---

“Reese’s Cups?” Amanda asks, like we’re going through a UN disaster-team checklist.

“Check.”

“Cherry Garcia?”

“Two pints.”

“Salt’n’vinegar chips?”

“Yep.”

“Ibuprofen?”

“Uh huh, but only if it’s super bad, and only after it starts.” In case. Just in case. I know I shouldn’t hold out hope, but...

“And ginger ale,” I add.

“That’s new.”

I shrug. “My stomach’s acting kind of weird.”

“Okay… People magazine?”

Groan.

“And tampons.”

“That bad?”

“Hasn’t even started yet. But I’m out.” It’s day twenty-eight and I know I’m going to be sporting a giant overnight pad with batwings tonight. Poor Declan’s going to have to sleep on the couch because my bloated body will sink my side of the bed for the next five days.

“How do you know it’s coming? Maybe you’re pregnant?”

I glare at her. “I have had a monthly period for seventeen years. My period is almost an adult. My period will be able to be drafted and sent off to war soon. My period’s about to go off to college. Its privacy will be protected from helicopter parents by FERPA. You dare to ask me how I know? I know. You know I know.”

“Oh, I know now. That period’s coming, all right. You are bitchy as hell, Shannon!”

“I am PMSing while TTCing!”

“Then no wonder you’re OTL with your BFF.”

“OTL?”

“Out to lunch.”

“No one uses that as an acronym!”

“I was feeling left out.” Amanda’s nose scrunches as her eyes dart to a corner of the living room, over by the fireplace. “What are all those?” Three big stacks of large cardboard shipping boxes dominate, the top one open.

“Take a look,” I offer.

She does, pulling out tiny containers of flavored salt. Specialty salt-based creams. Salted soap.

“You doing a promotion with a salt company?”

“No. Declan bought one of everything from my favorite store in Portland.”

“One of everything?”

“I gave a bunch of it away to Mom, Carol and Amy. What’s left is my favorite stuff.”

“Why did Declan buy one of everything for you? You’re not the diva type.”

“I can totally be the diva type!”

“Shannon. Please. You feel guilty when you don’t shop at thrift stores.”

“Because it’s bad for the environment!”

“We had this talk in Vegas when you got married. You have a thing about money.”

“I did. I did have a thing about money. But if you must know, Declan bought me all this as a way of apologizing.”

“For what?”

“For not telling me he made a mistake.”

Amanda surveys the boxes. “Huh. Amateur.”

“Declan’s an amateur? At what?”

“Not Declan. You. You should have held out for jewelry. Once you’ve got them pinned down as being wrong, you have all the leverage.”

“STOP! You sound like one of the Real Housewives from those television shows.”

“Speaking of television,” she snickers, pointing to the screen.

In silent companionship, we grab our goodies, curl up on the couch, and start channel surfing.

“Zombies?”

“No.”

“Serial killers?”

“I’m facing plenty of blood this week. No.”

“Cheesy romantic comedy?”

“Who the hell wants that? Pfft.”

“Drama?”

“I don’t want to cry.”

“World War II documentary?”

“When did you become a grandpa?”

She sighs. “You’re as bad as Andrew.”

“Andrew has good, discerning taste about the entertainment he consumes. I am flattered.”

“Uh, sure. Right. Let’s call it that instead of picky and weird.” She hesitates, clearly ready to say something else, but she doesn’t.

“Spill it.”

“What?” She looks genuinely surprised.

“I can read you like no one else, Amanda Hortense Warrick McCormick. You want to say something else.”

“Please don’t use my full name like that. When you spell it out, it makes me want to change it to Jane Smith.”

“I’m not letting you wiggle out of this.”

“Fine. Andrew wants a baby.”

“With you?”

“No. With Oprah. OF COURSE, with me.”

“Why?”

“Why do couples have babies? Because they want to raise kids and have a family.”

“You guys just got married.”

“I know.” She won’t look me in the eye.

“Oh, God,” I groan. “Those stupid, stupid men.”

“I know!” She throws a pillow across the room, as if Andrew were standing there, being stupid. “He doesn’t want Declan to have the first grandchild.”

“Who cares about having the first!” I shout.

We look at each other and say in unison, “They do.”

“Those two are the only men in the world who could invent a babython!” I fume.

“What is a babython?”

“They’re like triathlons, only the swimming portion involves sperm, and running involves basal thermometers and temperatures telling you it’s fertile time. And instead of competing with your husband to see who finishes first–ahem–it’s all about beating your brother-in-law.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. I don’t understand it, either. And I’ve got a six-foot-tall animatronic teddy bear, too.”

