He got to his feet. “Sit. Relax. I’m already wearing shoes.” Trevor gave me a crooked grin. “Plus, I’m much better at cleaning.”
I snorted out a laugh. “You’ve got me there.”
I watched from my position on the couch while Trevor swept up the mess. The shards clinked against one another as he brushed them into the dustpan and dumped them into the trash, a piece he’d missed occasionally crunching under his shoes. It didn’t take long, and once he’d finished and put the broom and dustpan away, he flopped onto the couch at my side with a huff.
“Not exactly the best wakeup call,” he grumbled, his head back and his eyes closed.
“Sorry,” I said, meaning it.
Trevor exhaled and opened his eyes. “It’s fine, Ara. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I know,” I mumbled.
I watched in silence as he pulled his right shoe off, then gingerly picked a few pieces of glass from the sole. He set the shards on my banged-up coffee table before removing the other shoe and repeating the process, this time freeing four pieces from the rubber.
When they’d joined the others, he turned to face me. “I guess we’re going to have to get you a new carafe.”
“Don’t see the point,” I said, not even bothering to hide my bitterness, “I might not be allowed to use it for another three years.”
“No coffee?” Trevor frowned. “I didn’t think that was a real thing.”
“Better safe than sorry,” I muttered.
“They’re asking a lot more of you than I thought. I mean, The Fertility Act in and of itself is wrong, but I had no idea how many restrictions there were and that you’d have to wear that.” He waved to my wrist. “It seems like a human rights violation.”
“Haven’t you heard?” I asked, my tone biting. “I’m not a human anymore. None of the fertile ones are. We’re walking uteruses. Incubators. We have no rights.”
“It’s so messed up.”
“Most of the country doesn’t see it that way. Believe me. Do you know what the worst part is, though? The worst part is that people think I should be happy about it. No, not just happy, grateful. As if I should be thanking God every day that the country has commandeered my uterus.”
“That’s – ” Clearly at a loss for words, he shook his head.
“Yeah.” I let out a breath. “Hopefully, I get pregnant right away and all of this can be over fast.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked doubtfully.
“I don’t know. I mean, in some ways, yes. There’s also a part of me, though, that hopes it doesn’t take. But that means three years of this.” I waved to the wristband. “Three years of appointments and having to abstain from doing things I love, of being poked and prodded regularly. Of being constantly watched. Maybe it’s better to just get it over with since I can’t escape it.”
“Maybe,” Trevor said, but still sounded doubtful.
We lapsed into silence, which was broken after only a few minutes by a chime from my wristband. It was low and not nearly as urgent as the one from the night before, but loud enough that it probably would have woken me had I been asleep. I glanced down, noting that it was eight o’clock in the morning, then scanned the small rectangular face. My temperature was displayed on the screen, the numbers flashing as if trying to make sure I didn’t miss them. Ninety-seven point five degrees. I didn’t know what it was normally since I had nothing to compare it to.
“What is it?” Trevor asked.
“My temperature.” I lowered my wrist, not wanting to look at the cursed band any longer. “When it’s elevated, they’ll knowI’m ovulating.”
He frowned. “It’s going to ding like that every morning?”
“And again in the evening.” I let out a growl of frustration. “It’s so stupid. I mean, why can’t they just send the information to the Department of Fertility without having it alert me like that?”
“They could,” he said slowly.
I could read between the lines and knew he was thinking the same thing I was. They could, but they wouldn’t because they wanted to make sure I remembered where my duties lay and who I belonged to.
After Trevor headed home,I jumped in the shower, needing the warm water to focus since my mind was still spinning. It helped a little, but not as much as coffee would have. Maybe I could fool my body with decaf, although that seemed like a stretch.
I was dripping wet when I wrapped a towel around me and stepped out of the shower, my gaze automatically moving to the small bathroom counter where I’d left my phone. The screen was dark, but it lit up when I pressed a finger to it, and I saw that I had three missed calls and a voicemail. All from the same unfamiliar number.
