Lola:He told you first?!?!
Me: Blame Clodagh and her flapping lugs.
Sebastien: Clodagh knows you used a surrogate?
Me: Feck off.
Letty: Her name is Ryan. She’s very nice. And she’s living at Matt’s place. They’re in this together but not to-Geth-er.
Me: Thanks for that, Letty. Next time I’ll let you break the news.
Sebastien: Matt ... she already did.
Me: Ah, Letty. Fuck’s sake.
Letty: Sorry. I was too excited for you.
Sebastien: Congrats, big bro.
Lola: Yes, congratulations, Matty!
Lucía: Same.
Hugo: I’m pretty sure there are wiser beings out in the fields chewing grass than you.
Me: . . .
Well, that went about as well as I expected.
Chapter 30
Ryan
Twenty-five weeks, and my bump no longer looks like it might be the result of a big meal. Matt’s baby bible informs us that the bean is a big as a cucumber now, but I’m thinking this bump looks more like half a pumpkin. And I cannot contemplate what half a pumpkin might do to my vagina, never mine a full-grown one.
I might never have sex again.
And speaking of, the day following my needy kitchen cave, I couldn’t look him in the face. Meanwhile, true to his word, Matt carried on as though everything was normal. As though my hormones weren’t responsible for turning his back massage X-rated.
In the cold light of day, alone and in my own bed, I googled my reactions, and it turns out I wasn’t losing my mind. A person can actually orgasm from a massage of the sacral region. Of course, the orgasm that followed had nothing to do with a back massage.
But I’d felt so close to Matt, and his touch was ... Well, I needed it. The connection and closeness. I needed his hot breath and whispered words. His fingers, his tongue. All that bliss.
The experience certainly hit the spot.A couple of times.
And because I’m not as good at pretending as Matt is, I brought it up. Spoke the words. Mainly to say it couldn’t happen again. And he was so casual about it—“Yeah, okay.”
His response should’ve helped, not stung, right? But ignorance is bliss, so they say.
Not that I could feign ignorance at my next clinic appointment. As I lay on the bed trying not to react to the weight of Matt’s dark gaze on me. Or remember how his tongue felt inside me.
Hot Doc Travers, as I now refer to him—though not to his face, obviously—had suggested we might learn our baby’s sex during the scheduled scan. We declined. Matt is a fan of surprises, so he says. Me, not so much. But discovering our baby’s sex seems like a reality I’m not quite ready for. I’m not sure that even makes much sense.
Matt: What’s on the menu tonight?
I give in to a tiny smile. Matt’s afternoon text is right on schedule.
Me: You tell me. Mary is your chef.
