Page 7 of The Logic of Loyalty

“Yeah. Let me get you a controller, Dad.”

Five minutes later, I’m getting my ass kicked in Mario Kart when the bell rings. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Paige speed away to get it, so I refocus on my player, who just got hit with a red shell. My flesh and blood cackles at me while I cross the finish line dead last. Before we have a chance to start another game, my mother’s voice echoes through the house.

“Trevor, come here. I need to speak with you.” I made it maybe thirty, forty minutes at home before being interrupted by one form of familial duty or another. The fact that she deigned to actually arrive at our home tells me that she thinks it’s serious.

Perfect.

I lean over and ruffle my kid’s curls. “Sorry, kiddo. I gotta go get that.” I put the controller down and look at my boy. “You wanna come say hi to your grandmother?”

He starts to wrinkle his nose before thinking better of it. “I’m going to race against my own score to see if I can beat it.” His little face hides nothing, and I decide not to push it. Something has my mother here on a weekday, and I doubt she’d tolerate anything getting her off track.

Paige stands at the entrance, one hand on the door, not saying a word. When she sees me, she gives me a tight smile. “I’ll go tend to dinner,” she says before turning to my mother. “Goodbye, Mrs. Whitaker.”

I hide my flinch at her formal address. My wife and mother have never seen eye to eye, and I know my mother prefers that Paige refer to her exactly that way. She has tried a few different ways over the years, but this version leads to the fewest visible winces. My mother doesn’t even say goodbye.

“Monica told me that you left Krista at work alone for lunch today?” She says it like a question I should know the correct answer to the moment Paige walks out of sight.

“I met up with Paige and Jacob to have lunch. I got Krista something, too, and dropped it off to her before heading out to where Paige is working.” Kennedy Whitaker’s facial expression remains unchanged while I speak.

“Trevor, that is no way to treat old family friends. She’s working for you, doing all of these errands and filing for you. The least you can do is make sure she doesn’t spend lunch alone.”

I remember seeing the remnants of Krista’s sandwich at her desk and feel a burst of guilt. “Mom.” She shudders, and I fix my language, “Mother, I usually have working lunches where I barely have time to eat a few bites as is⁠—”

“Well, she works too. Work lunch with your employee. I get that this job is hard for you⁠—”

“That’s not what⁠—”

“—but maybe if you spent more time focusing on what you need to get done, and less on constantly leaving the office early⁠—”

“Early! I⁠—”

“—you’d have a little more time for lunch, and wouldn’t be late to meetings and leaving your staff to fend for themselves.” She finishes without showing any indication of having heard me.

I swallow my sigh and change the topic. “Would you like to come in, Mother?”

“Oh, maybe some other time. I’m very busy.” We both know she doesn’t mean it.

We say our goodbyes as she climbs into her stupid-expensive car and drives away without a backward glance, a question about Paige or Jacob, or anything about my life. I turn around and return to my family, the sound of laughter and the smell of spaghetti filling the air.

The warmth Paige brings into my life is vital.

Chapter Three

PAIGE

Two Weeks Later

Four weeks since my last period. Four years of trying, three of which have been spent struggling. I tap the wrapped test against my leg. “I need to leave in ten minutes. I have one test.” I hold it in the air so my audience—myself in the mirror—can see it clearly. “I already need to pee⁠—”

“What’s that, Mom?” Jacob calls from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” I shout back before mumbling to myself, “But he can never hear me ask him to pick up his dirty socks.” I fist the test in my hand and knock it against my forehead twice. “Why not, Paige? What’s the worst that could happen?”

It’s negative again, and you have to start a whole new process for getting pregnant? The inner voice crowds my thoughts, but it’s true. What’s also true is that the sooner we figure out what we need, the better.

I pee on the stick, set the timer, and pull up the website my doctor recommended, where women of all ages, sizes, and races have come together to share their stories and information about their struggles with PMOS. On the first page is general information, and beyond that are the testimonials.

PMOS, Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome