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I’m confused. “I want to marry you.” Have I acted differently to where he’d think otherwise? “I love you,” I remind him, knowing I don’t say it as often as him. When I do say those words, blood rushes to every one of my limbs, as though reminding me of life.
I am a living, breathing thing.
In love with him.
“I’m talking about trying for kids.”
Right.
We’ve had two serious conversations in the past month about having babies. One short. One long. Each time we came to the same conclusion.
We want to try now.
“Because,” he says, “I’m going to be twenty-seven. You’re only twenty, and I’d fucking understand if you want to wait—”
“No,” I stop him before he continues. He’s said this before: I could have kids tomorrow. I would’ve been okay to have kids at twenty-five. I just need to know if you are. And if you need to wait fucking longer, I’ll be happy with that too. I tuck my helmet beneath my arm.
“Dais…”
“I know what I want.” These are magic words. They carry so much power.
My life has always been set on fast-forward, and while it seems idyllic to go backwards and experience a childhood I missed—I can’t have that entirely. I’ve regained enough in the past couple of years with Ryke that I’m ready to move forward with him.
“You know what you’re giving up?” he asks. “You can’t do fucking cartwheels, Calloway.”
I think through all of his support and encouragement, Ryke is more worried about this unknown. Before I can reply, the Escalade’s windows roll down.
Rose taps her watch like we’re going to be late.
I nod to her and then turn back to Ryke with a growing smile. “True,” I say, “but do you know what I believe?”
He shakes his head once, listening closely.
“That having babies with you would be an awfully big adventure.” Then I put on my helmet and flip up the visor, winking before I head to my red bike.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my back into his chest, and he says, “Then let’s fucking start it, sweetheart.”
The sad realization: it’s not going to be as easy for us. It’s painfully clear by where we’re headed.
A fertility doctor.
DAISY CALLOWAY
“Someone say something.” I can’t take the tense silence anymore. I’ve tried to fill it with digressions about sprinkled donuts and wake boarding. No one took the bait in those conversations, staying quiet regarding my true intentions. Which doesn’t involve pretty looking donuts or the thrill of water sports.
I’m nervous. Really nervous. I squirm on the hospital bed, paper crinkling beneath my ass. I dislike doctor’s offices, the walls bland and space cramped. I feel confined, like sitting in a sterile box.
Connor is seated on one of two chairs, texting. He doesn’t look up as he says, “Your theory about donuts sustaining the population of Mars was so senseless that I’ve been stunned to silence.”
“Thank fucking God,” Ryke says, his arms crossed as he stands beside me.
Usually it’s hard to read Connor’s expressions, but he purposefully shoots Ryke an annoyed look before pocketing his phone.
I swing my legs, antsy. This consultation means more than all the others. Dr. Yoshida is the best fertility doctor in New York City and the entire east coast. If he can’t help me, I might as well pack up my hope and ship it away.
I feel Ryke watching my little movements in concern. I flash him a small smile, and he rubs my shoulders. His gaze drops to my thin white tee with the slogan carpe that fucking diem printed across the chest.
He fingers the hem.
My phone keeps vibrating on my leg, texts from my family’s publicist, Corbin Nery. On the way here, paparazzi took a clear photograph of my engagement ring. Celebrity Crush and other tabloids keep reaching out to Corbin for a comment. We’ve told him to say no comment, but he wants us to make some big announcement or at least let him tell the media we’re engaged.
Ryke isn’t interested in working with Corbin or any publicist, really, so we’ll probably just make an announcement on Instagram or Snapchat in our own time and our own way.
I twist my engagement ring a couple times, just fiddling with my fingers. I glance at Ryke, and his jaw hardens. He swallows and runs a hand through his hair.
I stop quickly, setting my palms flat on my knees.
“Hey there,” I say with a forced smile, worried. In the back of my head, I remember how he explained Loren’s tell to me once. I asked Ryke outright how he knew his little brother was having a bad day since he seemed like the same sarcastic, edged Loren Hale to me.
Apparently Lo spins his wedding ring when he craves alcohol, and it must have been what Ryke imagined when he watched me twist mine.
He raises his brows knowingly, and his dark gaze drifts to my sister. “What the fuck are you doing?”
She’s been pacing the office, and now she’s stopped, her phone pointed at the certificates and degrees hung on the wall.
“Making sure these are real,” she replies, her tone snappy and full of ice.
I smile, glad that she’s here.
Connor says, “I would’ve never recommended a doctor who cheated their way through medical school.” He appears more bored than anything, his arm draped across the empty chair next to him.
Rose ignores him and retaliates by snapping three more photos, flashes going off in succession.
Connor grins. “I sense hostility.”
Rose flips her hair over her shoulder and keeps her back to him. Her silence seems to be driving him stir-crazy. He shifts in the seat and glances at the door and his watch.
And then the door opens, air vacuuming out. I suck in a deep breath. Here we go.
Rose returns her cell to her purse but remains standing. In fact, Connor rises to his feet as Dr. Yoshida squeezes inside, round glasses perched on his nose. He smiles kindly, carrying two folders and a manila file. “Looks like we have a full room today.”
I introduce everyone, not caring if he already knows us from the media. “This is my brother-in-law, Connor Cobalt.”
His posture is full of unbridled confidence, and he reaches out to shake Dr. Yoshida’s hand.
“My sister, Rose.”
Her yellow-green eyes pierce him and her lips stay in a predatory line. He only looks a little scared, which is better than most. She does, however, offer a handshake—which is a smile in Rose Calloway’s world.
Lastly, I clasp Ryke’s hand next to me. “And this is my fiancé, Ryke.” The corners of my mouth immediately rise, unable to hold back. Fiancé.
I’m someone’s soon-to-be wife.
If I think about it in the context of Ryke, I almost have a head-rush. It’s the sensation of never truly believing something will come to fruition but finally feeling the moment that it has.
Dr. Yoshida shakes Ryke’s hand. “Nice to meet all of you.” He raises the manila file. “Who wants the non-disclosure agreement?”
“Me.” Connor steps forward and takes the file from him. Normalcy has vanished. I didn’t go to my family’s lawyers for help. I’m not exactly “cutting ties” but over the past year, I’ve been slowly distancing myself from my mother and father’s “people”—I have my own accountant, not one handpicked by her. I have my own financial advisor.
Now I have my own lawyer. He wrote up the agreement for all of my physicians. There may be HIPPA laws and oaths requiring doctor-patient confidentiality, but none of us like taking those chances anymore. We’ve all been burned in different ways.
Dr. Yoshida pulls two ultrasound images from a folder and places them on a backlight. My ovaries displayed for everyone to see. They’re gray blobs, the images difficult to read, but I wouldn’t even freak out if they were detailed drawings of my reproductive system.
I grew up basically being told my human form belonged to photographers and designers, a mere ca
nvas for other people to do whatever they please. I used to be desensitized to my body. It’s taken me years, but I’m the owner of the skin I wear. And I feel free to take my clothes off when I want to now. On my terms.
