Makemeafather.com?Connecting people. Creating families.
A red bubble blinks at the top right: You have 1 new message. Below it, a tab I didn’t open. Draft profile saved. The firstline reads:Seeking co-parent or private donor; open to solo arrangements.The words blur and sharpen, each one a sting.
An hour ago, an email pinged our shared laptop. ‘Verify your MakeMeAFather account.” I’d clicked it, and autofill did the rest.
His key in the door signals he’s home, and I quickly minimize the window. His reflection appears on the screen.
Panicked, I jump up and snatch a cloth, scrubbing at a coffee ring on the table until the wood squeals. Terry’s eyebrows draw together in confusion when he sees me. “You’re spending your day off cleaning?” he asks, surprised.
“Uh-huh, the place needed a spruce up,” I say, trying to sound calm. My voice feels like it’s burning in my throat with nerves. I have no idea how to broach this with him.
I don’t even know what he’s done other than look up a website. But it hurts like he’s knocked me to the floor then put a boot on my chest. “Do you want to go out for dinner? Now. Please?” I ask. Staying here isn’t an option. My heart, my head, or both may explode.
“You want to go out for dinner? To a restaurant?” He looks at me with wide, confused eyes. “What about your diet and training schedule? I thought you weren’t allowed to eat anything unless it had been scientifically counted.” I bristle at the jibe. He doesn’t know what I’ve seen. And he’s teasing me like everything’s fine.
He sets his phone face down on the console table, thumb hovering a beat too long. Guilt or habit? I can’t tell anymore.
“Well,” I mumble, and tears prick my eyes. Don’t cry. “I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. It’s just that the bodybuilding has given me something to focus on, and I’ve been getting carried away.” He’s standing at the entrance to our living room wearing a sauce-stained t-shirt and jeans. “Did you have a good day at work?” I ask, pivoting to change the subject.
“Amz, is something wrong?” he says softly. “Has something happened? You’re not acting like you.” I shake my head violently in protest, but my tears fall outside my control. He rushes to my side. “Amz, what is it?”
His strong arms wrap around me, a reflex I used to lean in to. He pecks my lips, then rests his cheek on the top of my head. Everything about his touch is familiar but cold.
“You’re scaring me,” he whispers as I sob harder. I pull out of his arms and wipe at my treacherous eyes with my sleeve.
“I’m all right,” I mutter, not meeting his eye. “It’s my time of the month. You know how I get.”
“You’re early,” he says. Shit. Terry tracks my ovulation schedule to the minute. That was a poor excuse. I should know better. “Maybe you should see the doctor if things aren’t regular like they normally are. With the IVF, the stress of the last year, there’s bound to be change.”
“Perhaps,” I say noncommittally. “Shall we go out for dinner then?”
“Sure, let me freshen up, and we can head out. I fancy pizza.” I watch him walk away toward our bedroom. The door slams shut behind him, and the noise echoes around our apartment. His prized entertainment memorabilia clatters against the walls with the vibration. “Sorry!” he shouts, knowing it pisses me off when he marches around the house, heavy-handed.
But today, I couldn’t care less. For the first time since my relationship with him began, I don’t rush to right things. I listen, all the time, wondering if this is the beginning of the end.
***
Trey lifts the bar over his head, each end laden with obscene weight. He makes it look so easy as he drops to a squat position. The muscles in his legs and arms flex as he holds the load andmaintains his stance. His focus lands on me. “Everything all right?” he asks. “You’re very quiet.”
I shrug. It’s easier than admitting what I’m thinking about.
“Thinking about it, you’ve been quiet for weeks. Need a sympathetic ear or just someone to get drunk with?” He flashes me a cheesy grin.
“Both, probably,” I say with a sigh. “Things are tricky at home. Terry and I are drifting apart, and I’m not sure what to do about it. Ever since the new year, it’s become gradually worse.” The words tumble out, needing to be freed from my chest.
“That happens in all relationships,” he advises. “You’ll find a way back to each other. It’s Valentine’s Day this week. Maybe an opportunity to get things back on track. Your marriage is strong; you guys have been together forever. And been through a hell of a lot of shit in the process.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, the admission like treason.
Trey immediately lowers the bar from above his head and replaces it in the rack. He walks over and removes the kettlebell from between my fingers. I feel the wetness on my cheeks before I realize I’m crying. Once I start, I can’t stop. He takes my hand and leads me into the office, away from prying eyes.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his face concerned. After settling me on the sofa, he walks over and flicks the kettle on. It springs to life with a buzz. The glass pot lights up blue, and the water starts to simmer almost immediately. “Have you had a fight?” I shake my head. “Has he hurt you?” I look at my friend, unable to lie. “What did he do?” he snaps.
“He’s not done anything yet,” I say, trying to calm him. My voice sounds small, pathetic. I hate it.
Trey has turned into one of my closest friends. Redness is creeping up his neck with fury as he fills in the blanks himself. Incorrectly.
After losing Bex and with Katie leaving, I’ve pretty much been left on my own. With the growing issues between my husband and me, my solace has been found here at the gym with Trey, eating cookies and drinking tea. If Terry only knew how badly I eat here, he would implode.
