CHAPTER SIX

Abby

I’M CURLED UP on the sofa when I hear Marcus open the front door. I finished a livestream a few hours ago, then joined in for an online quest with some gamer friends. My hands are tired and my eyes are bleary, but I can’t sleep yet, so I’ve curled up on the sofa to watch some late-night TV.

Something about this entire day has felt off to me. It’s not unlike Marcus to work really late or even to head out after work for a drink or dinner, but he always texts me to let me know. Tonight was my turn to cook, and unlike Marcus, I actually do cook. Before I went live tonight, I texted him to see where he was, and he didn’t even reply. All of this oddness has happened on the back of the abrupt end to our instant-message conversation earlier, so I can’t shake the feeling that he’s upset with me, even though I don’t really understand why that would be the case.

“You’re still up.” He stops at the door to hang up his coat and to slip off his shoes. “How’d the livestream go?”

“It went great,” I say as lightly as I can. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming home so I saved you some stir-fry.”

“Thanks,” he says. I turn back to glance at him, and that’s when I notice that he’s still in his suit but not carrying his laptop. When he leaves his computer at the office, he’s usually been on a date, and I’m immediately annoyed. I’ve spent the evening worried that he’s angry with me for some reason, and he’s been out on a date but couldn’t be bothered to let me know? The annoyance ramps up further when Marcus turns toward the hallway that leads to his study and his bedroom, and for a moment, I think he’s not even going to say good-night.

I sigh and turn my attention back to the television, but I’m startled when he says softly, “Abs?”

He didn’t go into his room at all—in fact, he’s now standing right behind me. I’m frowning as I turn back to face him again.

“Yeah?” I say a little defensively, but then I notice the bags under his eyes and the pinched look on his face. He’s been working so hard lately, and that stupid message from Warwick must be playing on his mind, too.

“Are you okay?” I ask, just as he blurts, “Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Ask you to...”

“Help you have a baby,” Marcus says stiffly, then he repeats, “You asked Luca. You’re looking at fucking strangers on the internet. I’m right here, Abby. Why didn’t you ask me?”

“I... We’re...” I clear my throat, then whisper, “We’re just too close, Marcus.”

“You’re close with Luca, too.”

“Not like I am with you.”

“Did you not want me to be...” He breaks off, uncharacteristically struggling to express himself. But he doesn’t need to finish the question, because I know what he’s asking.

Did I not want him to be the father of my baby?

All of my anger drains away. I climb up onto my knees on the sofa so that I don’t have to stare all the way up at him. Our gazes lock.

“Of course that’s not it. It just didn’t seem fair to ask you, and I was pretty sure you’d say no, anyway.” I did consider asking him for about five frigging seconds, until I remembered what it was like between us in the weeks after The Kiss, when everything felt stilted and awkward and how utterly miserable I was at the thought that I might have damaged the most important relationship in my life. “I just didn’t want to ask too much of you and risk making things awkward between us...” I say. His brow furrows, until I add very carefully, “Again.”

His expression clears as understanding dawns. Marcus nods curtly, then turns as if he’s going back to his room. But he doesn’t leave; he just freezes where he is. He’s only a foot or two from me but he’s facing away, staring at the ground.

“Marcus?” I prompt uncertainly. His shoulders are locked stiff, and he’s still staring down at the floor. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest as I stare at his back.

“I’m open to the idea,” he murmurs. “I need a little time to think it through. When do you need to decide about the donor?”

“I have an appointment next week. At the fertility clinic,” I croak.

“What day?”

“Wednesday.”

“Okay. We’ll talk more before then.”

He disappears from view, and I sink back onto the sofa as I hear his bedroom door quietly close behind him.

IT’S RARE FOR Marcus and I to go more than a day without talking. If I’m not out of bed before he leaves for work, we almost always catch up in the evening. Even if we do miss each other in person, we’re forever chatting on IM or text.

Friday blurs past me, and soon it’s the weekend, and we’ve all but disconnected. We smile carefully at each other when we pass in the living areas. He doesn’t message me on our IM app. He doesn’t text me. He’s coming home insanely late every night.

I know he has a company meeting next week, and that means he’ll be running sessions and workshops with his entire team—all of the marketing and sales staff from his company will be looking for him to set a vision for the coming year. I know that means a lot of planning for him. Even so, when the weekend comes and he’s out all day, too, I know he’d at least be working from home if he wasn’t thinking about a decision that might completely change our lives.

