For a while, I almost had another husband. Corey was the first doctor I met when I moved to Chicago after med school. He was—and is, I guess—the classic silver fox: confident without the ego, witty but not a show-off, capable but never arrogant. Corey made me feel safe and comfortable at time when I was still shell-shocked from what happened with Gabe. The thirteen years between us meant while I was struggling to get a foothold as a young professional, he was purchasing a second home and giving conferences to groups of anesthesiologists. From the first date on, I craved the safe and sheltered feeling he gave me.

I was wearing his ring when, a year and a half ago, I started talking about babies over Chinese take-out. Instead of saying what he usually did—"I’d love to see you pregnant” or “You women and your baby-talk”—he said, “Listen, Marley…I’ve been fixed.”

Fucking Corey had a vasectomy during his marriage to his first wife. When I lost my shit and demanded to know why he’d never told me, he gave our relationship the final blow: “C’mon, Marley, you weren’t serious! You’re on call every other weekend. Also, Mar, I mean this with utmost affection but…you’re not maternal. You’re a great physician. You don’t want your own rug-rat, not really.”

“I have always said that!”

“And you say you want to move to Africa!”

Africa is, in fact, near the top of my bucket list, fuck you very much.

I moved out the next morning. The next month, I missed my period, which sent me running, in a panic, to my OBGYN. She sent me home with a prescription for Xanax and contact info for her favorite psychotherapist. I spent three months in therapy before I felt like I had moved far enough past Corey to see clearly.

Verdict: I want a baby. Why? Because I do. Because I want to be a mother. I just do. Why do I need a reason? More to the point: why do I need a husband?

Yes, it’s true, it would be ideal if my child had a present father. But that doesn’t mean a baby born to me alone would have a less-than-awesome life. Men could mentor him or her. I’m a big fan of the idea that women can mentor—in a sense, “mother”—children, even if they don’t give birth to any. Why couldn’t male friends and relatives do the same for my baby?

I did some soul searching, and I still felt good about it. So I found a good sperm bank, vetted some donors, and never looked back until I lost my angel at thirteen weeks.

Mom has no idea. She’s not someone I trust with my emotions, so I didn’t tell her any of the trying-to-conceive bit. I didn’t even tell Zach. Kat and Lainey knew, and several of my girlfriends from Chicago. But that’s it.

I’m going to keep it that way until I’m past twelve weeks again. That’s what I focus on as I pedal past the Fate Hotel and take a right, toward the grocery store. Just a few more months. I can hang in here a few more months, right?

Right.

By the time I lock my bike to a lamp post near the store’s front doors, I’ve put my mother’s desire for a grandchild out of my mind. I stand beside the Coke machines and pull out my phone, to go over my list.

A quick glance at the screen reveals I’ve gotten four lunch invites. One is from my Grandma Ellis—my late Dad’s mom—asking if I want to go to Meg’s Soup Saucer. I do, of course, but I already have plans: Kat and Lainey are taking me for tacos. Kat’s text says, ‘Is noon okay? Can’t believe you live here now!! Cartwheels!’ The third text is from my brother, Zach. ‘Do you need me to help you unload the truck, or take it to the return spot? Want to grab lunch?’ And then there’s the one from my landlady, Miss Shorter: ‘I’ve got some fresh bread for you, honey. Come by when you can, and I’ll make you some chicken salad, too.’

Well, then. If that’s not a hearty hometown welcome, I don’t know what is. I text everyone back, then glance down at myself. I’m wearing black Nike running shorts, pink sneakers, and a blue Cubs sweatshirt: perfect for a grocery run in my old Chicago neighborhood, less ideal for an outing in a town where everybody knows me.

Oh well. I adjust my ponytail and stroll into the store.

As I recall, there’s not much in the way of organics: basically just fruit, veggies, and milk. A quick trip around the perimeter confirms I’m right. I stock my cart with all my faves, and then strike off down the middle aisles for starchy things like cereal, granola bars, and crackers. Not to mention light bulbs, detergent, and trash bags.

My mind wanders while my feet do: right to where it shouldn’t. Gabe. And what to do about him. Stay or go… And what about what Mom said?

I make a mental note to ask Kat at lunch. Of course, that means I’ll have to tell her and Lainey what’s the what. Who am I kidding, though? I’ll need to tell them anyway. So they can know that when they visit me, they’re near the enemy.

I replay our encounter for the dozenth time as I browse the popcorn and peanuts aisle. He was outside when I got out of the truck, and retrospectively, he seemed righteously outraged—probably shocked. Did Miss Shorter really fail to tell him I would be his neighbor? She’s in her nineties, now, though; maybe she forgot. The information wouldn’t stand out to her… Almost no one here in Fate knows Gabe and I were together for two years right after high school. Our marriage and divorce were both expunged from public record shortly after he found fame.

