The next morning Ellen and I get breakfast before work. We used to do it every Tuesday, but less now since both of us have been so busy. Usually our brunches consist of Ellen spilling the details of her latest escapade—today included. Ellen likes to have her fun on weeknights because she feels like there’s less pressure. Both people have to get to work in the morning, so there’s no question of whether or not you’re going to spend your days off together or perhaps have a second night stand.

“So,” Ellen says, shoveling a piece of omelet into her mouth, “we finish, and we both finished so everything was fine. Like, not great, but fine, right? But he’s giving me all those signs, like he wants to go again and go all night type of thing. And that wasn’t going to happen. I swear, Audrey, I think he almost cried.”

I laugh. “Really?”

“Literal, actual tears. I mean, I know I’m amazing, but this is the first time that my vagina has reduced a man to weeping.”

“I can’t say that mine has done that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re better off. It’s very disconcerting.”

I raise my glass of coffee in cheers. “I actually have a story of my own.”

“Oh?” Ellen freezes. “Audrey Robinson has a tale of debauchery to share? Please do.”

“As debaucherous as you can be when you’re trying to get pregnant with the same man.” I fill her in on how I volunteered Christian to be the class’s nude model, and the little quickie we had in the closet.

“Holy shit, girl. Way to go.”

I clear my throat. “So we went to dinner, and basically gorged ourselves on pasta. And we talked a lot. Even though we didn’t talk about anything we actually need to talk about. It was…nice. It reminded me of when we were first getting to know each other.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I’m not sure?” I say. I have so many things I need to ask him. Why he did what he did, and even more, why he never talked to me again. Never even tried. I think that might have hurt more than his words in the bar. Was I really not worth even reaching out to? But now, that hurt is contrasted by his kindness and all the pleasure. I’m definitely confused. “I never thought I would enjoy being around him again. Frankly, apart from the good sex, I thought this whole thing was going to be a nightmare. Basically, I said yes to prove to him that I could.”

Ellen thinks for a second. “Well, I’m glad that it’s going better than you thought it would. But where does that leave you with him?”

“I have more,” I say. “After the restaurant, we did end up going back to the place on the Upper West Side. It felt…perfect and natural. We had sex two more times.”

“You’re fucking joking.” Ellen’s eyebrows rise into her hairline.

“I’m not.”

She starts to laugh, loud enough that the people around us in the immediate vicinity start to look. “Well damn.”

I’m pleasantly sore after last night, and three chances for him to get me pregnant raises the chances by…some. I’m not ovulating, so it’s not likely, but there’s always a tiny chance. And I also had…fun. I liked that I was with Christian, and it was like going back in time to where everything was perfect between us. And it was easy for us both to ignore the reality staring us in the face, the chasm of unsaid things between us that we need to talk about. But why would we do that when we can ignore it in favor of pleasure and easy conversation?

“I know, I have to talk to him about it,” I say. “But it’s nice to have a break.”

“And you deserve that. It’s okay not to be broken up and a living tragedy all the time.”

“I’m not a living tragedy.”

Ellen laughs. “Of course you’re not. And that’s good. I just don’t want you getting in so deep that you can’t get back out again without going through the same thing.”

“I can’t say I haven’t thought about that.”

“But have you?” she asks. “It may feel like it right now, but you’re not actually having a baby with him. Eventually you’re going to test positive and he’s going to disappear. You know I love you, and I’ve got your back. Just remember what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

She’s absolutely right. All the good times and the good sex, it’s hard to keep my focus where it should be: on me and my future child. I have to remember that Christian has made his choice, and he doesn’t want a family. Especially with me. I need some kind of mantra to keep in my head when I’m with him. I didn’t think it would be this easy to forget about what happened, but I can while he’s with me, inside me.

We change the subject because it’s not exactly fun to talk about that aspect of what happened, even with Ellen. Instead we go back to talking about her bad date and rehashing a compilation of the worst of the worst of her one-night stands. I swear that Ellen could write a book on dating, and it would be both funny and frightening. She’s had guys try to get her to marry them, one kicked her out immediately after sex. A few that made strange and crazy sounds during sex, and a hundred other stories. We’ve cultivated our favorites, and they never fail to get us laughing. It works today, too.

