Chapter One
Brooklyn Monroe’spanties were on a chair on the other side of the room. She was stretched out on her back, her head nestled on a pillow. In anticipation of today, she’d even shaved her legs; all the way up, not just to her knees. If life was fair—and she knew that it was not—she’d be having a whole lot of fun right now.
“Almost done. Just a little pressure here.”
Staring up at the pebbled acoustic tile ceiling, Brooklyn white-knuckled it, gripping the doctor’s exam table. It was her inclination to crack a joke in any uncomfortable situation, but she decided against asking her gynecologist if she’d ever aspired to be a plumber.
“Okey doke. You’re good to go.” Dr. Swanson mercifully whisked away the medieval medical device and snapped off her gloves.
Brooklyn exhaled, not that it did anything to relax her. Now that the exam was done, it was time to ask the big question. She’d only skirted the topic at last year’s appointment. She was forty-one then, which was practically still forty, making her unwilling to admit that as a native New Yorker, she was far more likely to fall through a subway grate than fall in love. She was still in the pits about her split from Alec. She’d messed up a relationship. Again.
Now, forty-two had arrived, and aside from an even sweeter bank balance, little in Brooklyn’s life had changed.
She pushed back from her prone position, the paper cover crinkling under her legs. “Well? Everything good?”
Dr. Swanson peered at Brooklyn over black-framed glasses. “I can’t tell much from a visual examination, but I’d say you’re a very healthy yuh…” The doctor slid her specs up along her narrow nose. “Uh, woman.”
Brooklyn knew very well what thatyuhwas—the start of “young”. And she was having none of that. “I want to talk to you about having a baby.”
“Didn’t we discuss this last year?”
“We did. It’s just that I haven’t been in a position to do anything about it. I still have time, though, right? Plenty of women have babies in their mid-forties. Or later. My sister just had her second and she’s thirty-eight. That’s practically forty.”
“Women do have babies in their forties,” Dr. Swanson said, with the same tone someone might use to say things like,People do win the Powerball. “But your chances of conceiving on your own are declining sharply every year.”
Brooklyn did the math in her head for what felt like the millionth time. She’d done okay in high school algebra, but this equation was a complete pain in her ass. Even if she caught the eye of Mr. Perfect today, highly unlikely given that her hair was doing that weird thing in the back, it would take forever to get to the baby-making part. Way too many hurdles to jump: Go out for drinks. Have dinner. Make out. Pray that he’s smart enough to know the magic of a clitoris. Do it. Do it a few hundred more times (being very carefulnotto get pregnant). Fall in love. Move in together. Assemble a bookshelf without stabbing each other with a screwdriver (intentionally or unintentionally). Meet each other’s mothers (only a guy made of Teflon would make it past her mom).
Then, if all systems were a go, buy a ring, plan a wedding, go on a honeymoon andthenstarttrying to get pregnant. If Brooklyn tripped up along the way—and who was she kidding, every odds-maker in Vegas would take that bet—she was going to have to go right back to the beginning.
“Do you have a special man in your life?” Dr. Swanson asked.
The person who sprang to mind was her apartment building’s doorman. Cy was sweet and kind and next-level good at hailing taxis in the rain. He was also a happily married grandfather of three, and therefore, not on the market. “I don’t know when I’m supposed to date. I hardly have time to sleep.”Plus it never works out. They all say I’m exhausting.
“I’m not surprised. Every woman I know subscribes to Posh Post. You’re an inspiration to entrepreneurial women everywhere.”
That was the real reason Brooklyn was in this no-baby, no-personal-life mess—Posh Post, her “unparalleled overnight success” if you bought the baloneyModern CEOmagazine was selling. In truth, it had taken sheer determination for Brooklyn and her younger sister, Virginia, to turn a beauty subscription service into a 400 million-dollar enterprise. It was the most exciting and substantive thing Brooklyn had ever done. The only thing she hadn’t failed at. She also regularly staggered into her apartment at the end of the day, flopped onto the bed, and promptly passed out. Sometimes with a protein bar protruding from her mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of success.
“I see plenty of busy women struggle with this. But if you’re serious, you need to act. Make it a priority. Or consider freezing your eggs. Your supply is dwindling.”
Dammit.Her mom had said the same thing. She hated it when her mother was right. “That sounds bad.”
“You were born with all the eggs you’ll ever have. A thousand follicles die every month. Or more. And it speeds up as you get older.”
“A thousand?” Brooklyn snapped her knees together. She had to keep her precious cargo inside her a little longer.Stay in there, girls. I need you.
The doctor handed Brooklyn two pamphlets—Ten Truths About Freezing Your Eggs,and the thrilling follow-up,Answering Your Questions About Donor Insemination. “We really should have had this talk when you were thirty-five, but we can still have it now.”
Motherhood had been easy to push aside at thirty-five. Brooklyn was stuck on a merry-go-round of self-imposed online dating disasters, like the guy who coyly whispered to her over martinis that he would need her to create a diversion if a cop walked into the bar. He even had a plan—Brooklyn should knock her glass to the floor, clutch her chest, and fake a heart attack. Clearly not a love connection. Brooklyn would never waste perfectly good vodka.
Thirty-five was also the year Brooklyn got the idea for Posh Post. At the time, she was VP of Marketing for her mother’s eponymous cosmetics company, Aurora Beauty. Her mom’s leadership boiled down to a war of attrition, and five years under her well-manicured thumb had left Brooklyn dying to strike out on her own. Inspiration came while pilfering free samples in the company mail room—would women subscribe to a monthly shipment of the latest skin care and cosmetics? Brooklyn had a hunch they would.
She immediately brought in Virginia, and to Brooklyn’s delight, there were glimmers of greatness from the very beginning. Brooklyn hadn’t had many glimmers in her life, so she ran with it as fast as she could. Their mom was less than pleased. She was still furious that Brooklyn had exited Aurora and taken Virginia with her.
Now, seven years later, Posh Post was on the map, but that meant Brooklyn was running out of time for everything she’d put off. If she couldn’t find love, it was time to focus on what she wanted more than anything—a baby. With or without a man.
“This is a lot to think about.” Brooklyn eased off the exam table, being careful not to jostle her eggs, and tucked the pamphlet inside her purse.
“I’m happy to have this chat with you as much as you want, but I wouldn’t wait much longer.”
