The place Liam picked is the kind of café where you’d hide an affair, or end one, or maybe both at once. It’s raining, of course. The street outside glistens like a wound. The windows bleed condensation down the glass, and every time a car drives past, the headlights slash across the tables like some kind of cosmic warning. I’d call the mood funereal, but there are tulips on the tables, and a student barista with blue hair humming along to a jazz playlist. So, it’s just enough to feel anonymous, which is probably the point.
I’m early, but he’s earlier. He’s in a corner booth, hunched but not slouched, in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. There are two mugs between us—one black coffee, one herbal tea—and a square, office-style envelope that doesn’t belong here. The envelope’s not even pretending to hide itself: it’s upright against the sugar bowl, thick as a murder mystery.
I stand there for a second, trying to decide whether to wave or slink in or just leave. Then I notice how Liam’s eyes seize on my form, already on alert, and I sit down before I can lose my nerve.
The upholstery is slick, like maybe it’s been cleaned a lot lately. My jeans squeak against it. I shrug off my parka, toss it into the corner, and then my hands just…hover. I want to tuck my hair behind my ear or smooth my skirt, but the only thing I can think to do is fold them tight in my lap, so I do.
“Hi,” I say, after too long.
He’s silent at first, and then: “Hi.” He pushes the herbal tea my way, like I’m still his favorite guest, and for a second it almost works. My hands want to reach for the mug, but I keep them glued to my knees.
We sit, not talking. Rain peppers the glass. The espresso machine hisses and shudders. The barista is listening to something on her headphones now, which is its own brand of mercy. It’s so private, we might as well be in a sensory deprivation tank, except for the music and the rain and my own skull splitting open.
After a minute, Liam clears his throat. “Thank you for coming, Simone,” he says. He sounds like a doctor delivering bad news.
I blink. “I figured you’d just keep rescheduling until I did.”
A smile flickers—more reflex than emotion. “I would have, yeah.”
I stare at the tea. It’s steaming gently, fogging the rim. It’s my favorite, chamomile, and I suddenly remember that this man was once so close to me that I genuinely believed that we were in a relationship. But now, there’s a wall of silence, as if we’re strangers. A weird, animal tension, like we’re both ready to bolt but too polite to do it.
He leans in, drops his voice to a private register. “Look, Simone, I’m sorry about the other night. I should have told you. I didn’t want you to find out that way.”
I look him dead in the eye, and for once, he’s the one who looks away. I think: you can only hold the gaze of a drowning person for so long before you drown, too.
“I’m not angry,” I say, which is a lie.
He nods. “Of course you’re angry. You have every right to be angry. I get it.”
I want to say something biting, something that would snap the scene in half. Instead I pick up the mug and sip, just to keep my mouth busy. It tastes like over-steeped chamomile and disappointment.
He watches me, and for the first time ever, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Not the usual wolf-at-the-door hunger, not professorial concern. It’s just blank, or maybe exhausted.
“I wanted to see you because…” He gestures at the envelope. “I owe you an explanation. Or at least, a choice.”
A cold little bead of dread rolls down my back. “What’s in there?” I ask.
He slides the envelope across the table. It makes a little friction sound, the kind that makes you want to bite down on a spoon.
“Read it,” he says. No inflection. Like he’s daring me.
I open it. The pages inside are typewritten, not printed from a home office. No creases, no coffee stains. The top page is a letter. It starts, “To whom it may concern,” which is maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, considering the audience.
I scan down. The words jump out like blinking hazard lights: “proposed arrangement,” “compensation,” “academic standing,” “future prospects.” The subtext is as thick as the paper.
It’s a contract.
It’s an actual, honest-to-god contract, except instead of selling my kidney or promising to pay back a loan, it says: if I agree to be Liam’s surrogate—after my “health concerns” are resolved—he’ll guarantee me an A in his class. He’ll even “provide all necessary medical and emotional support, as well as housing and living expenses during the process.” There’s a whole page dedicated to “non-disclosure,” and a bullet point about “cooperation and good faith.”
It’s worded like a scholarship, but the scholarship is my body.
My hands start shaking. I don’t know if it’s anger or fear or the caffeine or just the way my life seems to keep accelerating toward some catastrophic endpoint. I read the page again, just to make sure it’s real.
I look up. “You want me to carry your child.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want you to consider it. After you’ve had surgery to remove your fibroids, obviously.”
I stare at the words. They look fake on the paper, but there’s nothing fake about the way he says it.
