I didn’t talk to anyone on Saturday. I mostly stayed in bed, only getting up to get food and use the bathroom. It’s the weekend, I can afford to take a day to be depressed about this. But apparently I’m not a good enough liar, and Sunday afternoon Ellen is banging on my door demanding to be let in.

I go to the door and I don’t hold back on my worst glare when I open it. “Yes?” I ask impatiently.

“Oh, so you are alive,” she says. “I was wondering.”

“Of course I’m alive,” I say as she pushes past me into the apartment. “I don’t answer your texts for one day and you assume I died?”

“Basically, yeah.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re annoying.”

“I know. You love that about me.”

Going into the kitchen, I get a glass of water, mumbling to myself that I do not, in fact, love Ellen right nw.

“What happened?”

I brush past her and go to the living room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” she says. “You look like shit, you’re holed up in your apartment, and you’re not talking to anyone.”

“Maybe I just need some alone time, Ellen,” I snap.

She sighs, flopping onto the couch. “You do realize that I’ve known you long enough to see through all this bullshit?”

I feel tears stinging my eyes and I look away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say thickly.

Ellen pats the couch beside her and I sit, resting my head on her shoulder. It only takes a couple of minutes for the tears to come, and then I’m soaking her shirt with them, crying harder than I can remember in a long time. I’m not sure how long it takes me to cry myself out, but when I do, Ellen hands me a tissue.

“Sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“Fuck off,” I say.

She laughs. “Spill it.”

And so I do. I tell her everything from when I realized I was falling for him again to last night when he broke my heart a second time. I almost start crying again, but I manage to hold it together. It’s almost the time I would be heading over there now. But I’m not going. If I don’t ever see him again, that would be fine with me.

“What are you going to do now?” Ellen asks.

“Honestly, I have no idea. I’m not sure I can actually stomach the idea of sleeping with a stranger now.”

“Yeah…” she says. “Maybe take some time to think about it?”

I sigh. “It’s what I’ll have to do.”

“If you can’t pregnant,” she says, “you could always foster. Or adopt.”

“I know,” I say. “I have thought about it. I’m not opposed, I’ve just always wanted to be pregnant. I want to experience what that is like.”

Ellen hugs me around the shoulders. She knows. It’s not like I haven’t been talking about it forever. Everyone in my life knows I have baby fever. I’ve never been apologetic or ashamed of it. But I feel defeated right now. All I want to do is sleep.

“You should go outside,” Ellen says. “Go for a walk, get some fresh air. If you still want to curl up and take a nap after that, then I think that seems fine.”

“What, are you my doctor now?”

She laughs. “Something like that. I just know that if you stay in the house much more you’re going to melt into the floor.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go for a fucking walk.”

That only makes her laugh harder, but she pushes me off the couch and I put on some comfy clothes. “Are you going on this walk too?”

“Sure.”

We go down to Astoria Park. It’s a bit of a trek, but the day is nice, and the park is always beautiful. Damn Ellen for being right. This does make me feel better. I suppose the adage ‘sunshine is the best disinfectant’ can be used figuratively and literally.

"How do you feel?" Ellen asks.

"What are you expecting? That I'm gonna go for a walk and suddenly I'm going to get over Christian?" I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I wish it were true, but that's not going to happen."

"I know," she says. "I meant more like do you feel like you're a part of the living humans again. When you answered the door you looked like you stepped out of The Walking Dead."

"I did not."

“Did too,” she says. "But seriously, how do you feel?"

"I'm going to take it one day at a time," I say. “That's all I can really do."

"That sounds like a good strategy," she says.

We go down to the water and sit there for a while until Ellen needs to leave. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Probably not," I say. "But I'll just have to deal with it."

"Okay,” she says standing. "I'll text you later. Please actually answer me this time?"

I laugh, though it's not very funny. "I will," I say. "I promise."

I don’t leave the park for a while, enjoying the late summer sunset, and eventually I feel my phone buzz. I check it, thinking it’s Ellen checking in, but it’s not. I’m frozen, because it’s a text from Christian.

Where are you?

I glance at the time. It’s more than an hour past when I would have met him at the apartment. Did he think I would be there after what happened? That I would just go back after he left again? Another text.

Are you all right?

I don’t answer. In fact, I put my phone back in my pocket. The sunset is nice, and I don’t need the distraction. There’s a few more text buzzes, and then the long, insistent vibration of a phone call. But I ignore it. If he won’t answer my questions, then I won’t answer his. Eventually he’ll give up, and we’ll go back to the old normal. Where neither of us were a part of each other’s lives.

Another buzz.

I sigh.

* * *

Monday comes and goes, and even though Christian keeps texting me, I don't respond. Even when I’m in art class and the echoes of drawing him are everywhere, and my sketch of him is hanging on the wall and all I want to do is go back in time three days, I don’t respond.

