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“Let me get you into bed,” Chaucer says. He steps out of the shower and grabs a gigantic, thick towel. He wraps it around me, scoops me up, and brings me to the bed. He lays me gently on the bed and places a pillow under my hips, ensuring that his semen stays inside me. I watch him towel dry his hair and dress. I try to memorize every beautiful curve of his body, never taking my eyes off his strong thighs, perfect abs, bronze chest, until they’re covered in clothes.
“I guess this is goodbye for now,” he begins. “These appointments with you have been the best part of the last couple of weeks.”
I agree, but I can’t trust myself to speak, afraid my voice may crack with emotion.
He’s looking at me intently, but not speaking. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Hell, what does a person say in this situation? Thanks for all the fucks. Tell my kid I say hi.
He walks to the door and we make eye contact again. Neither of us speaks. There are things I want to say. Things I imagine he might say. Instead I smile at him and lift a hand and wave goodbye. He breaks eye contact and walks out the door. Walks out of my life.
I want to cry. Tears sting the backs of my lids. Why does it hurt so much to watch him walk away? It’s not like I know him. It’s not like we’re a couple. And yet, through this experience, we’ve developed a bond. There’s no denying that.
He leaves and I lay on the bed staring at the closed door. I know it’s against the rules, but I want to know him, who he is, where he’s from. The urge is too strong to fight. I grab my phone and Google Chaucer Briggs.
I wish I hadn’t.
6
When Google comes up with his name, I don’t want to believe it. At first I think it isn’t him, but a picture comes with it and there’s no denying that the Chaucer Briggs in the article is the same man who just left this room.
The article says that Chaucer Briggs—also known as Dirty Money Briggs—is an ex-con who served time for money laundering. The article also alludes to the idea that Chaucer killed his business partner, framing it as a suicide, but it doesn’t go any further than that.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I’m gasping for air, trying to breathe through the confusion. How is this possible? How can Mosaic let someone like that into her club? No woman would want to have a baby with a criminal. It’s been proven that behavioral traits can be passed down. The men here are clearly not vetted as well as I was told if a simple Google search yields these results. I want to say something, to complain, but then I’d have to admit that I broke the rules. Maybe that’s why the rules were put in place, to keep women from looking into these men and learning they are cons, maybe even sociopaths. Maybe this whole baby-making club is a scam.
I’m so mad that I’m shaking. I shoot up out of bed to get dressed. I can hardly grip the clasp to put my bra back on.
I don’t know what to do. The women of this club should know … But if they knew, would this be the end of their chances to have children? While some studies say that behavioral traits can be passed down, that’s not always the case. Most bad men are that way because of the way they’re raised. Is Chaucer the way he is because he lacked a strong male role model in his life? No, I know plenty of single mothers who raised good kids.
I put my hands on my head. I’m spinning out over this news. I don’t know how to process it. Not only am I angry that I’ve been lied to and cheated, I’m also heartbroken and concerned. What if his dirty dealings somehow come back on me? What if we do end up having a child and it comes back on him or her? This kind of thing could haunt my child for the rest of their life.
My teeth chatter even though it’s not cold. Suddenly everything about this room, the smell, the ambiance, makes me feel sick. I need to leave. What have I done? This situation was strange to start with, now it feels dark and dirty. I want a baby in the worst way, but I don’t want the lies of the father to come back and hurt me or my child later on.
As I leave the clinic, I can’t help but realize that despite Chaucer’s criminal history, I still find myself thinking about him. About the look on his face when he left me. About everything he didn’t say. I care about him after everything I just learned. It’s stupid, I know. But I can’t help it.