I decide the trick—for now, at least—is just avoiding him. Which should include avoiding thoughts of him. I refocus, filling my buggy near to overflowing. Then, as I head toward check-out, I remember Mom’s pork chops.

Dammit.

As I wheel back toward the deli freezers, I notice my least favorite high school English teacher—or rather, her hair. Those are definitely Mrs. Parton’s blue-gray curls, poking up from behind a People magazine.

Uh-oh! I duck down the pasta aisle and scurry toward the rear of the store. I can see the pork chops from this aisle, right between the chicken and the ground beef.

With one last glance over my shoulder, I stroll to the pork chops, reach for a pack that says “extra thick,” and freeze as a large arm snakes in front of me, the hand closing around it.

I let out a little “ooh,” turning my head so I can—what the—

“Are you serious with this?”

Gabe blinks down at me, my pork chops cradled near his chest, enclosed in his big hand. He, in fact, looks owl-eyed serious. Or maybe eagle-eyed. He looks staunch and slightly fierce, like a bird of prey who just stole a smaller bird’s rabbit. On second thought, make that smug. What he looks is smug, the motherfucker.

I hold my hand out. “Give that back!”

“Well, hello to you, too, Marley.”

I glare, and he shakes his head, a little for shame shake that makes me want to claw his eyeballs out.

“I think what you meant to say is ‘give that to me,’” he says smoothly. “No ‘back’ about it.”

“Yes, I do mean back.” My voice shakes with the effort I’m making to keep it steady. “I was reaching for it first.”

He holds it up, his face and his demeanor calm. “I think that’s obviously untrue. Regardless, all you have to do is grab another one,” he says, all reasonable-like, nodding at the freezer shelves behind me.

I turn back around to them, but there are no more extra thick pork chops.

“I don’t need those thin ones, or pork tenderloin, or any of that other stuff,” I explain in forced-patient tones. “I need extra thick pork chops.” I fold my arms and angle my body toward Gabe. “That’s what my mom prefers,” I say, shooting my own for shame look at him.

I glance at his buggy. It’s nearly empty. I note a head of living lettuce, a rotisserie chicken, and a loaf of gluten-free bread before I swing my gaze back up to his.

He shakes his head, his infuriating smirk getting even smirkier. “Tell Dephina to try the teriyaki tenderloin. It’s better than pork chops.”

“Delphina” my ass. He never called her that!

“If that’s the case,” I tell him, “why don’t you just get the tenderloin? Dephina asked for pork chops. She has a recipe for pork chops. She’s not in good health, Gabe. She wants a damn pork chop. Give me that pork chop.”

He lifts his head a little, like a giraffe going for a leaf, and pointedly examines my buggy. “What will I get?”

“Are you kidding me?”

He makes an “o” of his lips, giving a slight shake of his head—impersonating someone reasonable. “I was going to eat this tonight.”

“You don’t even like pork chops!”

His blue eyes meet mine. He blinks. “I do now.”

“This is totally ridiculous.”

“Maybe you should try the Piggly Wiggly,” he says lightly. “I’m sure they have more.”

I used to work there in high school, before I worked at Robards’ Drugs. Gabe knows how much I hate that place.

And anyway— “I can’t. I only have a bike in town! My car is still in transit from Chicago. I can’t ride that far. So maybe you should.” My face is blazing red now. I can feel it.

“Would Brenda really mind if you cook something else for her?”

Now purple. I inhale deeply, struggling to find my equilibrium. “I’m not cooking,” I grit. “She is.”

He shrugs. “You’re a good enough cook, if I recall. I’ve gotten better, too. I’ve got a pretty good tenderloin recipe I could send you.”

What. On. Earth. Is. Wrong. With. Him.

In the last twelve years, Mr. Big Bestseller must have lost his fucking mind.

“I don’t want your recipe!” My tone is shrill. I swallow, and then aim for calm and tolerant. And fair. “I saw that first, and I was grabbing it when you snatched it away. If you like the idea of going somewhere else, you should take your car and go. And let me have that. For my mother.”

He rubs his stubbled jaw, looking contemplative. “Nahhh. But if you want some, just come knockin’. I’ll save one for you.”

He walks off, and my head spins.

What the HELL was that?

* * *

Am I an asshole?

In the past, I would have said “no” with some degree of confidence. But as I drop my bag of groceries into my bike pack under the store’s front awning, I have to consider that the answer might have changed during the past few months.