He calls too, and leaves voicemails. I listen to one, and he talks about how he’s still willing to get me pregnant—all I have to do is show up at the apartment. I'm not anymore willing to do that than I am to listen to anymore messages, respond to his texts, or answer his phone calls.

On Tuesday, I get a call from a number I don't recognize. Given how many times Christian has been calling me, I am wary that he might've found a different number to use, but I answered all the same. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Audrey Robinson?" I don’t recognize the voice.

"Yes, speaking."

"Hello Audrey," the female voice says. “I’m Dr. Lang at the Bridgeport Fertility Clinic. I'm calling in response to an application you sent in for a clinical trial a few months ago. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner."

Shock runs through me. It’d been so long that I’d given up hope about that trial. I never thought they’d call me, I thought their admission period was over. “Uh, hi. I honestly wasn't expecting to hear from you."

"Yes, I’m sorry about that. We’re behind on vetting applications. There was some complication with our grant funding and we had to get it straightened out before we chose people for the project."

I laugh. “That’s ironic.”

“Why?”

“Writing grant applications is what I do for a living,” I say, “So if you need help with the grants, let me know.”

There is no hiding the surprise in her voice. "Really? We would have been better off getting this started sooner then.”

“Yeah, maybe."

"Can I ask how it's going with you?" she asks.

“I’m not sure what you mean?"

She clears her throat. "I apologize. I meant in terms of your fertility journey? Are you still trying to get pregnant?"

"Oh," I say. "I was trying, but I haven't been successful. However, I still have the desire to get pregnant."

"Excellent," she says. "You hit all of our basic benchmarks, so if you don't mind, we can get you set up for an appointment to come in, and start the tests needed to make sure you qualify."

All of a sudden I'm conflicted. This is what I wanted, right? To get pregnant by myself? It’s the absolute answer to my dilemma, and yet I still feel a twinge. A hesitation. Part of me is still hoping for that non-existent dream for a family. But my mother is right, apparently I’m bad at relationships, and I’m not going to let that stop me from having a child. “How soon can you see me?” I ask.

“Really anytime,” Dr. Lang say., “We’re so early in the process that our schedule is very open.”

“Do you have any appointments today?”

“Sure,” she says enthusiastically, “If you can make it in this afternoon we’d love to get started.”

* * *

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet when I got the call, and it’s good because I have to fast until the blood test. The fertility clinic is warm and comfortable, and you can tell an effort was made to make this place welcoming to people who are dealing with such a sensitive issue. It’s working. I’m not in the waiting room long before I’m called back by a nurse who puts me through the normal battery of tests. I’m weighed, blood pressure taken, blood drawn, and then I’m waiting in a gown in a room with stirrups for Dr. Lang.

She enters a few minutes later. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I’m so glad you could come in today,” she says. “Everything looks good, and we know enough from your application that you’re already approved. I just have to make sure you’re not already pregnant and there’s nothing wrong down below.” She winks.

I always feel a bit like a stuffed turkey whenever I’m in stirrups, but Dr. Lang is quick, professional, and thankfully makes it more comfortable than most gynecologists I’ve had in the past. She pokes around for a couple minutes before extracting herself and letting me down. “Nothing looks out of the ordinary,” she says. “You are very healthy. We’ll need to wait to confirm you’re not pregnant with the blood test, but pending that, we should be able to start the process sometime next week.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s fast.”

She smiles. “We can take more time if you need. We’re on your schedule.”

“No,” I say, “that’s good. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“Then hopefully soon we can help you get that baby,” she smiles again. “Julie at the front desk will help you set up your appointment, and we’ll confirm once we have your bloodwork. She’ll also give you a code to our donor database so that you can start looking for the one you’d like.”

“I get to choose?”

Dr. Lang nods. “Of course. The study involves a new medication process, so there’s no reason to take away that choice.”

That’s going to be weird, hand picking the father of my child from a list of attributes. But I guess it’s really no different than swiping on an app to decide the same thing. I’m willing to bet the clinic has more detailed information. Dr. Lang finishes scribbling a note on my chart. “I’ll see you next week!” she says before breezing her way out of the appointment room. I put on my clothes and go to the front desk to set up my next appointment, and I choose Wednesday. My office is finishing a big grant proposal on Tuesday, so it will be easy enough to slip away on Wednesday for a bit.

Then she signs me up for the database and explains how it works. There are no photos but each donor has a profile, complete with physical attributes, medical history, interests and hobbies. I was damn right about them having more information. It’s like having a résumé for sperm. I take the card she gives me, and head home, texting Ellen on the way. There’s no way I want to do this one alone. I’m going to need wine and moral support, and this is right up her alley.

She promises to meet me there.