I stir the marinara sauce simmering on the stove. Infertility has been a heartbreaking journey. It’s cost us a fortune, and now I’m afraid it’s costing our marriage.
From what I’ve read, it’s pretty normal for IVF to take a toll on a relationship. I felt awful because of the hormones, so I rejected all of Zack’s advances and never made any of my own. Before we knew it, the sexiest things happening in our marriage involved third-party medical procedures and solo semen deposits into plastic cups.
I’m off the hormones now, but our default setting is “distant.” We’ve stopped flirting, we’ve stopped cuddling, we’ve stopped really talking. The fact that Zack was a sperm donor only magnifies my sense of inadequacy. I feel like a failure as a woman.
Well, I need to close the emotional distance between us before I go to Seattle, especially in light of what I’ve done, so tonight I’m making an effort. I’ve put on a black lace thong and a matching bra under my favorite jeans and a red top he likes, and I’m wearing my hair down and loose because he likes that, too.
I’m cooking a homemade meal, as well. I don’t really believe that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but hopefully it’ll be a prelude.
I check the chicken cacciatore in the oven, then place a foil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread in beside it. The perfume I dabbedbehind my ears mingles with the scent of garlic, making me feel a little sick—or maybe it’s just guilt over what I did.
I hear the key turn in the door. My pulse races as I smooth my hair.
“Hey there,” I call, trying to make my voice sound warm and upbeat.
“Hey,” he responds, his head down as he steps in and closes the door behind him.
He’s a great-looking guy—tall and fit, with thick brown hair, even features, and electric-blue eyes. The amazing thing is that he’s just as nice as he is good-looking. If I’d made a list of everything I wanted in a spouse—and I did; I believe it’s important to know what you want in life so you can go after it—I would have shortchanged myself. Zack is everything I wanted and more. He has qualities I didn’t even know were important, like being funny and thoughtful and generous.
I smile and move toward him around the gray granite island. We meet by the dining room table. Just as I lean in to give him a kiss, he turns and drapes his jacket over a chair. My lips land awkwardly on his cheek. I laugh and start to try the kiss again, but he deliberately shifts away. He straightens and looks at me, his gaze as stony as the countertop.
My stomach dips, as if I drove over a hill too fast. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
He folds his arms across his chest. “I got an email from the New Orleans Cryobank today. Apparently someone signed into my account, inquired about the number of births from my donation, then tried to change the email address.”
My mouth goes dry. I head to the stove and pretend an intense interest in the marinara sauce, my heart pattering hard.
“Would you happen to know anything about that?” he asks.
I react like the guilty party I am. I move to the oven and stall. “Why would you think that?”
A nerve jumps in his jaw. “Because I can’t think of anyone else who would want that information.”
I open the oven door as if the chicken urgently needs to be checked. “Maybe the cryobank confused you with another donor.”
I’m peering into the oven so I don’t see his face, but his voice is low and hard. “Is that really the way you want to play this?”
“I—I’m not playing anything.”
“I spoke to a liaison at the cryobank, Jess. She confirmed that someone accessed my account, which means they knew the password. And you know the password I used to use for everything.”
I’m tempted to put my head in the oven, but it’s electric, not gas. I continue to stare at the chicken, the heat burning my cheeks. I feel sick and scared and so guilty I could die.
He’s caught me. I close the oven door and lean against it. “Okay. Yes. I tried to find out if you have any children and, if so, how many.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought we needed to know.”
“Hell, Jess! Why would we need to know?”
How can I explain the way it’s been gnawing away at me? There’s no rational way to describe the aching emptiness I feel at the thought of another woman having his baby, when I’m unable to give him one myself. “I—I was curious,” I say lamely.
“And that makes it okay to go behind my back?”
Of course it doesn’t. I can’t bring myself to look at his face. “No.”
“How did you get the name of the cryobank and my donor number?”
