“Because it’s part of the profile,” I said. “You get a sense of personality.”
“What kind of personality are you expecting? ‘Hi, I’m Ashley. I love yoga, podcasts, and being medically inseminated by strangers?’”
Cal chimed in from the kitchen. “Some people find hearing someone’s voice reassuring.”
“I once did voice work for a puppet show about naval hygiene,” Mr. Banks chimed in. “Educational program. Sock puppets with tiny sailor hats. I played Lieutenant Mouthwash until I was dishonorably discharged for licking the admiral.”
Cal stirred the sauce and sighed. “Why did I think this would be a quiet dinner?”
“Because earlier today you were young and full of hope,” Angus said. “Now you’re a father-to-be and the shit just got real.”
Mrs. Mulroney leaned forward, tumbler aloft. “How many eggs do we get? Is it like a carton? Do we get to check if any are cracked?”
“We’re not making an omelet. This is biology,” I muttered, turning to Cal for help.
He held up a wooden spoon and said, “Don’t drag me into this. I’m zesting.”
“Anyway,” I said, pressing on. “After fertilization, they test the embryos. For chromosomal stuff. You know—science. And wecanfind out the sex, but we don’t have to.”
“What if it’s twins?” Angus asked.
“What if it’s triplets?” Mrs. Mulroney countered.
“What if it’s a goat?” said Mr. Banks, who had somehow found a cigar in the pocket of his bathrobe but hadn’t lit it. Yet.
“It’snotgoing to be a goat!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. Then I took a deep breath. “We haven’t even picked a surrogate yet.”
“She’s next,” Cal said helpfully, plating chicken piccata like he was on the cover ofGourmet Rich People Monthly. “We get matched based on values, communication style, and vibes.”
“Did you just sayvibes?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a legitimate metric.”
Rashida raised her glass. “Well, whoever the surrogate may be, here’s to the future Panic Baby.”
Mrs. Mulroney clinked hers against it. “May it have Cal’s jawline and Matt’s flair for public meltdowns.”
I slumped into a chair at the dining table as Cal brought over a serving dish and began filling plates like the domestic demigod he was. Once everyone had taken their seats at the table and Cal had finished serving, he sat beside me, slid a hand over my thigh, and leaned in.
“You were amazing today,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
“By the way,” said Mrs. Mulroney. “Did I tell you I’ve already booked the priest?”
“What priest?” Cal asked.
“The one who’ll bless the embryo,” she said, like it was obvious.
“There’s no embryo yet!”
“Well,” she huffed. “I like to be prepared.”
Angus nodded. “Smart. I brought glitter glue in case we need to make a ‘Welcome Womb’ banner.”
Mr. Banks raised his wine glass. “And I’ve brought… guidance.” He held up the compass.
“It’s still pointing at the fridge,” Rashida commented matter-of-factly.
