Then he smirks. “It helps that I’m his sister’s… baby daddy.”
I make a face. “No. Just no.”
He laughs. “Baby daddy.”
“Stop. It sounds like all you are is a sperm donor and we’re not actually together.” Part of me wishes that I didn’t know that Brooks is the biological father. Matt didn’t donate the sperm, but he is this baby’s father.
“Baby daddy.”
“Matthew Allen Stricker.”
He goes quiet.
The car fills with something heavier, softer. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know when the call will come or if it will come soon. I don’t know how long dialysis will work or what the future will demand of us.
What I do know is that we’re not waiting for life to happen to us. We’re living it.
“Butterfly,” he says finally. “I’d marry you tomorrow. No questions asked. But I’ll answer the one that matters and say I do.”
“Ready when you are,” I tease.
The tires on the car squeal as he does a U-turn. “To the courthouse we go.” His smile is wider than a football field.
Is he taking me to the courthouse? I panic. “No, I need a dress at the very least. And there's a very good chance that my family would kill you if we got married without them.”
“I know, babe. I’m taking you for deviled eggs.”
“Ew, no,” I gag. Even the thought sours my stomach.
“Just kidding. We’re going through the drive-thru for ice cream before you and I go to work. Your special airs tonight, right?”
My hands fly to my chest. “I forgot in all the excitement.”
“Will it feel weird to watch yourself for an entire hour?” he asks, briefly taking his eyes off the road to study me.
The interview is on Oklahoma City’s offensive lineman. His family was in a car wreck, his brother was paralyzed, and Amari Brown came out of it without a scratch. There was no alcohol involved, no one to blame. Amari dedicates every game to his brother, who used to play right beside him all through high school. His brother skidded through an intersection on a rainy night, hydroplaning into a light post.
“A little. I hope I portrayed what I felt for him. I teared up three times in the interview. But what made me pitch this story to management was the way he smiles. The way Amari and his brother stay upbeat, positive. Amari says he’s blessed that he has the money to buy the things his brother needs. Well, you watch it tonight and see how they play video games together and how they’ve built a business that his brother runs.”
He smiles and says, “I wouldn’t miss watching my baby mama.” He cracks himself up, and I shake my head.
THIRTY-NINE
MATT
The phone rings at 4:02 a.m.
No one calls at four in the morning unless it matters. Unless it’sthecall—the one you’ve been waiting for while praying it’s not the call telling you you’re no longer a candidate for a transplant. That’s happened plenty of times to my friends at dialysis. For a split second, fear spikes sharp and hot in my chest.
What if something goes wrong?
What if I don’t wake up from surgery?
I shake the negative thoughts loose before they can take hold.
“Hello,” I say.
“We have a kidney,” the voice says calmly. “You need to be here within the hour. Tenth-floor check-in.”
