2

THE DRAWING BOARD

NORA

AS I SIT IN THE waiting room with the amassed group of family and friends, Sophie’s mom, Margaret, sits down next to me. This being her first grandchild, I’m not surprised to feel the excitement vibrating off of her.

“I can’t pace anymore,” she says with a sigh. “So what’s dragging you down, honey?”

I can’t help but smile. Margaret is practically a second mom to me—my own having fucked off back to Korea after my parents split. We were never particularly close anyway, and I rarely speak to her, let alone see her. I don’t think she ever truly wanted to be a mother, but she fell in love with my Irish father while he was working for the military and made a one-time exception. My dad wanted a rugby team, but she refused to have more—a point of contention that led to their divorce when I was thirteen. He and I then moved from our native Limerick to California. Five years ago, he relocated to New York to be close to his only remaining sister, who’s lived on Long Island for decades. I realize it’s been longer than that since I’ve heard from my mother.

I rest my head on Margaret’s shoulder and sigh, wishing maternal affection could fix my problems. “Panic.”

“Specifically?”

“Money panic.”

“Do you need some money?” she says, twisting away so she can look at me.

“Pfft. I would never ask you for—”

“I know that,” she says. “I’m asking if we can help you.”

Margaret and Sophie’s stepdad, Ruben, are crazily generous people, but they’re not made of money. Not to mention, Sophie wouldn’t even accept their money to freeze her eggs when her “baby factory announced plans to shut down.” Her words.

“That’s ridiculously kind, Margs,” I say. “But I couldn’t possibly accept. I got myself into this mess. I just need to figure out what to do in transition.”

“Transition? Are you talking about me?” Cameron, Sophie’s transgender younger sister, arrives and sits down next to me, offering a cheeky wink. “Kidding. Sort of. So, is my niece here yet?”

“You don’t know it’s a girl, Cam,” Margaret chides her. “I maintain that I think it’s a boy. She carried high and constantly craved pickles, which I did when I was pregnant with you.”

“That could mean it’s a girl, actually,” Cam says, joking, but Margaret gasps in shame.

“Shit!” Margaret covers her face with her hands. “You’re right, honey. I’m sorry.”

“I’m teasing you, mamaleh,” she says, jumping up to sit on her lap. “I’m still your baby boy, even if I’m a girl.”

I hear Ruben mutter in his smooth Cuban accent, “I still don’t get it.”

I have to chuckle. It’s been quite a ride since Cameron’s announcement a couple years ago. Ruben and Margaret have been super supportive, even though they sometimes have trouble wrapping their heads around it all. I can’t say the same for Cam’s father. Sophie says they haven’t spoken since Cam gave him the news, and Cam’s started referring to Ruben as Papá.

“Nora, my appointment for the tit-sultation is next week. Are you still up for coming with me?”

“Tit-sulation? What does that mean?” Margaret slaps Cam’s arm. “Are you making boob jokes? Stop making up words. This is serious. It’s surgery!”

“It’s seriously easier if we make it funny, Mom,” she replies. “I’m a comedian, for Chrissakes. It’s what I do. And it’s practically outpatient.”

I wrap an arm around Margaret’s shoulder. “Stop teasing her, Cam. It’s not that simple. Margaret, the tit-sultation is on for when, Cammy? Tits Tuesday?”

Margaret breaks into laughter. “You girls. I thought Sophie was bad.”

“Oh, she is.” Cam nods. “Tits Tuesday it is. Mom, feel free to come pick out my boobs with us.”

“I’m getting coffee,” Margaret announces, forcing Cam off her lap as she stands.

“You’re mean,” I tell Cam.

“Comedians have to take risks,” she says.

We chat for a bit, talking about a million things and nothing. Cam is like another sibling to me—much as Sophie is my sister, Cam follows right behind. After she mentions her roommate moved to Vancouver, I hit myself over the head (metaphorically) with a blinking light bulb.

“Do you need a new roommate?” I ask, knowing I sound a little crazy and totally desperate. I’m okay with that.

“I’m not sure, Single White Female.” She eyes me warily, but her expression cracks into amusement. “Or should I say Single Asian Female?”

“You’re so racialist,” I tease. “And as I am half Korean, they’re both technically correct.”

Cam giggles. “Noted. So why do you ask?”

I suck in a breath and confess the quick version: broke, nearly homeless. “I’m out of my apartment in a week, with very little cash until I find something interim. That’s what I was referring to by ‘transition’ earlier.”

“Honey, say no more. I’ll get you a key, and you can move your stuff in whenever.” She’s so blasé about it, as if I only asked for a cup of sugar.

“Cam.”

“What? Like you wouldn’t do the same for me if I needed it.” She glares, daring me to argue.

I nod. “Of course I would.”

“Settled. Anything else you need? Advice on hormones? Improv classes? Shaving techniques?”