I’m quite busy myself. I often do work on weekends, even if it’s just reviewing my freelancer’s proposed social media schedule or replying to the fan mail she’s flagged as positive, but I’ve never worked as hard as I’m working right now. I’m putting every ounce of energy I have into occupying all of my thoughts. It’s the only way I can stop my hopes from soaring too high, because this is pretty much a no-brainer for me. If Marcus does offer to help me have a baby, I know I’ll accept. He’s everything I could ever have wanted for the father of my child, and with our purely platonic relationship, a donor arrangement with Marcus feels almost as safe as our friendship itself.

MY APPOINTMENT AT the fertility clinic is coming at me like a steam train now. It’s Tuesday morning, and Marcus was long gone before I even got out of bed today—I didn’t even hear him leave.

He’s leaving this decision to the last minute and I’m increasingly convinced that’s not a good sign. But when I log into the IM system at lunchtime, he messages me right away.

My mouth is suddenly dry.

Marcus knows my schedule as well as I do, so I’m not even sure why he asked.

I draw in a sharp breath, hold it, then exhale steadily, trying to slow my suddenly pounding heart rate.

I sigh and minimize the chat window, but then pause. Alfino’s is the Italian restaurant fifteen floors below our apartment that is far too fancy to offer take-out dishes for their customers—except for Marcus, who managed to sweet-talk the sixty-four-year-old nonna who owns the place. I asked her for takeout, too, once, and despite the fact that he and I eat there regularly and I’m sure she knows we live together, the nonna acted like I’d insulted her and reminded me forcibly that they are a “fine dining establishment, not a takeout.”

Typical Marcus.

He doesn’t abuse the privilege, but there is one occasion when Marcus always uses his take-out superpowers. He hasn’t had much time for dating this year, but last year was a whole other story. When he broke up with those women, he always brought Alfino’s home. I was curious, and although I felt pretty bad about it, I did eavesdrop on those conversations a few times.

That’s why I know what his script is.

He sits them down at the dining room table and delivers a very gentle Honestly, it’s not you, it’s me—I did tell you I wasn’t interested in anything serious. He’s charming and gentle about it, and Alfino’s is apparently his consolation prize. And good call, too. If someone was going to dump me, I probably wouldn’t care if they did it over pasta like that.

But now, my heart sinks, all the way to my toes.

Maybe this conversation isn’t going to go the way I hoped it would if Marcus is already planning on consoling me with gourmet food. I glance at the clock on my desk and sigh—2:15 p.m.

It’s going to be a long day.

THE APARTMENT I share with Marcus is right on the edge of Tribeca, just a few blocks from his office in the Financial District. I told him he was showing off when he moved into this place three years ago. He told me the second bedroom was mine if I ever needed it. I was completely wrapped up in Roger at the time and I laughed at him. Three months later I moved in “for a few weeks.” Two months after that, he asked me to move in permanently.

I love living with Marcus. Despite our differences, we’ve found such an easy, comfortable rhythm together. Marcus has always understood when I need space and when I need company.

It’s also handy that the apartment happens to be located within a short subway ride or even walking distance of just about every place I regularly visit. Even the gym where Jess, Izzy and I work out is a block away.

Unfortunately for me tonight, that one-block walk from the gym after my Pilates class is exactly enough time for me to work myself up into a bundle of nerves, and by the time I walk in the apartment door, I have butterflies in my tummy and my mouth is dry. It doesn’t help that as I step into the lobby, I can see Marcus setting up the dining room table.

Fancy wine. Loads of Alfino’s...far too much food for us to actually finish. He’s even laid out the good dinner set and a formal cutlery arrangement.

“Marcus,” I sigh, and toss my coat onto the rack and dump my shoes on the carpet before I walk toward the table. “You didn’t have to go to all of this trouble.” I scoop up some bruschetta and take a bite, and groan as the taste hits me. “This stuff is so good.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says.

I don’t like the tone of his voice—it’s too serious, and I can tell by the way he’s staring at me that this conversation is going to be every bit as intense as I feared. Marcus clears his throat. “Please sit down?”

He pulls my chair out for me, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

I inhale slowly, then exhale, calming myself. My therapist would be proud of the way I’m mastering my breathing right now. Diligent practice is making meditation second nature, and within a few seconds I’ve cleared the swirling thoughts from my mind. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them away furiously.

This is shit. All of this is shit and it’s so unfair and now Marcus is going to tell me he can’t help me, either.

He passes me my wine.

“Abby,” he says very gently. His eye contact is steady and generous—the way it always is, but now his focus is entirely on me, as if whatever I’m about to say is the most important sentence in the history of the world. “Tell me about these health issues. I want to understand.”

