I skim over the darling boy’s birth size and weight and stare at his photo pasted next to the text.

“Ecstatic” is the word Sylvain and his wife chose to describe their feelings for him.

I have no doubt they are.

As I slip the card back into its envelope, lock the mailbox, and head to the elevator, memories of my longest-lasting relationship flood in. Almost two years with a man who bored me silly and never failed to underwhelm in bed! But Sylvain aspired to be a father just as much as I yearned to be a mother. In hindsight, that common dream was the only thing that held us together as a loveless couple. Until it didn’t.

We’d tried to conceive during those two years, naturally and otherwise.

We failed.

Doctors didn’t find anything fundamentally wrong with either of us. The potential culprits of our infertility were non-fundamental things such as Sylvain’s lazy sperm and my hostile womb.

Yep, that’s what they said—a hostile womb.

There’s a more complex and scientific explanation to what’s wrong with me, but the brutal metaphor dropped by one of my OB-GYNs sums it up nicely. My uterus attacks all invaders indiscriminately, squirting acids and killer antibodies at anything that gets too close.

In short, it’s hostile.

And now that Sylvain has managed to make a baby with another woman, there’s no more doubt who the weak link was.

Oh well, maybe it was all for the best.

If my womb had been welcoming and Sylvain and I had produced an offspring, we would’ve been obliged to stay together for the baby’s sake.

I had started dating Sylvain when I was twenty-eight, about six months after Lucas broke my heart. When I declined every single one of Lucas’s attempts to bang me again, every invitation to go for a drink or hang out with our common friends, he got the message and stopped trying. But it wasn’t enough for me. I still saw him at the pool and bumped into him at various events. The French water polo world is much too small.

So I quit it.

The night of his horrible mugging, Eric and I bumped into him at Le Poivre. He said he was sorry. He didn’t say he missed me or needed me or he was leaving Angie. Just that he was sorry.

When I was thirty, Sylvain and I admitted we weren’t made for each other and broke up.

I haven’t had a long-term relationship since.

Now at thirty-four, I guess it’s time to kiss my dreams of motherhood goodbye. With my biological clock ticking, my womb unconquerable and my seductive skills fast deteriorating, what are my odds of becoming a mother?

Notice how I didn’t even mention my “plain” looks.

I step inside my apartment, drop my purse on the entryway table, and place Sylvain’s card next to it. Then I open the second envelope, a draft contract. Eric, aided by my former coach Leanne, both of whom now work for Lucas, has been conspiring for several weeks to bring me in as a publicist.

I’ve been resisting.

Not because I love my current job.

I don’t.

And it’s not like Lucas isn’t offering a better salary.

He is.

Besides, I’m totally over him.

It’s just… working for him would be weird.

He knows we used to be friends. But he doesn’t know we slept together. Neither does Leanne, or Eric. The official version I gave everyone at the time was I’d gotten fed up with water polo—had enough of the grueling workouts, always being hungry, and dreading the next somebitch who would try to drown me or grab my suit so hard it would tear.

No one needed to know I had to get away so I could lick my wounds. No one needed to know I had any wounds to start with.

Eric supported my decision.

Leanne tried to dissuade me before realizing it was no use.

Lucas… I don’t know what his reaction was because I carefully avoided him. And then he got mugged, spent three months in a coma, and forgot who he was.

I bet he’s still a jerk, though. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, amnesiac or otherwise.

My phone rings.

“Did you see the terms we’re offering?” Leanne asks, not bothering with small talk.

“I did, and they’re good. It’s just—”

“What?” she asks before yelling, “I saw that hand! Natalie! What do you think you’re doing?”

Um, that one was clearly not for me.

“Sorry about that. You were saying?”

“It’s just I’ve turned the water polo page of my life and moved on.”

“Well, make a U-turn and move back.” She sighs. “We need you. I need you.”

“Why? There are plenty of hungry young publicists out there who’d love the opportunity.”

“It’s you we need,” Leanne says. “You’re a former player and a woman.”

“Why does my being female matter?”

I can barely make out Leanne’s reply because of the noise around her. “Because the club has a women’s team now.”

“So?”

“Hang on.” The noise recedes—Leanne must be moving to a quieter spot. “Let me give you an example. Martin, the publicist Lucas fired recently, was hitting on the girls.”

“I’m sure they were able to reject him politely.” I smirk. “Or hit him, if politeness didn’t work.”

“The older ones, yes, but we also have a few teens. When he came on to Letitia—she’s only eighteen—the poor girl was in a flap. He had somehow convinced her he was so important that Lucas would kick her out if she didn’t humor him.”

“What an asshole!”

“Exactly.”

“What happened?”

“Fortunately, she confided in me,” Leanne says. “I talked to Lucas, and the next day Martin was out.”

“Good.” I kick my shoes off and head to the kitchen. “Hey, not all men are like Martin. Or, you could always hire a female publicist. I’m not the only one!”

“You’re the only one who knows the sport so well. You used to be semi-pro, for Christ’s sake!”

I open the fridge and survey the empty shelves. “Please. Anyone with half a brain can figure out the rules and get up to speed after they’ve seen a few games.”

“It’s that extra sensitivity someone who’s never played can’t have,” Leanne says. “I’ll give you another example. Martin did a calendar with the boys, and it was a big hit, so he wanted to do the same with the girls.”

I smirk. “I bet they hated the idea.”

“Of course, they did. As a woman, one of the reasons you do professional sports is because you want to be more than a ‘pretty little thing.’ And you certainly don’t want to be photographed naked.”

“True.”

“Well, Martin didn’t get it, and I doubt even a female publicist who hasn’t been an athlete would,” Leanne says.

I grab a yogurt, shut the fridge door, and pick up a cereal box to fix some “dinner.” Yay. I love single life. No racking your brain about what to cook to make your dear husband happy. No worrying the kids aren’t getting enough vegetables. No fuss, no pressure. No need to eat sitting at the table or bore one another with uninspiring stories about our uninteresting days.

What’s not to love?

“All I’m asking,” Leanne says, “is that you come over for a chat with Lucas and me before you say no.”

I let out a resigned sigh. “All right.”

“Tomorrow after work?”

“OK.”

We say goodbye, and I dig into my crunchy no fuss meal. The same I had for breakfast. And for dinner last night. And for breakfast yesterday morning.

As I chew, my heart quickens.

I wonder what Lucas will look like when I see him tomorrow, what he’ll sound like, smell like, feel like when we cheek kiss hello.

Then I wonder why I’m wondering about him, and the answer depresses me even more than the fact I’ve hit my mid-thirties, and I still eat cereal for dinner.