Page 114 of Say My Name

I look at the sealed takeout container on the counter.

Me: Yes.

Three dots appear.

Dominic: Try again.

The message almost makes me laugh, which is deeply annoying under the circumstances.

Me: Dinner is here.

Dominic: That wasn’t my question.

Me: I’m opening it now.

Dominic: Thank you.

He doesn’t mention our argument. He doesn’t ask to come over or use concern as an excuse to push past the distance I created.

I open the container because he knows me too well to accept another lie.

Then I return to the document.

Each parent will establish a nursery in their respective residence.

Two cribs, two sets of clothes, and two rooms designed for the same child. It’s fair and practical. It also feels completely false.

I try to picture Dominic’s nursery and mine separately. The image refuses to cooperate. I see him standing beside me, paint samples in hand, checking the crib instructions after I insist we followed them correctly. I see his shoes beside the bench near my front door and his coffee mug drying beside mine.

I don’t know which home we’re in.

That should make the plan easier. It doesn’t.

I delete the nursery section.

All that remains is the title and a note beneath it.

This arrangement is temporary.

The sentence offers exactly what I need: a boundary, a clear ending, and proof that Dominic can matter now without changing the rest of my life.

I place the cursor at the end of the line.

Temporary should be accurate. We agreed to try for a child, not build a life together. I have every practical reason to leave the sentence alone.

I select it anyway and press Delete.

CHAPTER 16

Dominic

We are five months into trying. We spent the next three months on openly chosen attempts, with more nights that ignored the calendar and another negative test at the end of each cycle.

After the first natural cycle, Elena delivered the news like a financial update. The next time, she avoided looking at me. By the most recent negative, she stared at the test for so long that I wanted to take it out of her hand and throw it through the bathroom wall. I settled for holding her, and she let me.

Now we’re sitting beside each other in the fertility specialist’s office, close enough that her knee brushes mine whenever she shifts. She has shifted six times since we arrived.

Elena looks at the notebook in my hand as though it has personally offended her.