In true Audrey fashion, I'm way too eager. On the way home from the apartment, I stopped at a drug store and bought a pregnancy test. It was all I could do not to take the test immediately when I got home. All I managed to do was wait until the morning, and even though it's incredibly unrealistic for me to think that I'd be pregnant after just twelve hours, I can't help myself.

And even though I know that the chances are slim to none, the disappointment I feel when the test tells me I'm not pregnant is enough to make me cry. I'm not usually a big crier, and the way too hopeful part of me says that maybe I am pregnant and it's too early for the test to tell. That the brand-new hormones in my body are what are making me cry. But I know that's not true. I've never been pregnant, but I've wanted it for so long, that I feel that I'll know.

When I meet Ellen for brunch, she rolls her eyes when I say that.

"You know you won't actually be able to tell when you're pregnant, right?" She asks.

"It's not like it's totally impossible," I say. "I mean, I know it's rare but I've heard of it happening."

“Yeah, exactly," she says through a mouthful of eggs. "It's rare. You're only gonna be more disappointed if you think that you're going to be the exception to the rule."

"I guess so," I say, taking a sip of my tea. Then I clear my throat. "I have something to tell you. About the guy."

Her eyes light up. "Oh, do tell. Was he an absolutely amazing lover? Or have you decided to find somebody else to seed your garden?"

I start laughing. "I'll tell you about it if you promise never to say ‘seeding your garden’ again."

"Fair enough," she says, waving a hand.

"It turns out… I know the guy."

She raises an eyebrow. "Really? Who?"

I cringe, anticipating a reaction. “It was Christian."

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "Are you serious?"

"You know that Christian is the last person I would joke about."

"And you slept with him?"

I hesitate for just a second. "Yeah, I did."

"I am… Amazed that you didn't kick him in the balls and walk out of there."

I take a bite of toast. "Believe me, I thought about it. But he had some good points about why we could make this work, and if it turns out that it's not working, I can always find someone else."

Ellen stares at me for a minute, like she's trying to figure something out. "How was that? I mean, was it weird? After everything that happened, I feel like that would be hard."

“It wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, but the chemistry between us has never been the problem.”

"Yeah, it's just that you've always said you thought he was the love of your life. Are you really going to be able to let him get you pregnant and then walk away?"

"The love of my life is going to be someone who wants the same things that I want, at the same time that I want them. That clearly isn't Christian. I don't know if I'll ever find another 'love of my life,’ but regardless, he can't be it if we want such different things."

Ellen looks unconvinced, but she also doesn't push the issue. "Okay," she says. She finishes swallowing the bite she has in her mouth and takes a drink of her coffee. "On not an entirely unrelated subject, what's the one thing that you always wanted to do besides be a mother?"

"Be a painter?" This is something we've talked about often. Ellen thinks I'm more talented than I am, and she wants to help me become what she deems a 'real artist.'

She points at me. “Yes!"

"Ellen, we talked about this."

"You're right," she says, "we have. But not like this." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin folder. "See?"

She hands the folder to me and I take it. It has the logo for the Prince Art School on it. It's one of the most prestigious art schools in Manhattan, and in no way would I ever be able to get in there even if I wanted to. I can't afford to quit my job to go to art school. "What is this?"

"Just read it."

I open the folder quickly glancing over the contents. I expected an application for the school, that's not what it is. Instead, it's an acceptance letter to a five-week workshop taught by Alexander Prince himself. It starts in three days. "What on earth?"

"I have some connections at that school," Ellen says. "I know you always say you don't want to go to art school, but this is so short I thought you might give it a shot."

I was stunned. Alexander Prince is considered one of the best artists of modern times. "How was I accepted when I didn't even apply?"

"Oh," she says, "I did that. When they saw a few of your pieces they were practically falling over themselves to print out the acceptance letter."

Blood rushes to my face and I am embarrassed that someone saw my work, but also pleased that they liked it. But there's more than one reason that I don't drop out and go to art school. Art school’s expensive. "How much does it cost?"

Ellen grins like a Cheshire cat. "Not a damn penny. Apparently, Mr. Prince wanted to do a workshop for talented artists who can't afford to pay for art school. So for everyone who applies and is accepted, there is no tuition necessary."

I shake my head. “This can’t be real."

"But it is," she says, her face so happy and smug I kind of want to slap her and hug her at the same time. "And they knew most of the people would be working professionals, so the classes are at night."

I'm still shocked, but there's happiness and anticipation building in my stomach. "I don't know how you found this, Ellen, but thank you."

“You’re going to do it?”

"Hell yeah, I'm going to do it!"