I shiver and pull my hoodie tighter around myself. There’s an awful lump in my throat—the shape of the unspoken hopes and dreams that might just choke me. “Do you remember my mom and dad tried to have another kid?”

“A little.”

“Mom had fertility issues from a really young age. They were lucky even to have me. And when we went back home for your grandfather’s funeral, she was hinting about being a grandmother one day and...well, things haven’t seemed normal with my periods for a while, but I’d been putting a checkup off. Anyway, I finally went in and had some tests. The doctor said there’s no way to be sure, but most likely, my fertility has already started to decline.”

“Oh, Abs,” Marcus says. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” The sympathy in his gaze and the gentle tone of his voice bring fresh tears to my eyes.

I reach for the wine and down a whole glass. “Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t get to do that sad face and make me feel all guilty for keeping a secret from you. I’m allowed some privacy, and it’s taken me a few weeks to even get my head around it. I couldn’t have explained this last week. I couldn’t even think about it calmly, let alone talk about it.”

Marcus nods, and then it’s his turn for a gulp of his wine. He sits stiffly, the muscles in his shoulders and neck locked, and as he lowers the wineglass to the table, I see his hand clench into a fist. Then he clears his throat, and the sound is bizarre. I’ve never seen him so nervous before, and I feel sick.

“I promise I’ll understand if you can’t do it,” I blurt. “It’s a huge thing for me to ask of you.”

“You didn’t ask it of me,” he reminds me, then he clears his throat. “And actually, I really...” He pauses, draws in a sharp breath and then meets my gaze. “Abs, I really like the idea of us doing this. Together.”

All day I braced myself for a “no,” but now that means I’m completely unprepared for the “yes.” Marcus is waiting for my reaction. Without breaking off the eye contact, I reach down for my bruschetta and stuff the whole piece of bread into my mouth. My cheeks puff out from the too-large serving of food and it’s all I can do to close my jaw enough to chew.

Marcus’s eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs unevenly. “Nervous eating?”

When I finally manage to swallow the mammoth mouthful, I blurt, “You mean it? You’ll give me sperm so I can have a baby?”

“Uh...kind of.”

My stomach drops to my toes and I scowl at him.

“This isn’t something you can half do.”

He does that oddly anxious throat-clearing thing again and says slowly, “I definitely want to do this, Abby. The thing is, I want to ask something of you, too. Because... I don’t want to be ‘Uncle Marcus.’”

I frown at him.

“You can be whoever-the-fuck-you-want-to-be if you’re serious about this,” I say blankly, but he shakes his head firmly.

“I want to be Dad, Abby.” I stare at him and try to make sense of what he’s said, but I can’t attach meaning to the words. I push my bangs back from my eyes and squint at him as he tries to clarify. “Last week you said this would be your baby, not Luca’s. But I want this to be our baby. I want the kid to know who I am.”

“Who you are?” I’m still not getting it. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation, but my brain can’t quite wrap itself around the enormity of what he’s saying. Instead, I narrow my focus down to what I can handle. The best part.

Marcus is willing to help me.

He’ll give me a baby.

Everything outside of that beautiful realization fades away and a warm flush of excitement runs over me. I’m focused only on how happy I am, until a rational thought surfaces in my brain.

“But why?”

“Well, when I first started thinking about it, I liked the idea because you want this, and I want you to be happy. I’d do anything for you.”

“And I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.”

“It’s just...” Shut up, Abby. Don’t talk him out of it. But as desperate as I am, I can’t, and I won’t, risk Marcus doing something he regrets here. I take a deep breath and force myself to be a good friend. “I know you love kids. I’ve seen you at your mom’s family picnics—the way you light up when you play with your bazillions of second cousins and their bazillions of offspring. It’s just...you’ve been pretty clear that you don’t want children of your own. And now you’re...what? You don’t just donate sperm, but you actually help me to raise this baby?”

He sighs and reaches for his own wine.

“I did kind of figure that marriage and kids would go together so I just accepted I probably wouldn’t have the chance to be a dad. But the more I’ve thought about it over the last few days, the more I realized how much I want this. I get to have a family with someone I care about, but I don’t need to trap myself in a miserable marriage to do it. This just feels...right. Natural, once I really thought about it.”

Perhaps the very worst part of my find-a-sperm-donor plan was the inevitable moment when I’d have to move out on my own with the baby. That idea is terrifying on so many levels. I don’t even have any siblings, so no nieces or nephews, either. I wasn’t the kid that babysat for money in my teens—I was the geeky kid who fixed broken computers and helped set up webpages.

