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“Oh, I hope you did.” He laughs, rolling the window back up.
When the coast is clear, his gaze drops down to me. We share a quiet moment before bursting into laughter together. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard in my entire life.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do the walk of shame with me, seeing as I told the dudebro I got this car from that I’d leave it here.”
“I’m oddly okay with it.” I grin up at him. “And I’m not even sure why.”
“Because then we’ll get the chance to exchange numbers, so I don’t have to chase you again for our business transaction.”
All the air rushes out of my lungs, like he poked a needle in a balloon.
Even when he doesn’t say their names, they hover over us. Drenched in the air. Soaked into our skin.
Grace and Paul. Paul and Grace.
We just shared an intimate moment—our very first sexual encounter since losing our loved ones—and this is what he has in mind.
Not wanting to show him just how hurt I am, I let out a throaty laugh. “Well, then. First things first, do unplaster yourself from me,boss.”
He complies quickly, rolling onto the passenger seat. “Anything for you, employee of the month.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WINNIE
Two days later, I give Arsène a call. We arrange to meet in the evening at his place. We’re professional and curt, almost clinical, and I wonder how a person can kiss you one way and treat you another in the same exact week.
Since I have the entire day off, it leaves me an abundance of time to overthink. I stay in my jammies, make myself a cup of coffee (three shots. Take that, Paul!), power up my laptop, and Google my condition. It’s stupid, I know. The first thing doctors tell younotto do is go on the internet and self-diagnose. “Every ingrown toenail becomes the c-word,” Ma used to tell us when Georgie, Lizzy, and I crumbled in fits of hysterics whenever we woke up with a blue mark on our skin.
I type in all the symptoms I’ve experienced throughout the last few years. Awful menstrual cramps, paralyzing pains, infertility, random cramps ...
The same word keeps popping up on the screen over and over again.Endometriosis.I click on the definition, suck in a breath, and brace myself for the worst.
Women who suffer from endometriosis have trouble conceiving and, in fact, may not conceive at all.
It says the condition is incurable. Can be medicated—but never healed. In other words, I may never, ever have biological children of my own.
And just like that, the heartache of Paul’s death and betrayal shrinks into a Post-it Note–size issue, making room for something bigger in my chest. It swells, and rises, suffocating me.
Permanently infertile.
I’m in full-blown meltdown mode, pacing back and forth. And still.And still.I can’t bring myself to cry about it. About the terrible prospect of never birthing children. What’s wrong with me?
I charge toward my bedroom. Pick up Paul’s stupid alarm clock and hurl it across the room. It breaks in two.
Time. You were never on my side.
I grab his newspaper next, rip it, and toss it on the floor. Trudge into the en suite, open a cabinet, and take out all the half-empty pregnancy tests and ovulation kits. I toss them into the trash. They aren’t needed anymore.
Finally, I fall into my bed and scream into my pillow.
That’s not the end of the world, now, is it?a reasonable voice inside me soothes. There are still ways. Adoption. Surrogacy. But they’re all expensive and drawn out and demand bureaucracy. Moreover, pregnancy is not only about the end goal. My sense of failure as a woman is so immense that I loathe myself in this moment.
A knock on the door makes my head snap up from my pillow. I’m not expecting anyone. Which means it could be Arsène. Couldn’t he wait until tonight?
Maybe he misses me.
I roll over to my back, about to shove my feet into my slippers and head for the door, before I hear a voice.