“Mine is seven feet tall!” Amanda chirps.

I glare at her. PMS glares have sharper edges than regular ones. She flinches.

“Hey,” she says in a hurt voice. “At least I got a fair-trade coffee plantation as a result of the bizarre rivalry between Declan and Andrew.”

“You didn’t get anything! You don’t own the plantation.”

“Yeah, actually. I do.”

“Please don’t let Declan know. Please. Otherwise, I’ll own a plantation somewhere, too.”

“You probably do and don’t know it.”

“Do you want a baby?” I ask her.

“Sure. Someday. But I want a few years with him before.”

“Was he talking about babies before he found out Dec and I are trying to conceive?”

“No.”

“Smoking gun.”

“Yep.”

“Are you telling him no?”

She blushes. “I’m not saying no to all the sex.”

“You’re having unprotected sex all the time?”

“We’re using protection.”

“You’re lying to your own husband about protection?”

“What? No! I would never do that. He knows we’re using birth control.”

“Then... I’m confused.”

“He gets really turned on by competition.”

“Ew!”

“It’s weird. I know. But we can’t judge other people’s arousal points. It’s really not fair. You have some quirks, too. We all do, Shannon. Remember your Danny DeVito phase?”

There is not enough ice cream in the world for this conversation.

“You pinkie promised never to talk about that. And if you ever do, I have two words for you: Howard Stern.”

She shrieks. “It was a dream! I couldn’t help it! I have zero arousal quotient for him.”

“Your subconscious says otherwise. Licking a life-sized lollipop in the shape of Howard Stern?”

“It tasted like cotton candy and butterscotch pudding,” she says, eyes going soft as she yields to the memory. Her face twists into a quick, disapproving scowl. “Don’t you dare tell Andrew.”

“Don’t you dare tell Declan.”

This is the best part of having a friend you go way back with: mutually assured destruction.

“So Andrew turns into a rabbit when he thinks about having babies?”

“What does my vibrator have to do with this?”

“I didn’t–oh, never mind.”

“Anyhow... he wants me to go off the pill so we can have the first grandchild and make James proud or something.” Her eyes flit to my left hand. “He says Declan got to give you their mother’s engagement ring. We should give James the first grandchild.”

“Is he serious?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think so?”

“But you’re not sure.”

“He’s a McCormick man. They’re hard to read.”

“It sounds like he thinks he should compete, but doesn’t want to compete.”

“Is Dec doing this to beat Andrew?”

“Huh?”

“Did Declan start the whole ‘let’s have a baby’ conversation because he wants to be first?”

“No.” My turn to go hazy and gooey with memory. “We just came to the idea together.”

“Mutual orgasms are nice,” she says wistfully.

“Oh, sure, but I’m talking about something better.”

“Better?”

“Mutual and absolute agreement on a lifelong decision in a marriage.”

“Pretty sure that’s some kind of marriage nirvana, Shannon.”

“See? Better.” I think about what she’s saying as I swallow a mouthful of caramel, then say, “You don’t bring a whole ’nother human being into the world because you’re trying to win a contest.”

“I know that. Tell Andrew.”

“Pretty sure he knows that, too.”

“Tell me again why we keep men around?” Amanda asks, the question less rhetorical and closer to homicidal.

“Because sex toys don’t get up in the morning after sex and bring you coffee in bed.”

“Hmph. There is that,” she concedes.

“But man, the first person who combines a sex toy with a pump espresso machine is going to win the Nobel Prize.”

Amanda nods sagely, then says, “They can call it the Buzz Buzz.”

I sigh. “After our weekend away in Portland, I can conclusively state that there is nothing finer than the combination of good coffee and a real, flesh-and-blood man. No vibrator can replace Declan.”

“Same here. I’d be lost without Andrew. There’s this spot he manages to touch if we twist just right, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to buy the right device, it just doesn’t–”

I stick my fingers in my ears and scream, “WHEN DID YOU BECOME MY MOTHER?”

“Oh, please.” Her wrist flick is exactly like Mom’s. “When did you become a prude?”

“Never! But come on. Andrew is my brother-in-law. I don’t want to think about him having sex.”

“And Declan is my brother-in-law. I don’t want to think about him having sex!”

“Well. We didn’t factor this into the whole ‘let’s marry brothers’ thing, did we?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s fix it, then.”

“How?”

“How do we fix everything?”

We dig in for more ice cream.

