He pulled on pants. Then a black turtleneck.
“I wouldn’t call it consequences.” I stood and wrapped myself in one of the hotel robes. “I just meant... I’d rather make a baby with you—someone I like—than a stranger from some clinic folder.”
I paused. My overly rigid conscience tugging at me until I confessed, “Also, it would save me from spending five figures on hormone replacement therapy and IVF.”
He stared at me for a long beat. Then: “Just like you don’t want me to leave scars, I don’t want to leave behind a biological consequence to temporary feelings.”
“Temporary?” That word hit harder than I expected. It was dismissive in a way that stabbed directly into my not-very-thick-at-all skin.
“My feelings for you aren’t temporary. I like you.”
Conscience tug.
“Actually, Iloveyou. Even if it’s not in the agreement. I have so many good, good, forever feelings for you.”
He stared. Then shook his head.
“Are you kidding me? We don’t even know each other! You’ve never seen my face. And now you want me to put a baby in you?”
“Could I?” I blurted out my secret heart's hope. “Could I see your face? Would that make it easier for you to...”
I trailed off.
The look in his eyes told me I’d said exactly the wrong thing.
“No,” he bit out. “That wasn’t part of the agreement?—”
“The agreement we madethreeyears ago,” I said quickly. “Before my diagnosis. Before I found out that the road to having a baby would be extremely expensive unless I get some help. That’s all I’m asking you for….”
I tried to keep my voice steady.
“I’m just asking you to help me make this one dream come true. You don’t have to stay. Or hold my hand. Or even treat me like a human being. I’m just...”
I tried—Ireallytried—to regulate my emotions. But the hot tears still came spilling down. I had to wipe them away before finishing with, “I just need you to do this one thing for me.”
He let out a long breath, his broad shoulders sagging beneath the shirt he’d hastily tugged on.
He looked at me—reallylooked at me. And his expression softened.
“Listen…” he said.
I did. I did listen. With my entire heart.
Like a fool, I held my breath and clasped my hands in front of me, hoping Mr. Good Time would give me the Christmas present I wanted most of all.
spring
worst spring ever
. . .
lark
Mr. Good Time did not give me what I most wanted for Christmas.
Instead, I spent the holiday alone in that hotel room he couldn’t disappear from fast enough. More than playacting the neurotypical cliché of crying into a pint of salted caramel ice cream I had DoorDashed to my room—along with a package of caramel M&M’s to dump on top while listening to the Tegan and Sara Essentials Playlist on non-stop repeat.
But eventually, I accepted that I was on my own if I wanted a baby. Which I did. More than anything.