I snicker. “Don’t talk about my eyebrow.”

“It is just one brow at present; that’s true.”

“Bitch.”

“I simply agreed with you,” she reminds me, and we laugh together.

I feel a tiny bit less out of control.

“Oh, one more thing,” I say, watching her eyes narrow. “Would you be okay if I brought Fitzwilliam?”

She stares at me. “I’m assuming you’re talking about a sex robot you’ve named after the delicious Mr. Darcy of Jane Austen fame?”

“What? No. He’s my hedgehog.”

Cameron soon doubles over with laughter. “You have a hedgehog.” She’s asking for confirmation, but slathering the statement with buckets of “are you kidding me?”

“Yes. I have a goddamn hedgehog. I rescued him last year.”

“From what?”

“I was volunteering at a shelter where I’d done some PR work, and he was one of the animals saved from a hoarding situation,” I explain. I’m kind of surprised she doesn’t know about this already. Though, I guess it’s not like she’s been to my apartment in ages.

“I can’t believe you have an actual hedgehog.”

I groan and fall backward into my chair. “So that’s a yes?”

“I suppose. You’re keeping him in your room, though. I don’t clean cages,” she says with a slap to my knee. “I was just about to go adopt a cat, but I’m thinking that might be a bad idea with a live lunch elsewhere in the apartment.”

“Nice, Cam,” I say. “Well, with temporary housing accommodations sorted, I’m on to the employment problem.”

I’d been doing some freelance PR in the wake of my former boss Simon’s crisis of conscience—and by “conscience” I mean cocaine and friends—and subsequent shutdown of the firm I’d been working with for five years. After his rehab stint, newfound clarity showed him the way of Jesus. Or something. I stopped listening when it started to sound cult-y and wished him well.

For a time, he sent a lot of clients my way, so I was really busy up until about six months ago. That was when Simon showed up at my house, all spit-shined and ready to take on the world—via all his original clients, but not requiring my services. I could have argued, but at the time I didn’t realize what a shitstorm was brewing in my checkbook, so to speak. I had a few of my own clients, but it wasn’t enough to maintain the status quo. Cut to my accountant April’s office a couple days ago…

“Have you sent your résumé to any other firms?” Cam asks.

“I’ve reached out to some contacts, but nothing yet. That kind of thing can take weeks at the very least. I think I’m going to have to apply at Target. Maybe Costco—they pay a living wage, right?” I look up at her face and nearly choke at her wide-eyed, horrorstruck expression. “What? I’m joking.”

She blinks rapidly for a second before slapping my knee. “Don’t hate. There’s no shame in it, but I know how much you hated retail back in college.”

My face feels like it curdles at the memory, and I make a gagging noise. “Fair play. It was horrible.”

“What about bartending? You did that for a stretch after the mall had its wicked, horrible, food court kind of way with you.”

“Do you just want free drinks?”

“Obviously.”

The idea rolls around in my head for a minute, dinging as it speeds up and gains points. “You know, I could make some serious bank if I hustle for a while.”

Just at that moment, Fox comes barreling into the room, beaming as he tears off his scrub gown. “It’s a boy!”

***

I can’t stop crying. It’s ridiculous, and I should not be so emotional. My best friend has a baby. A boy. But seeing Sophie exhausted and blissfully cozy with Fox and their son—who they refuse to name Nora or Bennett—makes parts of me ache like I want that. Past mistakes wiped that idea out, and I don’t care to think about that right now. Maybe ever. I’m relieved it’s not me. Mostly. I don’t even know that I want children. Especially after… Ahem. There may be a reason or seven that I don’t want to get into some sort of committed relationship. I may be some therapist’s wet dream in that department, but I’m fine. I’m taking care of me. That’s all I need. Well, my family of misfits, too, obviously. And Fitzwilliam.

So why am I hiding out and sobbing in the bathroom?

“Girl.” Cameron bangs a fist on the outer door, interrupting my train of thought. Thank God. “I’m going for some dinner with Mom and Papá. Join us or what?”

“Yeah, bitch!” I call. “Calm yourself. Out in a sec.”

I take a deep breath, dab my face with a wad of that generically horrifying tissue the hospital thinks passes for toilet paper, and exit my hiding stall. In the mirror, the puffiness around my eyes looks like I got stung by wasps in the face.

“Gorgeous,” I flatly tell my reflection.

My black hair is a mess from fiddling with it while we waited, and then pushing it out of my face as I sobbed like… well, like I imagine my brand-new godson did upon birth.

Suck it up, Bennett.

I splash some cold water on my face in an attempt to tamp down the redness. Then I dig into my bag for a bobby pin or two and finger-brush my long tangles into submission enough to twist them into a knot on top of my head. Examining the updated look, I exhale, satisfied.

“It’ll do, Donkey,” I say, affecting a Shrek accent. “It’ll do.”