“Look,” she says, mouth half full, spoon waving in the air like a magic wand. “We can talk about sex.”

“When have we not talked about sex?”

“We just can’t get specific.”

“Right.”

“So how was your TTC sex?”

“Amanda...”

“I mean, like, how... was it? Successful?”

“I’m about to get my period, so obviously it wasn’t successful.” I catch her look. “But it was successful enough, if you get my drift.”

“Good. Because orgasms help you conceive.”

I close my eyes. “You are not helping.”

“It’s a fact! The contractions from an orgasm suck the sperm up into the cervix.”

“You sound exactly like your mother when you cite facts like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like an actuary.”

“I was raised by her! I can’t help it. And besides, she’s right.”

“Pam is always right. Always. It’s her job to be right. She calculates being right down to a margin of error that eliminates all possibility of being wrong.”

“Not all. Just as much as possible. No one can be error free. She did make a mistake once about chicken semen.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Cost a major agri-business conglomerate a ton of money in nonfertilized eggs.”

“You’re making my stomach hurt.” A cramp, low and pointed, announces itself, the pain a little sharper than usual.

“Maybe it’s morning sickness.”

“Stop.”

“You… could be pregnant, right? Technically?”

I frown. “Sure. I ‘could.’” I use finger quotes. “But I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“I know.” She nudges me. “But you could.”

“I could.”

We stuff our faces in silence.

“Yours would be the first planned grandchild for Marie and Jason.”

“What?”

“Jeffrey and Tyler weren’t planned.”

“Why are you bringing this up?”

“Carol’s fault. She mentioned it at work the other day.”

“She spontaneously started talking about her two kids being oops! babies?”

“Of course. She’s Carol.”

That actually does make sense.

“And why, exactly, did the topic of my nephews’ conceptions come up?”

“She was commenting on what a planner you are. How you and Declan are being responsible and mature in how you’re going about starting a family.”

“Oh!” I’m surprised. Carol’s always treated me like the not-quite-smart little sister. “That’s nice.”

“She said she would have planned for her kids, but two guys named Bartles and Jaymes made it impossible.”

“Huh.”

“Can you imagine getting pregnant by accident?”

“No. When I was with Steve, he insisted on wrapping it even when I was on the pill.”

“And I’ve never had an oops. Mom drilled the need for birth control into me so long ago,” Amanda says, scraping the bottom of her pint. “Every time I started having sex with someone, visions of actuary tables and stats flooded my brain. You know how guys use baseball stats to prevent premature ejaculation? It was kind of like that.”

“Better that than what Steve’s mom used to do to us.”

“Oh, my God! I forgot about that!” We descend into giggles.

“We’d head out the door for a date and she’d tell us the blood of Christ was on us. It really messed with Steve’s mind.”

“Did it make him stop?”

“Hell, no.” My stomach really hurts. “Blech.”

“Ice cream not good?”

“No. Nausea.”

“Talking about sex with Steve will do that to anyone,” Amanda says as she clicks through the channels. “Drunk History?”

“What?”

“It’s a show.”

“Oh. Sure.”

As we settle in and start watching, I take a slow, deep breath.

I try to think about anything but sex with Steve.

And babies.

---

---

The Ice Bar isn’t my first choice for grabbing a drink with Andrew, but it’ll do.

Besides, it gives me a chance to scope out the coffee offerings at The Fort. So far, Anterdec has refused to give Grind It Fresh! the exclusive coffee contract for the entire operation, but I’m working on my little bro. Consumer testing shows our product is superior, his own wife loves our coffee, so I know the only reason he’s holding out on me is ego.

And knowing Andrew, that’s one hell of a big reason.

“Shannon pregnant yet?” he asks, drinking pisco out of an ice shot glass.

“No. You know that. Amanda’s over at our place. I saw period sweatpants on Shannon’s chair in the bedroom and the grocery delivery service brought nothing but sweet and salty junk food, so...”

“Right. Glad I’m not you.” He sucks down his shot and knocks the glass on the bar lightly, the bartender doing a long pour instantly.

“Not me? Why?”

“Going home to all that estrogen.”

“Half of it is your wife’s!”

He nods as he sips. “That’s why I’m glad I’m not you. I know how bad it can get. When you walk in the door at home, you’ll want to hold your breath. Estrogen dominance can have serious health consequences.”

I throw a coaster at him.

“Hey! Cut it out.” The chair is ice cold and smooth. My balls crawl up. Normally, I ignore it, but Shannon’s incessant talk about fertility makes me remember that cold is good for sperm. Heat destroys them. Suffering builds character and, apparently, it builds sperm, too.