They say misery loves company. I think I get it now. That back there with Marley—taunting her, I admit—that shit was the best part of my day. My week. My month. That shit was the rainbow in a fucking black and white film.

The outrage on her face… Goddamn. I fucking loved her angry, bright red face. When I turned to walk away, she looked mad enough to spit bullets. All over a fucking pack of pork chops. As I zip my bag, I press my lips together—to suppress a wicked chuckle.

Asshole.

I’m not sure I even mind it. Why not be an asshole? Nice guys come in last—another adage I’m starting to believe. I’ve played it nice my whole damn life, or fucking tried. Why not seek out entertainment now?

Marley moving in above me? Maybe she’s the sugar in this shit sandwich. She left me, so what the fuck do I owe her?

A wave of pain and bitterness swells in my chest, so big and tight, I stand there staring at the sheet of rain that’s pouring off the awning, unable to get my breath, and think I might fucking pass out.

With shaking hands, I dig in my pocket for one of those stupid pills—that shit my therapist in Tribeca recommended as a “low-risk” anti-anxiety med. I pop it in my mouth, then look around. In my current, brainless state, all I can manage is to step into the rain and lift my head up. I swallow a gulp of nasty rainwater and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

Idiot.

For more reasons than one. Ever since I moved back, I forget to check my fucking weather app. I check it now, just for shits and giggles, while I wait for the deluge to let up.

The second the app pops up, I remember why I’ve been avoiding it.

‘Ruff, ruff! Meow! Hey, kid! Cover up your head! It’s raining cats and dogs!’

I shut my eyes for just a moment—while they sting. Then I press my fingertip to the symbol, and I magic it away.

Deleted.

Gone.

I grit my teeth and inhale deeply, praying that the dagger in my chest will ease up—maybe—one day.

Fuck.

Serves you right, I tell myself as I rub a palm over my hair, then duck my head and step into the driving rain.

The shock of getting soaked clears my head out, so when I reach my bike, I’m feeling clear enough to drive. I pull my helmet on and start off slow out of the lot. I’m shivering in my t-shirt before I reach the first red light—the one by the catfish statue.

Fucking Southern winters. So wet and gray and—

Movement to my left catches my eye, and I look under the old hotel awning just in time to see someone on a bicycle wipe out.

Fucking shit, man. That was brutal.

The light turns green, but I don’t let off the brake. My stomach clenches as I watch the biker struggle to her feet, then stoop back down in the shadow of the hotel’s balcony…

A horn honks, and I go on through the yellow light. I drive past the hotel, then make a U-turn in front of the Azalea Mart, pointing myself toward the Fate Hotel, now on my right. There’s a vacant parallel spot not too far from where I saw the woman, and before I’ve taken time to think, I’m walking on the sidewalk toward…yeah, that’s Marley.

She’s now on her hands and knees in a puddle of what might be milk, gathering groceries that went flying underneath the hotel’s awning. From my angle, she’s just a shadow, sporting a red hue from a nearby traffic light.

The closer I get to her, the heavier I feel. Heavier still when I realize that I know that bike. She’s riding a bicycle I bought her: bright, light blue, with hot pink handlebar grips. And, apparently now, a little basket on the front.

As I near her, she looks up. When she notices I’m me, she freezes with her hand stretched toward a yogurt packet.

“Hey…” I sink down to my knee beside her, even as I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. “You okay?” Fuck, my voice sounds rusty.

“Just fine, hero. You can be on your way now.”

I look at the sidewalk around her, wet from rain and milk, and strewn with groceries. Two of her plastic grocery bags look shredded by their impact with the cement.

After a second’s hesitation, my conscience—or the ghost of it—kicks in. I pull my leather bike pack off and hold it out. “Why don’t you use this? You can wear it and—”

“No thank you.” Her face, striped with sopping strands of hair, looks tight and angry.

“C’mon. I’m sorry I—”

“I said no thanks.” Her face lifts, showing me hard brown eyes and a hard jaw. “Thank you for stopping, you can go now.”

But her voice sounds shaky. I might have found my calling as an asshole recently, but I’m not leaving her amidst a bunch of broken groceries in the fucking rain.

I look around, and start to gather dish soap, cheese—

“Stop! Put that down!”

I blink at Mar, and heat moves through me.

“Fine.” I set the items down beside her and stand, assessing her from up above. Finding neither blood nor bruises, I step back.

But I can’t seem to make my feet move. Fuck. I take my backpack off. Keeping my gaze averted, I lean down and set it out in front of her. “In case you need an extra bag.”

I move fast, and when she calls my name, I keep on moving.