Inside: a draft contract. The first line reads, “This agreement confirms the intentions of the parties, Liam Thomas (hereafter ‘Father’) and Simone McCall (hereafter ‘Gestational Carrier’).” The language is clinical, but the words burn. I flip to the signature page. There’s a blank line for my name, a second one for his.
Below that, there’s a sticky note, barely attached: “Could we just do it naturally? Would that be so bad?”
My head is ringing. I put the papers back the way I found them, but the draft contract is still in my hand, trembling. I sit in his chair, breathing shallow. I look at my phone, at the time, at the nothing new in my notifications. I try to think, but the air feels thin, the walls pressing in.
He never once asked if I wanted this.
He never once mentioned that every word of our relationship, every fuck, every breakfast and inside joke, might have been building toward this.
I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead, I hold the contract to my chest, pressing it so hard it creases, and close my eyes, waiting for the sound of his car in the driveway, the next shoe dropping, the future I didn’t even know I’d signed up for.
I losetrack of time in that chair. The heat in the office goes from too much to not enough. My phone’s battery crawls to single digits. I keep thinking he’ll text, but nothing comes. The house is so quiet I start to believe I’ve made the whole thing up, that he’s not real, or I’m not, or the contract I found is just a prop in someone else’s fucked-up dream.
But then I hear the soft rumble of the garage door, the catch and release of the lock, the familiar way he flicks the entry light on and off even though he knows exactly where everything is. I sit up, my whole body prickling.
There’s a second of silence as he closes the door and tows his bag into the kitchen. He sets it down with a thunk, then stands for a minute, listening to the furnace hum. I hear the whir of the fridge, the metallic clink of a glass pulled from the shelf. He doesn’t call my name. I don’t even think he knows I’m here.
When he comes down the hall, the sound of his footsteps makes the hair stand up on my arms. The door swings open and he sees me, lit by the desk lamp and the blue-white screen of my phone. His face shifts—first surprise, then a flicker of something like embarrassment, then nothing. Just a blank, professor-face, the one he uses when a student asks him something personal in front of the whole seminar.
He glances from me to the desk, to the stack of folders, to the contract in my lap.
We look at each other for a long time. I want to scream or cry, but all I can do is stare, waiting for him to say something human.
Instead, he says, “You shouldn’t be in here.”
His voice is neutral, soft, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. I stand up, contract clenched in my fist so tight it makes the paper curl. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not, even though that’s not what I came to say at all.
He doesn’t move. He just looks at me, then at the contract, and sighs. “You went through my things.”
I want to throw the contract at him, force him to take it, but I can’t let go. “You left it in a folder with my name on it.”
He doesn’t answer. The silence grows bigger, heavier, until I can feel it pressing on my ribs.
I say, “You were going to ask me to be your surrogate? Or you were just hoping I’d find this and offer?” My voice cracks, and I hate it.
He blinks, slow. “I was just exploring options,” he says, as if we’re discussing a home equity line of credit. “You know it’s not possible for you, with the fibroids.”
I feel my insides snap. “You’re missing the point,” I say. “You never told me you were doing this. You never even asked if I wanted?—”
He cuts me off. “Why would I ask? It’s not like you can help. I’m just being realistic, Simone.”
My vision blurs. I swallow so hard it hurts. “You lied to me. Or you hid it. Is there even a difference?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
I want to laugh, but nothing about this is funny. “Why does it have to be now?” I ask, desperate for something I can understand. “Why not just—wait?”
He folds his arms, leans against the doorjamb. “Because I’ve already wasted a lot of time what with my ex-wife and my fucking around. Because this is what I want.”
My hands shake so bad I set the contract on the desk, then snatch it up again. “You told me you didn’t care about having a family,” I say, voice high and weirdly flat.
He snorts, a sharp exhale. “I said that, but I should have been more specific. I should have said I didn’t care about having onewith you. I can still have a family.”
The words wear through my heart, the pain so immense that my brain can’t compute.
I feel everything and nothing, all at once. I stare at the contract, at the blank signature line.
He says, “You have to admit, it wouldn’t work. Not long-term. Your health—my plans?—”
