I stare down at my phone, jumping when the metal cabinet in the wall beside me clicks—a lab tech on the other side of the bathroom wall grabbing pee cups for analysis.

Is it too early for pregnancy nausea? Because I feel like I might get sick in this work bathroom. I swallow as I read his message one more time.

‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’

I keep blinking down at it, as if that might change the words.

He can’t come.

He can’t come.

So what?

Something must have come up. Isn’t that what he said?

‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’

See—he’s sorry. It says so right there.

Someone knocks on the door. I jump again, and then stand up and flush the toilet for effect.

I turn on the sink and text: ‘That’s okay. Take care.’

* * *

In medical school, I learned a lot about trauma. Then I started treating real kids, and realized I didn’t know anything about anything. Last year for Christmas, one of my Chicago friends—a pediatric psychologist—gave me this nonfiction book called The Body Keeps The Score.

Really great book about how the brain and body work, and how experiences shape us. And when I read it, I realized I had issues over my dad’s death. I mean, of course. Of course I would. He got pancreatic cancer when I was five, and he was gone before I turned six. Looking back on it, I could even see when maybe I would have decided to be a pediatrician. Dad died in December, and that spring of my kindergarten year, I had a lot of tummy trouble. I remember I went to the doctor lots of times.

I close my eyes and rest my head against my bath pillow, and let my mind drift. Retrospectively, I can see one of the reasons I went for Corey was his age. The feeling I got when I was near him, like I was safe and protected. Daddy Issues are a thing—they really are. And, so what, right? So I’m a normal person.

But I try to think about these things now. If I find myself really upset, having to jerk my car onto a side street and hop out and put my hands on the warm car hood to avoid having a panic attack…I try to think of why.

So here I am in my bath, my foot curled around a fizzing bath bomb, my phone on a table in the den, so I won’t keep on checking it.

I think about my future baby, about Gabe, about our past. I think of whether I can do this if there’s any chance he’s going to be hot and cold, and on and off. I tell myself that while I’m in the bath, I’ll consider not pursuing this plan thing any further.

And by the time I get out, I’ve decided I’m okay. I’m doing me, and I can choose to not be thrown off by Gabe.

I go to bed holding that thought, and hold it when my brother calls at six the next morning letting me know mom is sick; she called him in a panic because she couldn’t breathe, and he was with her all night—but now he needs to go to work. I hold it while I call in to the clinic, while I go take care of mom, and take her to the internal medicine doctor and the pharmacy. I’m still holding onto the notion as I look down at my sneakered feet and decide maybe I’ll run back home. Just to get some endorphins. Later, I can run back over here to check on mom, and get my car.

I take off on foot, and as I run, I think of Gabe. Today’s the day I think I’m ovulating, so I really need him in bed.

I run past the cemetery gates, and I feel the first small crack in my armor. What if this doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t want it? What if I get pregnant, and he then decides he doesn’t want it?

Messy.

Sticky.

Feelings.

It’s not helping that the sky is so damn gray.

But you can do this, I tell myself. He’s going to text today. Why would he set this up and then just disappear? That’s your Daddy Issues talking. No one’s going to disappear.

I feel a little better, and run harder toward home. There’s another jogger in my path, so I pull to the right side of the sidewalk. He runs by, head down, beanie on. But I can feel his eyes flick over me for half a second. He jogs by—and then I smell the air behind him.

Gabe.

I stop and gape as he runs by, without a word.

* * *

I knock hard on her door a few minutes after she goes in it. I’m still dripping sweat. When Marley answers, still in leggings and a damp t-shirt, I scoop her up and carry her to bed.

I’m setting her down when I feel her shove me.

I frown down at her.

“No!” She jumps up, marching toward the den with her hand pointing toward the door. “I don’t want to do this! Thanks but no.”

I blink a few times at her livid face before my stomach starts to churn. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t, that’s why. I decided that I don’t.” She jerks the door open. “Thank you for considering it.”

But I can’t move. “That’s it? It’s over?”

“What is, Gabe? What was there to be over? We barely even started this.”

Inside my head, something is building. I drag a deep breath in. “Why is it over?”

“Because I change my mind!”

I thought this shit was worth it, but I changed my mind! You won’t even let me near you! This whole thing is pointless!

“Why?” I manage, folding my arms over my chest. When she doesn’t answer, just shoots fury at me through her eyes, I think back and— “Was it the text?”

She blinks, and I can tell. “It was the text.”

“It wasn’t only that. I changed my mind. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I can’t be just a fuck to you. Not even just a fuck. Some kind of side fuck. I’m not a side fuck!” Her chest is heaving.

“No,” I murmur. I step closer to her. “I never said you were, Marley.”