In lieu of actual experience with children, I only have book smarts. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about pregnancy and parenting over the last few years, but it’s hardly the same thing. If I’m lucky enough to have a child, I’m going to face a steep learning curve, no matter how many articles from mommy blogs I print off for myself between now and then.

For the last two months, since Dr. King told me about my ovarian reserve, I thought I’d have to master that learning curve all on my own.

And it’s not just my inexperience that frightens me when I think about moving out on my own. The drive within me to have a baby is strong, but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of the responsibility. I’ve never even been able to keep a boyfriend happy, how am I supposed to care for a baby, all on my own? What happens if I have a baby and I get depressed again, to the point where I don’t ask for help? What happens if I don’t even want to get out of bed and that baby needs me to?

I’m fucking petrified when I think about motherhood, but I still want a chance at it. I just thought this was going to be one of those things I’d have to do despite the fear. Like moving into my business full-time, since the doctor gave me the news about my fertility I really thought motherhood was something I’d have to do alone, and something I’d have to do afraid. But life is just better when I share it with Marcus, and I feel only relief and joy when I think about sharing the responsibility and the challenges of parenting with him.

“So I’d live here? After?”

“Of course you’d live here.” His eyes widen. “Wait, were you going to move out?”

“I figured I’d have to. I can handle my bedroom being a bedroom-slash-studio, but bedroom-slash-studio-slash-nursery is probably pushing it.”

Marcus frowns, but then he tilts his head thoughtfully.

“I was thinking eventually we could look for somewhere a little bigger. Something we could find together so it’s your place, too—really your place—but if you didn’t like that idea...”

I nod hastily, because it sounds amazing, but then it really starts to sink in how complicated it might be and I exhale heavily.

“We share everything already, Abby,” Marcus points out, instantly picking up on my tension.

“We don’t share everything,” I correct him automatically. “We share almost everything.”

And just like that—the humiliation of that night on the rooftop returns to me. I remember the way he’d stared at me in such horror when I made that “be my backup spouse” joke at New Year’s. I could never think of you like that, Abby. Now I see him shift awkwardly in his seat and I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s wondering how to tell me he wants to do this, but not directly with me. And that’s fine by me, but this conversation is rapidly getting awkward and I’m not sure how to diffuse it.

This. This is why I didn’t ask you, Marcus. Awkwardness between us means distance between us and I need you too much to risk that.

“You said you have a fertility clinic already? And an appointment tomorrow?” Marcus asks suddenly.

Is he changing the subject? Maybe he feels as uncomfortable as I do right now. I answer his question with matching caution.

“Yeah...”

“If Luca had said yes, would you have asked him to that appointment?”

“That’s right. That’s why I asked him last week.”

“Well, I’ll just come to that appointment, exactly as Luca would have,” Marcus says softly. “You know what I’m saying, right?”

I know exactly what he’s saying, and he’s giving me the answer I want, but I’m stung, anyway. I pause to ponder the odd sense of disappointment that’s settled in my chest.

This is exactly the kind of feeling that led to The Kiss Which Shall Not Be Named. I felt rejected and hurt and confused. And drunk. The next thing I knew, I was trying to tear his shirt off. I set my wineglass down very carefully and decide that’s quite enough alcohol for this discussion.

“Good,” I say. “That’s perfect.”

And it is—much better than the alternative...of more of those sizzling kisses, or more of my body pressed up against his, or more of the butterflies that came out of nowhere—

Shut it down, Abby. Don’t fuck this up now. This is exactly why I don’t let myself think about that kiss. But it’s kind of like the universe wants to mock me, because no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t quite forget how good it was.

I look back to the bruschetta and help myself to another piece.

“Look, there are so many advantages to what I’m proposing,” he says, as if he needs to convince me. “We’re already used to living together and it works really well—and while it’s obviously not a necessity, surely it’s a bonus for a kid to have two parents, and two parents who live in the same home, right?”

“I know you’re not planning on it, but what if you do find someone you want to settle down with? Or what if I do?”

He gives a lopsided smile.

“I can’t see me doing something silly like that any time soon, but if you do, we’ll still be no worse off. We could always adjust the plan and coparent like separated couples do, but without the antagonism, I guess.”

We’re best friends. We’re already partners, in a way. And we do care for each other—maybe not that way—but it’s a pretty special kind of relationship nonetheless. We can work together to raise a baby. We can build a family.

Such a beautiful picture forms in my mind that I’m beaming.

“I just think we’re on the same page on so many things,” Marcus says, visibly relieved by my smile.

“We are,” I agree.

“And the things we disagree on, we’re in balance. Like...you’ll probably have them reading Harry Potter when they’re three but you’ll also want them to have unlimited screen time...”