A year or so ago, Anterdec added an optional coat service in response to women who complained about the cold here at the ice bar. Men then complained about the coats, citing nipple viewing as one of the three key features in decor. The coats covered the women’s chests and suddenly male attendance dropped thirteen percent.

“Got rid of the coats, huh?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t just the nipple thing. Someone got lice from a hood.”

I shudder. “Oh, the glamour of running a hospitality chain.”

“You’re the one having a kid. Think about all the head shaving and nit picking you have ahead of you.”

“That’s what other people are for. You hire them and they do that for you. Like a night nurse or a nanny.”

He’s looking at the liquor on the shelf behind the bartender, but suddenly turns toward me. “Shannon’s letting you do that?”

“Do what? And Shannon doesn’t let me do anything. I do what I want.”

“Sure, bro. Keep saying that enough and maybe it’ll come true in your dreams. There is no way Shannon will want night nurses and nannies.”

“How do you know?”

“Amanda told me.”

“You and Amanda talked about Shannon and… nannies?”

“The topic came up.”

“How?”

“When Amanda and I were discussing having kids.”

“Already?”

“Remember, man–she’s really hot to have one. Baby fever has kicked in.”

“Bullshit. I think your competitive streak has kicked in. Amanda’s not ready for kids.”

“How do you know?”

Two can play this game. “Shannon told me.”

“You two talk about us?”

The staredown begins.

He breaks first. “Amanda told me there’s no way she wants her kids–our kids–being ‘raised’ by nannies and night nurses. And she said Shannon would feel the same way.” He takes another sip. “Does she?”

“Does she what?”

“Feel the same way?”

“No! Of course not. She’s perfectly fine with having the comforts of whatever staff we need to hire so life can proceed smoothly.”

“You’re having a baby, Dec. Or trying to, at least. Nothing about that process is smooth.”

“Just because other people can’t get their act together as parents doesn’t mean we can’t,” I explain. “There is no process that can’t be project managed into a well-oiled machine, babies included.”

Andrew snorts. “You really believe that.”

“A baby is like a disruptive new technology. But our first deliverable is still eight months to a year away. That leaves us plenty of time to update our practices and diversify into new areas. Find the best people, incentivize them, and keep them in their swim lanes.”

I’m getting major raised eyebrows here.

“Optimization protocols, testing, fine tuning, and putting together the right team is all it takes. Drill down to the essentials, find people who are the absolute best at what we need, and that’s it–we build a life based on optimal outcomes.”

“You sound like you’re making a robotic dog, Dec. Not a human.”

“This baby will have a hands-on father. Plenty of love. And with a mother like Shannon, how could we go wrong?” Mother. Calling Shannon a mother does something to my gut. A tug, hard and emotional, destabilizes me for a second.

“That’s all good. Dad sure was about as hands off as you can get.”

“But Mom wasn’t.”

“No,” he says quietly. “She wasn’t.”

“We still had nannies. Coaches. Mom told me they used a night nurse to teach you to sleep through the night.”

“She did?”

I nod. “Said you were the stubborn one. Terry and I were trained easily.”

“Trained? There goes the dog talk.”

A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I turn around to find Dave standing there, face impassive, beard making him look grim.

“Here.” He hands me a folder.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone. I tracked you down.”

“How?”

Dave points to Andrew. “His assistant, Gina, has an app on his phone that tracks him. She helped me find you both.”

“Gina tracks you?” I ask Andrew, agog.

He shrugs. “It’s great for when I forget shit.”

“Like charging your phone,” Dave says, looking at me while he says it.

I frown. I pull out my phone.

Dead.

“Here,” he says, handing me a small, slim external battery with a charging cord attached. “We’ll make sure you have this on you at all times.”

“We will?” I take it and plug my dead phone it, the screen showing the paused icon that means it’s unusable for a minute or so before minimal charge is in place.

“You should.”

He’s right.

“Grace never did any of this,” I say.

“I’m not Grace.”

“I noticed.” This is a crossroads. As Dave opens the folder, showing a contract that I had assumed wasn’t coming through today, and that is extremely important, I realize I can draw a boundary and establish dominance, or I can let Dave show me how he does the job and make flexible decisions based on the needs of the moment.

Dave’s topping from the bottom right now, so to speak.

In purely business terms, of course.

“How’s the new job working for you?” I ask him, offering a seat next to me. Andrew’s met Dave before, mostly when Amanda’s dragged him into the store for her favorite breve latte. No need for introductions.