“You didn’t have to. I can tell what you think.”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon! I’m not stupid. What came up? Other than you wanted a time out—which you’re entitled to, it’s just that I can’t take it.”

Fuck. I suck a slow breath back, then go all in. “I had to renegotiate a contract.”

She arches an eyebrow, now folding her own arms.

“For my book,” I tell her slowly.

“Is that unusual?” Her shoulders slump.

I shake my head, then shrug. “For me it is. It means a deal I made is given back—sort of—and then we have to make another one.”

“I am not going to make a snide comment about the busy businessman. That would be immature.” The corner of her mouth twitches, and despite everything, I give her a small smile back.

“I couldn’t write the book.”

“No?”

I shake my head. And then my eyes are on the rug, the pretty rug, because I can’t look at her face, not while my eyes are burning.

“The whole thing was based around this girl turning into a shape-shifter. A little girl.” I shut my eyes and take a long, slow breath. So when I open my eyes, I can look at her and say, “I couldn’t write the girl.”

My words are whispered. Maybe I’m a pussy, but they feel like knives in my chest, even when I’m barely speaking them.

I see Marley blanch. I see her get it. And I tell myself I did the right thing, giving this to her.

“Oh, Gabe.”

Even though I don’t want her sorrow. I don’t want her pity. I don’t know if I can take her sympathy or empathy or warmth.

The way she’s looking at me right now makes me want to run. Again. For the third fucking time today.

Except then her face crumbles. She puts her hands over her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m such an asshole.”

“What? No…”

“Yes. I’m insecure, and I’m an asshole.” She looks at me with damp eyes, shaking her head, almost angrily. “It’s because I’m scared…that I’m forgettable.” The word is broken. “That’s what every girl fears most, don’t let anybody tell you different. I don’t want to be that girl that doesn’t matter, the one that’s not worth it.”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t say a word to that. I run my mouth when I’m embarrassed, as you likely know. I’m not seeking reassurance. I’m neurotic, sort of. My dad died and my mom said to her friend on the phone maybe he didn’t want to stay. I realized later she probably meant because he was working two really hard jobs, and we were so damn poor, but at the time I thought of me, and I was five. It seemed like my fault.”

She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

I inch a little closer to her—close enough to grab her hands. “We’re friends now, right? Sort of?”

She looks down at the space between us, nodding after a moment. “So, whatever.” I twine my fingers between hers, and lift them up, and twirl her like we’re dancing. “Want to fuck?”

She laughs, and her face lights up in a mix of shock and delight. “How did you know?”

I lift a shoulder. “Just some crazy plan I had. To plant my seed inside some baby mama.”

“Did you call me a baby mama?” She’s giggling.

“Nothing wrong with a baby mama.”

“Does that make you a baby daddy?”

“If we make a baby. Do you want to make a baby?” She nods slowly, and I pick her up, and take her to her room, and fuck her—two times, slowly first, and fast and hard the second time.

And afterward, I throw the duvet over her and go get her some cider.

She sits up slightly to drink it. “Always cider.”

“Do you want some coffee next time?”

She grins. “I don’t know. Cider is good. Where did you get this cider?” She takes a long sip, getting whipped cream on her nose.

“I ordered it. From New York. From an apple farm I like up there.”

“Wow—really? You’ve been to this apple farm?”

I nod, smirking, because she looks so fucking cute with her hair messy and her glasses pushed down slightly on her nose.

“Did it look healthy? And wholesome?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. It looked like a bunch of apple trees.”

“But did the soil look really richly brown? And did the grass look super green? And could you smell the apples?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe?” I can’t help laughing more.

“You’re a writer, you know. I feel like I need a better description of this apple farm. I’ve always imagined them to be these incredibly wholesome places that can cure cancer if you just go walk around there for a little while.”

“Then you’d probably be disappointed.”

“Nahh. I think it’s magical there. A land of unicorns…” She takes a long swig of her cider. I look down at the duvet. Probably time for me to get moving. I get up and start to dress. “So—tomorrow?” I ask, pulling up my boxer-briefs. I cast a glance at her. “You want two times?”

She nods. “Today is the big day—I think. So twice today and twice tomorrow is ideal.”

“Sounds good.” After I’m dressed, I turn a circle in her room. I scoop the remote up and toss it to her. “You need anything else?”

“I’m good.”

“You okay with some papers coming tomorrow? From my lawyers? Nothing funky.”

“Sure. I’m fine with that.” As I head to the door, she says, “So, Gabe?”

I look back at her. Smile a little.

“Friends?” she says.

I nod. “Friends.”

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No worries.”

All night, as I listen to her move above me, I make a liar out of myself.