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He looks appropriately embarrassed. “Oh.”
“And if a girl ever says she’s using the rhythm method, which means she’s calculating when she ovulates—when the egg leaves the ovary—just remember that sperm can live inside a woman’s body for five days.”
“Fuck.”
“I know. That’s why it’s best to use a condom every time you have sex.”
“Okay.”
“Look, she needs to take a test. You can buy one in the pharmacy. I’ll take you there after breakfast and get you a couple, and you can give them to her, just in case she can’t get one herself.” God help me if she hasn’t told her parents and they find out I’m involved.
He frowns at me. “How do you know so much about all this?”
I lean back as the waitress arrives with our breakfasts. Once she’s left, I add salt and pepper, then say, “Just because we’re not the ones having the babies, we should still know how it all works. But in answer to your question, when I was with Shaz, we tried to have a baby for a few years. When it didn’t happen, we had to work out the best time to have sex to make sure we did it in the fertile window—the time around ovulation. But it turned out I can’t have kids.”
He stares at me. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I stare at the plate for a moment, trying not to think about the doctor’s meetings, the monthly disappointments, the arguments, and the tears. Feeling tired, and very hungover, I stab the fried egg with my fork.
“I’m sorry, bro,” he says. “I didn’t know.”
I shrug and cut into the sausage. “It was a long time ago now.”
“Is that why you got divorced?”
“Partly, yeah.”
“Couldn’t you have, you know, adopted or something?”
“She wanted her own kids.” I gesture at his plate. “Tuck in.”
He cuts up his sausage, obviously still thinking. “How do you know you can’t have kids?”
“The fertility clinic tests both of you, and they discovered I have a low sperm count.”
“How do they do that? Do they inject your balls or something?” He winces.
“No. They test your cum.”
“How?”
Jesus, it’s too early in the day for this conversation. I hope nobody’s listening. “You have to jerk off into a cup.”
“Oh dude, seriously?”
“Yeah.” I try not to laugh at his obvious dismay. “You can do it at home on your own. It’s not like a doctor is standing there watching with a clipboard. You just have to take it to the clinic within sixty minutes. It’s a bit embarrassing handing it over, but they’re all very professional about it.” I smile as he continues to look horror struck. “If you’ve made a girl pregnant, hopefully it means you won’t have to do it.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you had to go through all that.”
I shrug. “Anyway. Let’s say Ellie does the test and she is pregnant. First of all, you should know that up to forty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage, so even if the test is positive, it’s possible that might happen.”
He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Forty percent?”
“Yeah. But let’s assume that doesn’t happen, and she stays pregnant. Have you talked about what she’ll do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whether she’ll have the baby, Rangi. Or whether she’d want to terminate the pregnancy.”