It's been a while since I've painted seriously. After things fell apart with Christian, I was in a serious depression for a long time and had no desire to paint. When I came out of it, I was busy trying to put my life back together. I was dating, trying to find his replacement, and I was deciding whether or not I wanted to pursue motherhood alone. There have been a few occasions when I've painted, but it was never serious. This makes me want to run home right now and break out all of my art supplies, even though I have to go to work. Now I have two things to look forward to: this art workshop and a positive pregnancy test.

* * *

On Saturday morning, the only thing I can think about is meeting Christian. I go to the store and buy some ovulation sticks to make sure that I'm ovulating, and I am. This really could be the night.

The only thing that can possibly distract me from thinking of him is painting. The second I got home from work on Friday, I pulled out all my art supplies and spread them out over my living room. I stayed up way too late experimenting with ideas that were bouncing around in my mind.

I daydream about what the workshop will be like, what styles we’ll experiment with, and whether or not this might lead to something more in art.

I paint all day, focusing on an abstract background of blue-and-white shapes from which faces appear. Some of the faces I know, or resemble people that I know like Ellen, my mother, there's even one that looks a bit like Christian. Some of them I don't know, purely from my imagination.

They all have back-stories in my head. Some are artists like me. Some are characters from books that I've read. Some I fancy to be people that I passed on the streets of New York City and inexplicably remember their faces.

I spent so much time on the painting that I almost forgot to leave for my date with Christian. I don't have enough time to fully wash all the paint from my hands, I just have to put on the clothes that I've chosen and run out the door. The first time I went to this apartment I was anxious because I thought I was going to meet a stranger. Now I'm anxious because I know that I'm not going to meet one. Ellen's words from breakfast yesterday echo in my head. How am I supposed to do this? How my supposed to let the man I once loved so deeply give me a baby and then simply walk away? Will that break me all over again? I don't believe it will, but I also know not to trust myself when it comes to things like this.

Christian is waiting in the living room when I enter the apartment. I note the way my body reacts when I see him, perking up, and feeling light. It's the same way I used to feel when I came home to our apartment and found him waiting for me. I also note the way I’m suddenly aroused, my body craving more of the feelings that he can give me.

"Hi."

"Hello," he says. "You seem out of breath."

"I was running a little late so I walked here really fast from the subway."

He smiles. "You didn't have to do that. I'm not going to walk out of here if you're five minutes late."

"That's good to know," I say, dropping my purse onto the couch. "Shall we?"

Christian stands. “Of course."

I don’t make him wait in the living room this time; instead I immediately head into the bedroom and start to strip. I'm down to my bra and panties when Christian catches me by the waist and hauls me against his body. He's already shirtless, and my arousal flames into full force just from touching him. "You got somewhere to be?"

"No," I say, a little breathlessly.

"Then what's your rush?"

I feel color rise to my cheeks. I look away from him, suddenly embarrassed. I don't say anything, but neither does he. And I know from the way he's looking at me that he's not going to do anything until I answer his question. Finally, I find the words. "I'm ovulating."

"Ah. So you're excited," he says.

"Yeah, I am."

He slides his hand down my waist, his fingers slipping into my panties before I can protest. “And probably very horny too," he says. The way his fingers are slipping through my wetness, there's no doubt that he already knows just how ready I am for this.

I manage a smile. “I’m very ready for you to get me pregnant.”

“I think you’re ready for more than that.” He slips a finger in my pussy, and I lose my breath. He doesn't hesitate, immediately adding a second finger. His thumb rests gently on my clit, pressing in circles, teasing me and keeping me on the edge.

Christian curls his fingers up and back, stroking my G spot. I rise up on my toes with the pleasure of it, and he keeps steady. His fingers bring waves of pleasure quickly, stroking, stroking, stroking, until I'm gasping for breath.

“You’re too good at this."

He smirks. "I know."

He fits the third finger inside me, strumming them across my G spot like I'm an instrument that he's meant to play, and I moan. "I hate you."

“Yes, but right now you love my fingers."

I grab his biceps trying to steady myself, and he wraps his free hand in my hair, holding me in place. "Your fingers are the only good part of you."

He leans down so his lips are almost brushing mine. "I think you might live to have a conversation with my cock about that."

I want to come back and say something witty, but now he's thrusting his fingers into me as well as stroking inside me and all my words are gone. My orgasm rises up almost out of the blue, shocking me, taking me swiftly and hard. It swirls up my spine through my chest out into my hands and my brain and my breath, and I gush onto his hand and down my legs.

He teases me through my orgasm, using his thumb to send additional sparks of pleasure through my body. I relax down from my toes breathing deeply, and Christian chuckles. "Maybe you don't hate me after all."

“Oh no,” I say, “I still hate you. But you happen to be very talented in the orgasm giving department."

“You didn’t ask.”

I stand up a little straighter, ignoring the fact that his fingers are still inside me. “No matter what you say, I’m not going to beg you for pleasure.”

His hand is still in my hair too, and I feel his fingers tighten. “I thought we agreed you would do what I say?”

