“Myhealth?” I spit. “You mean my broken fucking uterus? Yet you have a contract here, with me as a surrogate!”
He shrugs.
“I did some research on fibroids. It’s still possible to carry a child, so long as you get the fibroids taken care of.”
“But I hate the hospital!” I whisper-scream. “I told you about my dad’s death!”
He says nothing.
“You could have told me,” I whisper, hating how small I sound.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says, and there’s the barest tremor in his voice, almost enough to make me doubt my own anger. “You seemed so happy. I didn’t want to ruin that.”
I want to ask if anything about us was real, but I already know the answer.
He pushes off the door, walks to the window, draws the blind as if the neighbors might be watching. “This isn’t personal, Simone,” he says, voice clipped. “It’s just what I need to do. It has nothing to do with you.”
I stare at the contract. “You want me to just—what? Stay here and pretend it’s normal?”
He shakes his head. “No. I want you to be honest. You’re smart. You always knew this couldn’t last.”
I feel my heart thudding, the blood in my ears louder than his voice. “You’re such a coward,” I say. “You’re hiding behind contracts and folders and whatever the fuck this is—” I slap the contract on the desk, so hard it almost rips—“instead of just saying what you want.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands at the window, hands in his pockets, like he’s waiting for the scene to end.
I look around, at the neatness of the room, at the way my name sits on every page, as if I’m a variable in an equation he’s already solved. I feel so stupid for thinking I ever meant more than that.
He turns. “You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he says. “Nobody’s the villain here. Except for maybe your fibroids.”
I laugh, and it comes out raw. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
I gather up the contract, gather the folders, press them to my chest. I want to say something cutting, something final, but all the words are used up.
I push past him, my shoulder hitting his chest. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t even flinch.
In the hallway, I pause. For a second, I think I’ll turn around, throw the contract at his head, scream until the windows shatter. But I don’t. I just walk out, the winter air outside biting at my skin, the furnace hum following me down the steps, the smell of lemon cleaner stuck in my lungs.
I walk to my car, the night so cold it burns. I sit in the driver’s seat, papers shaking in my hands, and for the first time in years I don’t know where to go.
There’s a message from Andie on my phone. I don’t read it.
I sit there a long time, watching the darkness pool in the corners of the street, the houses buttoned tight against the cold. I look at my name on the contract, the neat print of his handwriting.
I picture the future he planned—the neatness of it, the absence of mess—and I wonder if he’ll ever find anyone to sign.
I hope he never does.
I start the car, and as the engine ticks to life, I let myself cry, just once, hard and hot and ugly, until the windshield blurs and the world on the other side goes out of focus.
Then I put the car in gear, and drive, and drive, and drive.
16
THE PROPOSITION
SIMONE
