Her fingers spear into my hair and she deepens the kiss, wrapping her legs around my hips. My hands roam up the curve of her waist and back down as she moans into my mouth.
This is dangerous. I’m fucking addicted. I swear, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
As I stare down at her beautiful face, her lips parted and her gorgeous baby blues half-lidded, I know this isn’t just a good time anymore. Not for me.
I’m not the type of man she wants. We both know that. I don’t have what it takes to keep her.
But damn… I want to.
Grace
Rewinding to the beginning of this story….
“It’s notthe worst news, but I know it’s not what you wanted to hear. Honestly though, Grace, there are a number of options,” Dr. Abrahams tells me but all I can hear is the last option she gave me. The best option according to her: freezing my eggs. She smiles at me, brushing a strand of gray hair behind her ear. My own simper falters and I hate that I can’t hide the disappointment better.
Looking past her at the wall I note that it’s plastered with what must be hundreds of pictures of newborns who Dr. Abrahams has helped other women conceive. Their little smiles and bows and cute little fingers and toes stare back at me. The photos are framed with pink and blue paper and give the room a hopeful atmosphere. I should be more thankful; the doctor just told me my eggs are still viable, after all. But she’s given me news that a woman at my age shouldn’t be getting. ‘Premenopausal’ isn’t a word I ever thought I’d hear. Let alone this soon.
My parents always said, career first.“Figure out your life and make sure you’re stable before settling down. You have plenty of time for marriage and babies.”I suppose my father didn’t think I’d be premenopausal either.
Barely keeping the smile on my face, I nod at whatever Dr. Abrahams said although I have no idea what came out of her mouth.
All isn’t lost yet, but if I don’t act soon my chances of having a child will be gone. Even now, without IVF, the odds are slim. My hormones have just given up apparently.
I’m only thirty. So… I’ve got to meet someone, and get him to propose. That’s a year and a half, optimistically. Hopefully it’s someone who wants to have kids, with extensive and expensive medical help more than likely. My mind drifts back to my health insurance and I wonder what’s covered and what’s not.
They say that people who wait at least three years before tying the knot stay married longer, so that’s three years longer I’d have to wait. Then there's conception and gestation… and the birth, of course. My fingers run circles around each other, twiddling as I think of how this is possible. It has to be possible though, because I’ve always wanted a child. The thought of a bundled up newborn with a little button nose and sweet yawn takes over for a moment and my throat goes dry as my eyes prick. I can’t not have a child. I nearly say the words out loud but somehow I keep them down. Swallowing them and reminding myself that freezing my eggs will work. The doctor said so.
The little plan in my head means it will be more than five years and thousands of dollars before any baby could be a reality, assuming everything goes perfectly.Ifthe IVF works on the first try. My gaze drifts to the wall of babies, which seems to be mocking me.
“Grace,” Dr. Abrahams says gently, reaching across her desk to touch my hand. The sudden touch is jolting, bringing me back to the present. My very single, very baby-less present. “Did you hear me? I have some pamphlets here for the fertility preservation clinics I recommend.”
She presents a number of brightly colored brochures, waiting for me to take them and smiles.
“Okay?” My answer comes out as a question, rather than any kind of statement. This isn’t at all what I expected from my checkup. To say I’m shocked is an understatement. “Thank you,” I quickly add and hope that she didn’t take my initial response as rude. Clearing my throat, I smile broadly. “I appreciate it,” I tell her and somehow my voice is even and echoes a happiness that’s absent from how I truly feel.
“We have your follow-up visit scheduled,” the doctor says absently, clicking the keys on her computer and staring at the screen, “so you’re all set.” She finally looks at me with a smile.
I can’t return it as I nod my head. A follow up in a few days to see how bad it is.How bad. Not if it’s okay. Buthow bad. She didn’t use that exact term but it’s what she meant. Once the blood work is done she can tell me justhow badit is.
Just wonderful.I can hardly wait, my inner voice is deadpan and again I keep my mouth shut.
“If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to call.”
I manage a smile, nodding and when she stands, I do too, gripping my purse with both clammy hands.
A nurse in hot pink scrubs whisks me out to the reception area. “Have a nice day, Miss Campbell,” she tells me, winking before she turns to call her next patient amongst the women seated there. “Mrs. Gray? Shellie Gray?”
“Here!” A woman who looks to be in her early forties with kind wrinkles around her deep brown eyes pushes herself to her feet.
I drift out of the woman’s way, and then the nurse closes the door behind them both. I take a deep breath, giving myself a mental shake, and head out to the parking lot. The pictures of all those babies playing in front of my eyes.
My mind is awhirl with thoughts, most of them depressing. More and more depressing with every step I take. I climb in my white sedan and pull the seatbelt on. With the click of the ignition, the car rumbles to life and I instantly turn the radio off, leaving just the hum of the car to accompany me before pulling out of the parking lot. The downtown Atlanta traffic is just as heavy as my thoughts.
As I sit in traffic on I-85, I stare at the Atlanta skyline. The sun is already setting against the brick buildings. The burned orange and yellow against the blue is peaceful. I sigh. The city was so fun when I was in college, and a great place to be when I was a recent graduate looking for my first serious job. No more retail and interning. No more clubs with my girlfriends and late nights that end up in horrific hangovers.
Now I have a steady, long-term career as a graphic designer in Buckhead and more and more often, I find myself driving to the suburbs. My cramped apartment in Candler Park would be left behind for the easy, laidback lifestyle I’ve found in Vinings, just outside the city’s perimeter if I could afford the move, and the time to actually move. The thought of moving is just one more stressor to deal with. I’m pretty certain the doctor just gave me plenty to stress over.
With my fingers tapping along the leather steering wheel, traffic finally moves at a reasonable pace.
