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“I don’t even know if I want kids, Mom!” she snapped, shocking herself. She wasn’t surprised they’d gone from happy birthday to discussing children in ten seconds flat, but she was surprised about what came out of her mouth. Even though she’d been the one to say the words, the confession felt like a slap in the face; she even flinched. Kids had always been at the back of her mind, an assumption, a future expectation, but she had never given it an honest moment’s thought because honestly, she hadn’t had a moment to think about it.
The world told her she wanted kids, starting way back with the toys she played with as a little girl: baby dolls, dollhouses. And then every plotline from bedtime stories all the way through award-winning films about the formidable and undying strength of a mother’s love. It was supposed to be her purpose in life according to just about everyone. Otherwise there had to be something wrong with her; she was defective, selfish, she’d change her mind someday—she’d heard all the rhetoric.
“That’s ridiculous, Lucy, of course you want kids,” her mother cut in as if on cue. “And you’re thirty now, so—”
“So, what? I’ve hit some kind of threshold?” She felt something take hold of her. Something invisible that was both binding and freeing at once. Before she could stop herself, feelings she’d never expressed came spilling out. “It’s pretty unfair, you know. You spend all of your twenties trying not to get pregnant, then right when your career is taking off, the clock starts ticking and you’re pressured to have kids before you’re thirty-five because all the risks set in and suddenly, you’re too old! It’s a ridiculously small window for such a major life decision. And it’s just expected that I want kids—that all women want kids! Maybe I do, eventually, but can I at least get a minute to think about it?” Her voice crescendoed into a shout that bounced sharply off her bathroom mirror. She blinked at the flushed woman she saw in the reflection, wondering where the hell she had come from.
Her mother, on the other end of the phone, was speechless.
Lucy didn’t know what else to say, so she said, “I’ve got to get ready to go to spin class, Mom.”
She ended the call and stared at her reflection. Despite that outburst feeling like it came from a stranger, she saw what she always saw: blue eyes, blond hair in need of a root touch-up, California sun-kissed tan. Tiny dark circles puffed beneath her eyes, but those had been there since she made junior publicist. She wore them like a badge of honor. And then caked them in layers of Bobbi Brown every morning so no one else could see her exhaustion.
She was staring at herself, Lucy Green, in the mirror, not some impostor. And those were her honest thoughts. She didn’t know if she wanted children, not now anyway. And did she need to have an answer on her big day with everything else on her plate?
No, she decided, and was relieved when Maryellen didn’t immediately call her back and demand one.
She gripped the sink’s edge to steady herself after shouting at her mother. She realized with an exhilarating rush that reminded her of breaking curfew in high school that she’d never spoken to her that way.
It made her a little dizzy.
Her glossy white bathroom sparkled around her. Her succulents hung from their copper cages on the walls. She climbed into the bathtub, thinking some fresh air might help. By L.A. standards, Santa Monica was fresh. She slid open the window. The gritty air, smelling like orange blossoms, salt, and a hint of exhaust, curled in her small bathroom, and she took a centering gulp. But she didn’t linger in the tub. Her best friend, Nina, was due over shortly to head to their spin class together.
She went into her closet, skirting a collection of boxes already housing her winter wardrobe, given it was nearing the end of spring, and reached for her maximum-support sports bra. Her collection ranged from mesh loungewear to the straitjacket with underwire and a front zipper that left her skin crisscrossed with angry red indents but kept her chest from bouncing around. Most would agree it was a toss-up between which was more uncomfortable: the bouncing or the constriction. But knowing their spin instructor, Troy, would have them sweating until their quads burst into flames, she opted for the tightest bra she had.
She dug her fingers into the cups, straightening out the removable pads and wondering why they moved at all considering her nipples stayed in one place. She looped the harness over her arms and pulled it snug to fasten in the front. The underwire dug into her ribs as she clasped it. She took a breath in preparation to zip herself all the way in, and the zipper caught halfway up.
“Oh no,” she whispered, fearing a dreaded stuck-zipper scenario that required patience and time she did not have if she was sticking to her strict schedule of spin class, shower, breakfast, commute in order to make it to work on time. She cautiously tugged, easing the little plastic tag along like she was chancing fate, and the already zipped part split and curled like a leaf, leaving the zipper jammed in the middle, refusing to go up or down.
She stared down at it, at a loss. Given how tight the whole contraption was, she was stuck in a crooked mess that would look ridiculous under her shirt. She considered scissors but decided to ask Nina for help; she was due over any minute. Having been inseparable since college, they’d held each other’s hair while they puked, mended broken hearts, and rescued each other from plenty a dressing room wardrobe malfunction, including the time Lucy was stuck in a dress with her arms straight over her head, unable to see a thing.
After pulling on her leggings and socks, she went in search of her spin shoes. She kept them in her gym bag by the closet door, but the black nylon tote was empty. Perhaps they’d accidentally been scooped into a box in her most recent round of packing, she thought, and pawed through the nearby one labeled Scarves. All she found was a fluffy mass of neck drapery suited for Southern California; rayon and silk that added a slouchy burst of color more than any sort of warmth. She scanned her shoe rack but only found colorful tiers of heels and flats. She was reaching for her Coats box just as the doorbell rang.
She frowned. Nina never rang the doorbell; she always knocked.
She crossed her small apartment, dodging more boxes and thinking of her new condo with Caleb, to look out her peephole.
A billowing bouquet of flowers waited on the other side, hovering at eye level.
She swung open the door to the scent of fresh lilies and roses. “Happy birthday!” Nina sang from behind the bouquet.
Lucy stepped aside to let her in. “You got me flowers?” she asked, not able to think of a single instance in their twelve-year friendship when Nina had brought her flowers. Maybe it was something people in their thirties did.
“I did not,” Nina said. She passed inside and set the vase on Lucy’s dining table, mere feet inside the front door. The small room instantly filled with fragrance. “I was just at the door the same time the delivery guy was.”
Lucy searched for a card.
Happy birthday! Sorry about last night. —Caleb
She read the note and felt her annoyance with her boyfriend ease but not erase. She appreciated the gesture, but she had to wonder: If things went according to plan, was she sentencing herself to a workaholic husband who sent flowers in place of himself?
“From Caleb?” Nina asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
Nina ran her finger along the underside of a lily petal. “Apologizing for missing another date?”
Lucy did not miss the judgment in her voice.