We’re about to leave, when Ellen gets quiet for a second. “Seriously though, Audrey. Are you going to be okay with this?”

I have to stop and think. “I hope so,” I say. “I don’t get that gut wrong feeling that I sometimes get when I’m choosing the wrong thing. This feels…natural. I’m not sure if that’s because of our history or because of the way we’re interacting now. But I feel good.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Thanks. It really does make me feel better that you ask.”

She finishes putting her tip on the table. “I’ve got your back, and I will kick his ass if he hurts you again.”

I laugh and give her a hug. “Good to know.”

We say our goodbyes and I head to work, but I won’t be there for long. I’ve got a busy day today, meeting with Ellen, and I’m also having lunch with my sister. We haven't talked in a while, and to be honest, we’re just not that close. There are plenty of people who say it doesn't make sense that we don't talk, but we’re several years apart and have always had different interests.

My sister has always been a free spirit, and in the last few years she’s spent a significant amount of time overseas. That schedule, between time differences and whatever crazy and unique trip she was currently on, wasn't conducive to a close relationship. However, now that she's planning to spend some time in the states, and I'm helping to plan her surprise party, I thought it was time for us to catch up.

We meet at a small Italian place close to my office. A new contract came in today, and while I do want to catch up with her, I have to get back to work before too long. Grants are often time sensitive, and sometimes they come in at the last minute. Unfortunately, this is one of those.

When I walk into the restaurant, I see her immediately. She looks like me, standing about my height, but whereas I have dark brown hair, hers is a vibrant pink. If I'm honest with myself, part of the reason that I don't talk to Celia that much is because I'm a little jealous. Sometimes I wish I could care less than I did about my job or wanting kids and stability, or that I could be as free as she seems to be.

She smiles when she sees me, jumping up to give me a hug. "Sis! It's been a while this time. How are you doing?"

I hug her back. "I'm pretty good. Nothing that new to report, unfortunately."

"That's not true," she says, stepping back and sitting down at the table. "Mom tells me that you're trying to have a baby."

"Yeah," I say, trying to swallow the half-lie that’s about to come out of my mouth. "I'm working with a clinic. I decided to do it on my own."

Celia gives me a look, like she knows what I'm saying isn't quite true. "You've got that look on your face,” she says. “The one where you're lying. It’s the same one that you used when we were kids and Mom never knew."

"I do not have a look!"

She laughs. “You totally do."

The waitress appears and brings us glasses of water, and we order quickly. Me, fettuccine Alfredo, and Celia rigatoni with meatballs. “What exactly does this 'look' look like?" I ask once the waitress leaves. Celia shrugs. “You have this little half smile and you don't make eye contact."

"What?"

"Yeah," she says, “it's like you know that you're lying, so you make sure that you don't look the person in the eye so they can't tell. It's fine, and it works on Mom. But not me. So which part of that was a lie? The fact that you're trying to have a baby or the fact that you're working with a clinic?"

I sigh. "I'll tell you, but only if you promise not to tell Mom."

Celia grins. "You of all people know that I love to keep secrets from Mom."

"And dad,” I say, “and everybody else in your life. Face it Celia, you just like secrets."

She looks away, and takes a sip of her water. "I won't deny that.”

“Fine,” I say, "I am trying to get pregnant. But I'm not using a clinic because I can't afford it."

She raises her eyebrows. "Honestly, that's not the part I thought it was going to be a lie. I thought you had just told Mom that you're trying to get pregnant so she would stop asking about grandchildren."

“You're not exactly wrong. I did tell her that to get her to stop asking, but I didn't want her to know how I'm actually doing it.”

Celia gives me a look. “What? Are you using a turkey baster?"

“Ew,” I say. "No. There's an app, for people who want to get pregnant. They vet the guys and it's kind of like Tinder, then you meet up with them and…”

Celia starts laughing. “So you're hooking up with a complete stranger?"

The waitress brings our food, and I wait to speak until after she’s gone. Even though the waitress doesn't have a clue who I am or who Christian is, I’m still mildly embarrassed by the whole situation. "Not exactly."

"Then who?"

“It was kind of weird," I say. "The person I matched with on the app, ended up being Christian."

This only makes Celia start laughing harder. In fact, she's laughing so hard I think she might start to cry. "Mom is literally going to kill you."

