Page 37 of The Difference Between

“ASRM?”

“American Society for Reproductive Medicine,” I fill in. “That’s who sets donor anonymity guidelines, right?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah . . . that’s just not possible.”

My nostrils flare. I bet it would be possible if she’d bother to make a few phone calls. “Do you even know the donors?” I ask. “Have you personally met them?”

“Some of them,” she admits. “At least one staff member has met every one of them though. We have all personal information—” She taps her computer screen. “And I can assure you they are real and decent men.” She scrolls on her screen and smiles. “Aha. Here we go. I can’t give you his personal information, but I can tell you that the man you were looking at has a reputable company listed for employment.”

“So you have all the legal names and addresses?” My gaze lingers on the computer.

“I do.” She folds her hands on her desk and squares up to me. “Listen, Reese, I know this process comes with a lot of feelings and decisions and relinquishing control.” Not happening. “It’s good practice for motherhood—control goes out the window once baby shows up.”

She continues talking, but I’m riding a new train of thought. If I could get access to all this information, I’ll know everything there is to know to make the right choice for my child.

Dr. Cantor’s voice pulls my attention from the computer. “Why don’t we get your appointments scheduled, you can think about it, and we can revisit this after you’ve had time to review the profiles? Everything’s accessible through our online portal. You can take your time.”

“Do I need all the tests?” I want this to go fast as possible, but I also know the donor decision will take me some time. I’m building a person; it can’t be rushed. “My last annual exam was a few months ago, I can have my doctor send the records. Maybe cut back on some of the overlap and wasted time?”

“Sorry. It’s clinic policy that we do all exams and tests as close to the procedure as possible. If it’s time you’re worried about, depending on your cycle and barring any issues, we can usually schedule the first IUI in as early as eight to ten weeks after today’s consultation.”

I already knew this, yet my heart gallops. I try to imagine myself with a baby bump but can’t get over it being by a man I haven’t met yet. I can’t do this if I don’t see the people in the flesh, even if I can’t talk to them.

A knock on the door is followed by a nurse’s head popping through a cracked opening. “Dr. Cantor, can I borrow you?”

Dr. Cantor smiles and nods. “Reese, can you excuse me for just a moment? Keep looking through the donors, and I’ll be back to answer any questions before we get those next appointments scheduled.”

As soon as the door closes, I don’t even pretend to debate what I’m about to do. I’m on my feet and behind her desk in seconds. My fingers slide across the mouse as names and faces slide across the screen. This is wrong on so many levels but so is having a baby by a potentially lying con man or Sucker Sucking Matt getting Fizz Co, so I don’t stop. The screen contains the same donors that were in the binder, only her version has names, phone numbers, addresses, and places of employment.

It’s the mother lode.

Muffled voices penetrate the door, and I freeze. I can’t get caught, but I refuse to go back to Chicago without at least a lead on getting pregnant, and I can’t get pregnant by any idiot with a load to blow. I didn’t come this far in life by choosing excellence just to hold back when it comes to having a baby.

When the door doesn’t open, my fingers work fast to adjust the filtering options. I prioritize height, education, and age. I want a tall, smart baby because if this were happening my way, I’d have a tall, smart man knocking me up.

The screen freezes.

I hit refresh.

The clock ticks.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I whisper.

Dr. Cantor’s voice laughs on the other side of the door; I pound random keys to no avail.

“Shit,” I mutter at the computer as I stare at the door.

Finally—finally—the updated results load. I use my phone to snap a picture of the top ten donors on the screen.

The door swings open; I nearly black out.

“Ah,” Dr. Cantor says, stepping next to me. “My favorite spot.”

She studies the same photo hanging on the wall behind her desk as I am. She and her family are in red puffy coats, grouped together in front of a line of snow-capped mountains.

Inside my chest, my heart pounds with a rib-cracking ferocity.

“Switzerland,” she says with a smile. “You ever been?”