, then. If that’s not a hearty hometown welcome, I don’t know what is. I text everyone back, then glance down at myself. I’m wearing black Nike running shorts, pink sneakers, and a blue Cubs sweatshirt: perfect for a grocery run in my old Chicago neighborhood, less ideal for an outing in a town where everybody knows me.

Oh well. I adjust my ponytail and stroll into the store.

As I recall, there’s not much in the way of organics: basically just fruit, veggies, and milk. A quick trip around the perimeter confirms I’m right. I stock my cart with all my faves, and then strike off down the middle aisles for starchy things like cereal, granola bars, and crackers. Not to mention light bulbs, detergent, and trash bags.

My mind wanders while my feet do: right to where it shouldn’t. Gabe. And what to do about him. Stay or go… And what about what Mom said?

I make a mental note to ask Kat at lunch. Of course, that means I’ll have to tell her and Lainey what’s the what. Who am I kidding, though? I’ll need to tell them anyway. So they can know that when they visit me, they’re near the enemy.

I replay our encounter for the dozenth time as I browse the popcorn and peanuts aisle. He was outside when I got out of the truck, and retrospectively, he seemed righteously outraged—probably shocked. Did Miss Shorter really fail to tell him I would be his neighbor? She’s in her nineties, now, though; maybe she forgot. The information wouldn’t stand out to her… Almost no one here in Fate knows Gabe and I were together for two years right after high school. Our marriage and divorce were both expunged from public record shortly after he found fame.

I decide the trick—for now, at least—is just avoiding him. Which should include avoiding thoughts of him. I refocus, filling my buggy near to overflowing. Then, as I head toward check-out, I remember Mom’s pork chops.

Dammit.

As I wheel back toward the deli freezers, I notice my least favorite high school English teacher—or rather, her hair. Those are definitely Mrs. Parton’s blue-gray curls, poking up from behind a People magazine.

Uh-oh! I duck down the pasta aisle and scurry toward the rear of the store. I can see the pork chops from this aisle, right between the chicken and the ground beef.