I take a bite of my fettuccine, thinking about that. She might. "She doesn't have to know."

"You really think that you're going to be able to hide the fact that Christian is the father of your baby for that rest of that child's life?"

I pause, hoping I could come up with some plan that would be solid, but the best I can come up with is, “Maybe."

“Bullshit,” she says. "You'll never be able to pull that off. Not only is Mom the nosiest person on the planet, but are you seriously telling me that even though you're not together, you're not going to let Christian see his baby?"

I hadn't thought about that. We had both agreed that this would be the status quo until he got me pregnant. And then we’d be done. But given our history, wouldn't I want him to see the child? Wouldn't I want my child to know her father? This is one aspect that definitely would've been easier had it been someone I didn’t know. It would be easy to dismiss a stranger, and make up some story for my son or daughter about why their father wasn't around. For Christian, I don't have that luxury. "Regardless of whether she finds out, please don't tell her right now. This is hard enough as it is without incessant phone calls asking why I've gone back to the loser who dumped me. Or who I dumped. Whatever."

"Your secret is safe with me."

"So,” I say, “I hear I'm not the only one with news."

Celia grins sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess the cat’s out of the bag on that one."

"What makes you want to go back to school now? You've never been interested before.”

"I'm not sure," she says, "I just knew while I was walking around all these amazing historical sites that I wanted to know everything there was to know about them. And there's only so much you can learn on your own. You need people who have studied it before, who have the resources to really dig in with you. So I figured now that I've got something I'm truly interested in, it was the time to come back and do it."

"Well, I'm glad you're going to be back. Maybe we can catch up more often."

Celia smiles. "I'd like that. Besides, you're gonna need somebody to run interference for you with Mom."

I practically roll my eyes. "I don't know why you think it's going to be such a big deal. She's never going to find out. She has no reason to know."

"I think you got off easy as the older child," she says. "Mom knows everyone, everywhere. Eventually, if you and Christian are ever in public together, someone's going to see. And somehow that's going to get back to Mom."

"I think you're vastly overestimating her network, but okay.”

“Trust me," she says. “There's a reason I was always in so much trouble in high school.”

“Aside from your behavior?"

She grins. “Aside from that."

We move off the more serious subjects and just chat. We have a lot more to talk about than we thought. She tells me funny stories about her time in Europe, and I tell her about the art class with Mr. Prince. She thinks the story about Christian modeling naked is funny as well. It reminds me that tomorrow we have to do it all over again, and I take a sip of water to cool down the sudden heat. I’m not going to go into details of my sex life with my sister, and I’m having to fight off flashes of us in that damn closet.

But Celia saves me from myself. She's excited about the fact that I'm going to have art in a gallery, and tells me something I never knew. "I always thought you'd be a really good artist. I hoped that you would go against Mom and Dad’s wishes and try to make it.”

“I don't know if I loved it enough to do that," I say. "Besides, I don't really think I'm that good."

Celia snorts. "If you're good enough to get into an exclusive workshop with Alexander Prince," she says, “you’re good enough to do almost anything."

"That's sweet of you."

"You told M and Dad about that, right?"

I wince. “No, I haven't. I will though, before the showing at the gallery."

"The sooner the better," she says. “You want them to have time to adjust to the idea if they don't like it."

"You're probably right."

We finish our lunches and before long, it's time for me to go back to work. I give my sister a hug, and this time it's a real one. “This was really nice,” I say. “I’m glad we did this."

“Yeah, me too." She hugs me back, and then pokes me in the arm. "And call Mom. Tell her about the art show."

I laugh. "I will."

She pops off down the street, slipping headphones on and dancing through the crowd. With that hair, she’s visible for blocks and it makes me smile.

It turns out I don't have time to call Mom until after work, but I do call her. She answers almost immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Audrey," she says. "I heard you had lunch with Celia."

"Yeah, it was really good. I definitely think we are on the right track with the party."

I can practically hear her smiling through the phone. "Good, that's just what I wanted to hear."

"I also have something else to tell you. I hope you’ll be all right with it."

"What is it?" she asks. “Are you pregnant?"

I try to ignore the pure hope in her voice. "No, I'm not pregnant yet. But, I've been taking an art class. A workshop, really, with Alexander Prince. In a few weeks, at the end of the workshop, there's going to be a show for all the students. I would really love if you and Dad would come."

