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“Correct,” Pierce said.
“That sounds awful!”
Tristan clinked his wine glass to Andrew’s beer. “Melinda is one of us. That is to say, a rational human. It is indeed quite terrible, as Pierce admits every time he returns from this Sisyphean jungle nightmare.”
I whipped my head toward Pierce. “Hold on. You’ve done this before?”
“Oh yeah. This will be my fifth time.”
I gasped. “You do this every year?”
Pierce laughed and shook his head. “Every other year. I definitely wouldn’t be able to do it every single year.”
“Right, because that would be insane.”
Tristan was showing more humor than I had ever seen, chuckling into his wine glass with one leg crossed over the other. “She is quite smart. The perfect woman to be the biological mother of your child.”
“It goes by fast,” Pierce said. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”
I gave a start. “When do you leave?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“When were you going to tell me this?” I asked.
“It’s on the calendar of events,” Pierce said with a frown. “I assumed you knew about it but didn’t want to bring it up.”
“What calendar?”
Tristan cleared his throat. “You were emailed a link to the digital calendar along with your introduction packet.”
“I, uh, never bothered to open that. And I might have deleted the email.” I took an embarrassed sip of wine.
Tristan stared levelly at me. “I take back what I said about your suitability as a surrogate.”
“Hey!” I said, offended.
“Perhaps I could send you another link,” Tristan said, turning to look out at the darkening horizon. “Perhaps.”
Andrew reached over and touched my hand. “I’ll forward it to you.” It was the smallest touch, innocent without any other context. But after my dream, the brief contact made the hairs on my arm stand on end. Andrew didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.
“So you’ll be totally off the grid for two weeks?” I asked.
“Only for the six days during the race. And I might have cell signal at two of the campsites. We’ll see. There’s also tracking online, so you’ll know I’m alive.”
“Or, conversely, we’ll find out quickly if you do perish,” Tristan said.
“Aw, don’t talk like that,” Andrew said, tossing his napkin onto his finished plate.
Tristan winked at me and gestured with his wine glass. “I am simply pointing out the speed at which we will learn of our benefactor’s demise. Which, I must reiterate, will be prompt.”
I giggled at the joke. When Andrew glared at me, I said defensively, “I like dark humor.”
“Nobody has ever died in this race,” Pierce said. “At least, not that they’ve reported. So you probably don’t need to freshen up your CVs.” He paused for three long seconds. “Probably.”
“You’re not helping relieve my anxiety,” Andrew muttered.
“On an unrelated note, do I still get paid if you die before I’m knocked up?”
