Page 9

“That’s not helping.”

The annoying part is that she isn’t entirely wrong. A little over a year ago, the five of us watched a badly constructed wicker bear become Locke. Nobody understood why or how. Nobody expected anything remotely like it, but there he was.

“That was Rachel,” I say. “Once. Nobody knows whether it can be repeated.”

“Nobody knew it was possible the first time.”

“Excellent. So your position is that I should start setting household objects on fire until one develops shoulders?”

“Please call me first. I want to be present for evidentiary purposes.”

Any sensible person would abandon the idea right there. I don’t. The absurdity remains, but so does the fact that I watched the impossible happen once with my own eyes.

“I don’t even know what would be required,” I say. “Rachel had a bonfire. She threw her wedding ring into it. There was an enormous wicker bear sitting nearby. I don’t have any of those things.”

Blair’s eyebrows go up. “You have wicker.”

“I do?”

“The knitting basket beside your sofa.”

“Why would you remember my knitting basket?”

“You tried to teach Janet to knit at your Christmas thing.”

“That was two years ago.”

“I have an excellent memory.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“I bill accordingly.”

Unfortunately, she’s right. The basket is still there. My mother gave it to me years ago after I decided I was going to learn to knit. I produced half a scarf, developed a deep resentment toward purl stitches, and stopped. The basket has spent most of the intervening years holding yarn I refuse to admit I’m never going to use. Blair waits.

“This is why I don’t tell you things.”

“And yet here we are,” Blair says.

I take another sip of coffee, then set the cup down. The joke has carried us a long way from the part that actually matters.

“Even if it worked, what exactly would I be doing? Creating a person because I don’t like dating?”

“That’s a better question.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know the answer.”

Blair admitting she doesn’t know is unusual enough that I stop arguing. She’s rarely reluctant to supply an answer, even when the answer is that everyone else is wrong. For once, she takes her time before continuing.

“Locke isn’t Rachel’s property. Whatever happened that night, he came into the world as himself. She didn’t design him, and she certainly doesn’t control him. If you somehow did the same thing, you wouldn’t be making yourself a boyfriend. You’d be bringing a person into the world who might or might not want you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

No, it shouldn’t. A man who could choose me is romantic. A man I created who had no choice would be horrifying.