There's a pause and then, “Of course we’ll come! Why would you ever think we wouldn't?"

I stop on the street, thinking about the correct way to say this. "Well, when I talked about pursuing art, you and dad weren't very excited. I didn't know if that had changed."

"Well, are you quitting your job to become an artist?"

“Of course not."

“Then I don't see the problem with you doing a little art in your spare time. All your father and I ever wanted was you to have some stability. In fact, that's what we still want."

I’m sure if any of the people on the street were to look at me they’d either be confused or scared by the face I’m making. "Why don't I have stability now?"

Mom clears her throat uncomfortably. “You’re trying to get pregnant," she says. "We’re very happy that we’re going to have a grandchild at some point, but of course we'd rather you be with someone. You know, somebody solid. Somebody who would be with you through the entire process."

"Do you want me to have a baby or do you want me to have a relationship?"

"Oh, sweetie. I want you to have both. But since that doesn't seem to be working, were going to be happy with just the baby."

A simmering, sparkling rage rises beneath my skin, but I do my best to keep it out of my voice. "Okay, Mom, I’m at my train. I'll send you the details of the art show as soon as I have them.”

The fact that she’s still all sweetness and light just makes me angry. “All right, honey. Remember, Celia's party is a week from Friday."

"I won't forget,” I choke out before hanging up the phone.

Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. When I was with Christian, it wasn't good enough that we were together, we should have been married. Once we broke up, I never should have been with him to begin with. Now that I'm having a baby, I should be with someone before I have a baby. Once I have the baby, she'll probably go back to trying to set me up with people. I don't know how to make her happy, or if I'll ever be able to.

It's time for me to realize that that may never happen.

I get on the train, trying to shake the anger from my chest, but it doesn't work very well. Just as I get off at my stop, and climb down the stairs to walk home, my phone chimes.

I want to draw you.

The text is from Christian, and I just text back a question mark, because the text doesn't make sense. When he doesn't answer I send another one

What?

I want to draw you.

Draw me how?

I wait for the little typing bubbles, stopped on the corner of the street.

I want to come over to your place, or go to the apartment, and I want to draw you, naked. So that you can understand how I feel before I have to do this two more times.

For as long as I've known him, Christian has been talented. He’s an architect, so he knows how to draw, and well. Granted it's not usually bodies, and it's usually more straight lines than curves, but he can do it. I imagine that situation, being studied by him, and it's erotic as hell.

To have that laser focus of his attention on me for such a long time, I realize with sudden clarity why he pulled me into that closet.

There’s the whisper in my head that I shouldn’t. That this will just blur the already blurring lines. But I push the voice away. I’m a grown-up. I can handle this. And I want to know how it feels. There’s also the whisper that I deserve this. After everything, I deserve to enjoy myself, even if Christian isn’t the same person he once was.

Either way, this can’t happen tonight.

I'm already home though, or almost there, and after so many things happening today, I'm not ready for him to come over to my house. That's a whole other emotional hurdle that I haven't prepared myself for. So I text him back—

I would love that. But I can't tonight. How about tomorrow, after our class? We can go to the apartment and you can draw me there.

I send another one in quick succession.

I'm willing to bet you’ll be raring to go by then.

You bet your sweet ass I will.

I sigh, sending him another text.

I saw my sister today. She’s concerned that my mother is going to find out that you’re helping me and lose her shit.

Yeah, she’s probably going to find out at some point, you should be prepared for that.

Frustration rises in my chest again.

How is she going to find out? Also, I'm more than a little frustrated with her at the moment, it's none of her business. Why should she care?

She cares because you are her daughter, and she wants what's best for you even if the way she wants it is slightly misguided.

That shuts me up. Despite the fact that my mother and I have different views on the way my life should go, I could never argue that she doesn't care about me or that she doesn't love me.

I hate it when you're right.

I know.

I'm almost at the door to my building, and I'm overcome with a bone deep exhaustion. I've been on my toes all day, with the new contract and Celia and my mother. All I want to do is sleep. I pause outside my door, texting him one more time.

Going to bed early. I'll see you tomorrow at class?

Sleep well, and I'll see you in class.

One final chime.

Dream of me.