“It’s fine, but my boss is a Luddite,” he says, making Andrew damn near snort his fresh pisco up his nose.

“Luddite? I don’t object to using technology. I just don’t have time to learn and adapt to it.”

“Then excuse me. I was wrong.”

I nod, acknowledging his mistake.

“You’re just plain lazy.”

Andrew’s about to lose his nasal passages at this point.

“Look, Dave. We need to talk about your attitude. Work performance is great. Bedside manner? Not so much. You’re a little aggressive.”

“I’m not a doctor, Declan, so bedside manner doesn’t count. I’m a straight shooter.”

“Could you miss the target occasionally? I need less friction with my right-hand person.”

“Fine. Boss wants to be handled with kid gloves. Fragile ego.”

Andrew smiles at Dave. “I really, really like you.”

My phone buzzes as it restarts. Text from HR.

We have a paperwork snag with David Amari’s hiring forms. Can you call? Mindy, my HR director, says.

The music in the bar picks up. I can’t. Text what you need.

She replies: This is awkward, but some health insurance paperwork and his birth certificate say he’s female. It’s a glitch, but we can’t process benefits until it’s cleared.

He’s right here with me. I’ll talk to him and we can fix it in the morning, I answer.

Just have him contact us, please, Declan.

Will do.

Andrew claps his hand on my shoulder and slides carefully off the ice stool. “I need to go check out some inventory issues in the back. We’re in the probationary period with a new olive supplier. So far, so good, and we expect to use them for every property in North America. Back in a minute.” Dave’s next to me, putting the paperwork away and getting ready to go.

“Dave, there’s an HR issue with your hiring.”

“Fired already?”

“No,” I say, laughing. “But somewhere in your paperwork, you’ve been listed as female. Says it’s even on your birth certificate. Hell of a glitch, huh?”

He goes completely serious. Not one pore twitches.

“You just need to let Mindy in HR know it’s a mistake. They might need to re-copy your birth certificate.”

“It’s not a mistake.”

“Excuse me.”

“You heard me. It’s not a mistake.”

“Well, uh–it has to be.” I gesture at him. “You’re clearly all male.”

“That’s right.”

“Which is it?”

“Both.”

“Look, Dave, if this is some kind of riddle–”

“I was born female. I’m now male. Does that clear it up for you?”

“Oh.”

“Is this going to be a problem? Because I’ll quit on the spot if it is.”

“No. No problem.”

“You sure? I don’t have any tolerance for bullshit, Declan. I am who I am. My paperwork is only about my history. It has nothing to do with the present.” Underneath the stoic bravado, I see a guy who is ripshit pissed. I believe him when he says he’ll walk. I believe him when he says his past is his past.

And I believe him when he says this can’t be a problem.

“I care about competence. You have that in spades. I assume you know how to handle this with HR?”

“I do.”

“Then do it. Make the issue go away.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Then do what you can, and any help I can provide, just call me.”

The stoic shield drops, slightly. “Good.”

“Good,” I echo back.

“Bye,” he says, marching straight for the door, back straight, broad shoulders carrying a load I can’t fathom.

“That was abrupt,” Andrew says as he returns.

“Dave’s a guy of few words.”

“I caught that.” His brow drops. “You okay?”

“Do I look like I’m not?”

“You’re not exactly the most emotional guy, Dec. But you seem bothered.”

“Tired. I’m just tired.” I throw on my coat. “I’m headed home.”

We hug. I blame Shannon. She started the ritual and now I do it, too.

Dave’s revelation shouldn’t rattle me, but on some level it does. Not the facts themselves. His life is his own to lead. It’s the fear I saw in him, his eyes going to a dark place inside I can’t understand. Nothing about what he said back there changes my opinion of his work. I don’t know the guy well enough to have an opinion about him personally.

But those eyes are going to haunt me for a good long time.

As I set out for home, the unfamiliarity makes me want the long walk even more. I need more change in my life. It shakes me up, makes me more resilient. People get too comfortable, too easily, if they don’t pay attention. It’s not just about taking life for granted. It’s about not seeing all the potential in the everyday.

Building our coffee chain is a joint effort. Shannon and I are a team. Like making a baby, we both have something to bring to the table, the combined effort more powerful than our individual work. Seeking out entirely new experiences to challenge myself isn’t going to be enough to make a huge difference in my life, but growth, like change, is a constant.

I hope.

And tonight just proved one more constant:

I don’t need to seek out new challenges.

Lately, they seek me.