Reputation(40)

What would he think if he knew his father is dead?

The thought stabs me, but then I feel Ollie’s arms circling my waist, his lower half pressing against my butt. “Mmm.”

“Ollie,” I say, stepping away. Ollie pulls me closer, cupping the sides of my face, kissing my mouth aggressively.

“Ollie,” I say again. “What are you doing?”

He bunches up my dress and fumbles at the waistband of my underwear. “Let’s make another baby.”

“Now?”

“Come on.” He grips my wrist, pulling me back to him. “Right now. Let’s do it.”

“No,” I almost growl. And this time I shove him. Hard.

Ollie’s eyes widen. At first he looks rejected, even annoyed, but then he’s contrite. “I’m sorry, babe. You just look so hot, and . . .”

Now it’s my turn to feel guilty. “No, I’m sorry.” I can feel the tears gathering in my throat. “I just . . . I’m a mess today, you know? My head is all over the place.”

“I know.” He runs his hands over the back of his neck. “But at that funeral, knowing that someone our age is dead—it made me think about how fleeting life is. How we have to seize it by the horns, and I love you so much. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

I can only eke a nod. I am the worst person on earth.

We sink into the love seat. I let Ollie stroke my forearm. I keep my head down, feeling as though a heavy bag is pressed against my shoulders. Maybe I’ve made a mistake, pushing him away. Things feel so precarious, on the verge of being exposed. Ollie can’t know anything, can he?

But the way he said, Let’s make another baby. If only it were that simple.

After the mistake of a night with Greg, I vowed to change. I was careful around him. Polite, but distant. Two weeks after it happened, he asked me into his office. He closed the door. We went over the details of a patient, and he put his hand on my knee. I drew back. “No?” Greg cocked his head playfully.

“No,” I said firmly. My attraction for Greg had evaporated; he’d fucked it out of me, maybe. Since then, I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. My whole life, I’d held myself to certain standards, but now I felt my reputation was soiled, even if I was the only person who’d ever know.

Greg’s eyes were pleading. “But you get me, Laura. And I get you, too.”

Not long ago, I would have been flattered. Thrilled. But I shook my head. “We’re better than this,” I said quietly. “We’re both good people.”

Greg drew back as though I’d slapped him. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms. “I guess I have my marching orders.” And then he dismissed me.

My period was due right around then. It was the only thing I could rely on being regular in my life, and yet the days kept passing, and it didn’t come. I stared at the calendar, first puzzled, and then apprehensive. Two weeks went by. At that point, I was starting to feel nauseous, and my breasts were tender, and I felt strange, pulling sensations in my lower abdomen. I wasn’t surprised when two lines came up on the test I took in the pharmacy bathroom three minutes after purchasing it. I stared at the little plastic stick, feeling nothing—not hope, not doom. It was fucking ironic.

Here was the thing, though: Yes, I’d cheated with Greg, and yes, the sex hadn’t been protected, but Ollie and I had also tried plenty that month. It wasn’t out of the question that this was Ollie’s baby. Maybe we’d finally conceived. Maybe the Greg dalliance had nothing to do with anything.

I pocketed the pregnancy test. Steered my attitude toward something light and bright and joyful. It wasn’t hard to get excited—really excited. I was pregnant, something I’d wished for forever. Ollie and I would finally get what we deserved. I told him that very night, casually dropping the test next to his plate at dinner. He stared at it long and hard, and then looked at me questioningly, almost worriedly, like he was afraid he was dreaming and would soon wake up. But I grinned. “It’s happening! Really happening!”

A strange sort of whoop emerged from the back of his throat as he rose and hugged me hard. His shoulders shook with sobs. I cried, too, though my tears weren’t any one pure emotion. It wouldn’t be easy to erase the possibility of Greg from my mind. Years before, I’d heard a heart transplant patient use the term brutiful—a mash-up of brutal and beautiful, indicating an experience that was difficult but memorable and came with a certain amount of grace. That’s how I felt: both brutal and beautiful. Thrilled and devastated at the same time.

The pregnancy stuck. I got through my first trimester with no complications. Eventually, I had to tell Greg the news. Nerves rippled through me like water through a sieve. Since I’d turned Greg down in his office, we’d avoided one another. If we were working the same surgeries, we were cordial, but there was no casual banter like before. I’d also noticed him in the hallway sometimes, typing on his phone, a wisp of a smile on his face. A new woman? Perhaps his wife? In hindsight, I wonder if it was that Lolita person.

In his office, I stared at the crystal paperweights on his bookshelf so I wouldn’t have to look at him directly. “So I’m pregnant,” I blurted. “Due October third.”

“October third,” Greg repeated, but there was a kink in his voice, like he was counting backward. A memory of Greg at the bar popped in my mind, all sharp edges: I wish I’d had a biological child. Sadness had wafted off him. Yearning.