“And you’ll insist they learn a sport or two.” I smile softly.

“And you’ll be relaxed when they spill their cereal all over the carpet.”

“And you’ll make sure they actually know how to make a bed.”

We laugh, and just like that, we have a shared vision of our future family. This is the kind of effortless communication that only comes from knowing someone better than you know yourself. It’s the kind of partnership I always dreamed of for the father of my child.

I guess I’d anticipated there’d be at least a little more sex and romantic love than none whatsoever, but I can live with that. I feel light inside—hopeful and excited about the future for the first time in weeks.

“I’d support you even if you decide you don’t want to do this with me,” Marcus says. “But I’m excited about this. I really want to do it. If you want me to, that is.”

There are countless facets of complication and joy and fear and potential mess that come from this proposal. I wish I could pause this whole situation to consider all the ways things could go wrong—because if I’ve already prepared for the worst, I’m never caught off guard.

The problem here is that invisible deadline my body has set. It hangs over my head like a guillotine and there’s no way to know how long I have before it’s too late.

“You’ve definitely thought this through?” My voice breaks, and I reach for his forearm and squeeze it, hard. “You have to promise me you’ve thought this through.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I realized pretty quickly that I’d be happy to make this happen for you, but I needed to be sure what role I wanted to play here before I discussed it with you. And I am sure, Abby. I really am.”

We stare at one another for a moment, and I’m trying desperately to assess him and see how deeply he means what he’s just said. He pries my fingertips out of his forearm, but flips our hands, so that his rests over mine.

“Abby,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to have a baby with you. I want this.”

I blink hard and try to keep a grip on my composure. I’m not a weepy sort of girl, but the tears swell and leak and very quickly turn to sobs. I hold a hand up toward Marcus as I try to compose myself, but he walks around the table and crouches beside me. I give him a helpless look, and he pulls me into his arms.

“Abs,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” I weep. “I’m just so...grateful.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’?”

“You have no idea how much of a ‘yes’ that is. Thank you.” I’m blubbering now, and I hold my palms up against his cheeks and I stare right into his beautiful blue eyes as I whisper it again. “Thank you so much.”

“Jesus, Abby,” he laughs softly, but there is a decidedly rough edge to his own voice until he adds, “Don’t thank me yet. You have no idea how difficult I’m going to be. I mean—for a start, I’m going to make you stand guard on the other side of the door while I jerk off just so you can feel as awkward as I do.”

I laugh, too, this time, and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I’m a little embarrassed about my tears, so I try to lighten the mood with a joke, too.

“Yeah, like that’d be the first time I’ve been in the same place as you while that’s happening. We’ve lived together for two years, remember?”

Marcus grins right back at me. “Your vibrator sounds like a chain saw.”

I gasp. “It does not!”

“So you do have one?”

“This baby thing doesn’t mean you suddenly get to know all of my secrets, you know.” I laugh softly, and Marcus suddenly sobers. Still in a half squat beside me, he brushes my bangs back from my face. His gaze is steady on mine, and there’s that look again—the one that even Isabel noticed. The fondness in his eyes is undeniable.

I’m so fucking lucky to have this man in my life.

“I mean it, Abby. I’m excited for this, and I’m ready to do it. Are you?”

“I am.”

“It’s an unconventional arrangement but—”

“So was what I proposed to Luca.”

“Yes. I’m going to be there for you every step of the way.”

I draw in a deep breath, then smile.

“Okay.” My gaze flicks to the table, and the rapidly cooling gourmet food waiting for my attention.

“Abby,” Marcus sighs, getting back to his feet. “We were having a moment there. And all you can think about is the tortellini, right?”

“Heaven help you when I’m actually pregnant.”

Marcus sinks back into his chair, a broad grin on his face. “I’ve been thinking about that all weekend.”

“And as baby-daddy, you’ll need to do the midnight ice-cream and pickles run.”

“I thought about that, too. And we both know I’d have been doing that even if I wasn’t the baby-daddy,” he says wryly. “Speaking of that original scenario, what was your plan, before Luca made you tell me? When were you going to clue me in?”

“I was going to tell you when I could talk about it without getting upset.”

His gaze drifts downward for just a moment, then he changes the subject. “They didn’t have the lobster bisque tonight.”

“The bruschetta is even better.”

“I got tiramisu and gelato for dessert. I was hoping we’d be celebrating.”

Double dessert? I smile so hard my cheeks ache. “What on earth did I do to deserve you, Marcus Ross?”

He winks at me and starts serving out the food.

“Just lucky, I guess.”