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For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of us having babies at the same time, but it won’t happen. Sure, they’ll be close in age. Maybe weeks apart if we’re lucky.
If I’m lucky.
Elle’s process is going to be the same, yet we both suspect she won’t have an issue getting pregnant. Ben had his sperm harvested prior to his surgery and chemotherapy, which was smart of him to do. The doctors will extract her eggs much like they will with mine. We’ll both have implantation and then wait.
Still, aside from Noah, this isn’t how I pictured becoming a mother. Not sitting in a waiting room with strangers who casually look up from their phones and then at us. I don’t need to be a genius to know they’re searching the web to confirm their suspicions. Our dad is famous. It’s not like we stayed out of the spotlight. My husband is famous in the sports world.
It dawns on me as I look at Elle and Ben, that we could very well have a mix-up. My heart races as imaginary scenes play out in my mind. What if the clinic gives me her eggs or puts Ben’s sperm with my eggs?
Lord help me.
I look at the people across from us, and then the others along the walls. I take in the posters of pregnant mothers, with the expectant fathers, and partners, trying to get all the wrong thoughts out of my mind. The people here are professionals. It’s their job to pay attention to detail. Unfortunately, I catch the gazes of a few people and while everyone in here has the same goal, I feel like I’m being scrutinized.
Elle stands and goes to the counter. I push off the arms of the chair to follow, but Ben puts his hand on my arm and shakes his head slightly. I don’t question him. Elle’s protective of me and, by default, Ben is as well.
When my sister returns, she reaches for my hand. “Come on,” she says. I stand and allow her to tug me behind her, with Ben following. We’re shown into a room . . . the room!
“Um—” The walls are painted a muted pink or what could’ve been mauve when it was the fad of the late eighties and early nineties. The paint desperately needs to be refreshed. On the coffee table, stacks of magazines, some are open showing naked women, while the television displays a pornographic movie.
“It’s private,” Elle says. “We don’t have to watch porn.”
I can’t believe she’s cracking another joke.
“You were feeling a bit uneasy out there,” she says. I nod. “So, we’re going to wait here until our appointment.”
“I’m not sure I want to sit down,” I tell her. Ben steps around me and picks up a magazine off the table. I expect Elle to smack him, but she doesn’t. My eyes widen at her in a gesture that’s meant to ask her what the hell is he doing, yet she ignores me. I’m about to say something, even though he’s not my husband. Except when I open my mouth, words fail me. Ben’s not looking through the photos. He’s turning the magazines over so we don’t have to see the covers.
“You’re the best,” Elle says as she gives him a kiss.
I grab a handful of paper towels and set them on the seat. Elle and Ben do the same. “My mind is going places it shouldn’t. Is this the type of room Noah’s in? I didn’t ask him last time because deep down I don’t think I wanted to know about him touching . . .” Nope, not going there. Honestly, they should let wives in with the men, then the process can be enjoyable for both.
Ben nods. “Yep. If I turn the TV on, you’re going to see things you wish you hadn’t.”
“Yeah, let’s not. Peyton’s having enough of a crisis right now.”
She’s not wrong. Although is it much different from reading about it in books? Maybe Noah should read something with me and then we can talk about it, maybe even experiment.
“It’s the people,” I say. “The stares and then their faces when they realize who we are.”
“I’m surprised it bothers you,” Elle says.
I shrug. “It normally doesn’t, but this is private. I suppose we should’ve made better arrangements.”
“That’s on me,” Elle says. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. This is the doctor Ben used before his surgery and it made sense for us to come here. I should’ve asked for something after hours.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
The door opens and Noah walks in. His cheeks are red. It’s his . . . face though, the expression on it, and I immediately regret having my sister and her husband at this meeting. “Hey, did everything—” I cut myself off, unable to ask him if everything went okay. This isn’t the first time he’s had to leave a sample. This is just the important one.
Noah comes to me and leans down. “Everything went fine.” He kisses the spot where my ear and cheek meet, then stands and clears his throat. “Uh, why are you in this room?”
“It’s very peopley out there,” Elle says.
I’m surprised Ben didn’t shout that we wanted to watch porn or something.
“Ah,” Noah says. He reaches for my hand and holds it while standing next to me. “The nurse said she’d be in to get us shortly.”
“Do you want to sit?” I stand and offer him my seat. He takes it and then pulls me down onto his lap. I nestle into his chest and breathe him in. His familiar scent is a natural aphrodisiac for me. From the time I knew what it was like to feel something for someone, it’s always been Noah. Anytime he was near me, his cedarwood after-shave has caused my lady bits to sing, dance, and beg for his attention. I’ve been attracted to one other person, but it was nothing like this. Noah gives me butterflies. He always has, and I suspect he always will. It’s in his eyes and the way he looks at me. It’s in his touch, even the subtle ones like when he reaches for my hand at night or grips my hips mid-thrust. Even his voice, when he says my name or calls me babe, can turn me into a wanton woman, willing to stop what I’m doing just to be in his embrace.