“Within reason, Christian.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he says, sliding his fingers out of me. I ignore the fact that I feel empty now, distracted by the fact that his fingers are now in his mouth, tasting me. The sound that comes from him makes me wet again, and he grins around his fingers. “I do love the way you taste.”

Blood rushes to my face, and I turn away, embarrassed.

“You never used to blush when I said things like that,” he notes.

“It’s been three years, Christian. You don’t know me anymore.”

His hands creeps around my waist, easing me back against him. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I know you pretty well.”

“Sex isn’t knowing someone.”

“I never said it was,” he says, breathing against my shoulder. “I know that you’re still stubborn. I know that you’ve changed, become someone who goes after what she wants. I know that you’ve been painting, and I know that you’re just as sexy as the day I met you.”

My stomach does a flip-flop, which I ignore. This is not what this is for. He’s not supposed to notice things about me. I don’t know if I want him to, and yet I can’t help but be pleased that he is. “How do you know that I’ve been painting?” I ask, latching on to the one thing in that list that’s the easiest to deal with.

He grabs my hands and raises them so I can see. My fingers are spattered with blue flecks from my painting earlier today. It hadn’t even occurred to me that you could still see them. I hadn’t remembered. “Oh.”

Still guiding my hands, Christian uses my fingers to tuck into the waist of my panties and push them to the floor. He leaves me only for a moment, and I hear the rustling of his pants before he’s against me again, and I can feel the hardness of his cock against my ass. “We haven’t used the bed yet,” he whispers in my ear, turning me towards the wall. “Why start now?”

I let it happen. Christian guides me to the wall, pressing me to it with his body. His hands are on my hips, pulling them back just a little, and the way he’s arranging me to his liking turns me on more than I want it to. I’m dripping again, so, so ready.

Christian fits himself against me, not easing in this time, instead thrusting in with one stroke. It takes my breath away, and I groan into the wall. I reach out for something to grab, something to hold onto while my body adjusts, and I find Christian. He grabs my hands, weaving our fingers together, holding my arms wide. I feel vulnerable, held open and pinned in place, but I also feel good. I’ve moved on from my conflicting emotions about Christian and I’m just enjoying the way he’s here. I like the way he fills me up, stuffed and aching.

He’s working me with long, steady strokes, a calm rhythm that makes me think he’s going to take his time. God, it feels so good that I think I might collapse, but I won’t, because he’s holding me up. Mostly with his cock.

“I can paint too,” he says, grunting as he thrusts. “With pleasure.”

I gasp as he tilts his hips under, changing the angle and making it just that much better. “That was really cheesy,” I manage to say.

“But it’s still true.”

“Fuck you,” I say, but it comes out as a moan, and it sounds like a confirmation and not a complaint.

He presses his lips to my neck, and the kiss shivers down my spine. “As you wish.”

I don’t have time to make fun of the old phrase because Christian’s not holding back anymore. He drives into me, relentless, pounding, and every hit drives me higher. Each thrust draws a cry from me, until it’s one long sound, and I beg. I beg for him to fuck me harder, to make me come.

I’m pressed fully against the wall now, Christian’s body against mine. The cold friction of the wall contrasted with the heat and movement of his body put me that much closer. And then I’m there. The bright, shining promised line just barely out of reach.

“Please,” I beg. “More.”

He gives it to me, thrusting to the hilt, and I scream, coming. I gush onto his cock, and he comes too, sending warmth deep into my pussy. Sheer bright heat and pleasure flash up my spine and outward, and I try to move, but I can’t the way he has me trapped between his body and the wall. I’m helpless in the face of this pleasure.

I curse, struggling to breath as it subsides, sagging against the wall. That was easily the best orgasm that I’ve had in a long time, and I have no words right now. Christian slowly pulls away from me, and then quickly scoops me up and carries me to the bed. He puts me on my back so I can do the required reclining before excusing himself to clean up.

When he comes back, I’m honestly still trying to catch my breath, and my voice is hoarse. “Thank you for your service.”

He chuckles, pulling on his pants. “Anytime. Speaking of, how often did you want to meet?”

“Well,” I say, “It’s pretty common for people who have sex every two or three days to get pregnant faster.”

Christian nods. “Every other day then?”

“You’d be willing to do that much?”

His eyes travel up and down my naked body. “It’s not exactly a hardship, Audrey. I can’t do Monday, but Tuesday should work.”

I blush and look away. “Then yeah, every other day is fine with me.”

“Great.” He finishes buttoning his shirt and slips on his shoes. “See you on Tuesday.” He’s almost to the door when he turns. “Is your number the same? I think it’s probably easier than using Heartility to communicate.”

“It’s the same.”

“I’ll text you then.” He is out the door, and I’m there watching him leave, dealing with the fact that for the first time in three years, I don’t want him to go.