CHAPTER TEN

Marcus

THE SOUND OF Warwick’s second message landing on my phone wakes me at 5:00 a.m. Where does he live that he’s messaging both in the early morning and late in the evening? It still seems unlikely that he’s losing sleep worrying about whether or not we’ll reply. I read the message several times, then sigh and climb out of bed.

A few months ago, Paul asked me if I was interested in training with him, and ever since then we’ve met to work out together five mornings a week. He’s infamously a hyperfocused work machine, and while his obsessive nature has been a big part of our success, it’s always worried me a little. He hasn’t said in as many words, but it’s clear that since Izzy left him, Paul is trying to engineer a healthier life for himself.

He jogs down from his apartment in Chelsea on Thursday mornings, starting earlier than I do so he can meet me at six at the corner of Chambers and West Side Highway. We run back toward his apartment together along the river, and I leave him at Chelsea Piers. He cools down as he walks the remaining blocks to his apartment, and I make the return journey back to my place on my own.

This morning, by the time Paul comes into view, I’ve already done a series of sprints and I’ve sweat through my clothes despite the cool morning. Paul looks bewildered.

“Am I late?”

“No,” I mutter. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

I don’t even know how to explain to him all of the sudden chaos in my life—between the situation with Warwick and the situation with Abby, everything is changing all at once. Maybe Paul would understand, given his life has been upended this year, too. Should I explain the upheaval I’m experiencing?

Maybe Warwick is on to something about the timing of things, because I’m just not ready to talk this through yet. That thought triggers a burning anger in my gut, because I hate that Warwick can disappear from our lives for twenty-five years and still predict my behavior with any accuracy.

I take off at a blistering pace, knowing Paul will fall into step beside me...or if heavy foot traffic demands, just behind me. Most days, we take turns at the front, generally trying to outrun each other. Today is not one of those days, and Paul runs just behind me for the entire route.

There’s a fair number of other joggers and cyclists, all trying to cram some fitness into hectic schedules, but they blur around me as I run. The breeze off the river is cool against my sweat-slicked skin, but early-morning sunlight is filtering through the New Jersey skyline to the east, and the morning is glorious. I breathe it all in, letting my tension drain away as I slip out of my own head and into the moment.

It’s only when Chelsea Piers comes into view that I tune back into the messages my body is now screaming at me. My calves are burning, my lungs are on fire and sweat stings my eyes.

We take this route every Thursday and every Sunday morning. Only this morning instead of our standard steady jog, we’ve sprinted the whole way.

“Marcus,” Paul says between pants. I’m slowing to a jog, too out of breath to speak yet. “If you need to talk, you know where I am, okay?”

It’s possibly the least Paul-like statement in the history of our friendship, given he’s somewhat infamous for his lack of empathy. I stare at him for a moment, trying to understand where that came from, and he looks away, almost self-consciously.

That’s when I realize what’s happening here: out of the chaos of his own life this year, my buddy isn’t working out with me just to get fit. He’s actually trying to become a better human being.

I thump him on the back, and he returns the default awkward gesture of male bonding.

“Appreciate that,” I say gruffly when my breath finally returns. “Same here, Paul. And that offer always stands.”

“Catch you at the office,” he mutters. He turns away from me, and I hesitate, then call after him.

“You’re a good friend, Paul.”

He glances back just long enough to flash me a wry look. “That statement is historically inaccurate, but I’m working on it.”

And then he’s gone, and I smile to myself as I turn to make the return trip home alone.

BY 7:35 A.M., I’ve been home long enough to shower and dress for work, but I haven’t heard a peep from Abby. I’m not all that surprised. This isn’t the first time we’ve made plans to go out for breakfast and she’s slept right past the time we were supposed to meet. I knock on her door, and when there’s no answer, I throw it open, expecting to find that she’s still in bed.

She’s not in bed.

She’s wearing her headphones and is twisted in a yoga pose on a mat by the open window. She’s bathed in early-morning sunlight, and of course she is, because I’m pretty sure she’s never once closed those drapes since the day she moved in. She knows she spends too much time indoors, and says the natural light helps her to stay cheery. Maybe she’s on to something, because right now that natural light is making me very cheery indeed. It falls over her, illuminating the perfect, pale curves of her body.

Abby is dressed only in her underwear. That’s nothing I haven’t seen before, because Abby has no qualms at all about crossing the living areas half-naked if the need arises, but something feels different today. The innocent nature of our relationship has been changed by the mere mention of sex, and there’s a sudden danger in the air.

I hastily avert my gaze toward the ceiling and yell, “Abigail Jolie Herbert!”

She squeals as I step out of the room and take some meditative breaths of my own. Through the door, I hear drawers opening and slamming closed, and Abby is cursing to herself. And then she steps into the living area, wearing jeans and a hoodie. Her face is flushed raspberry, and those big brown eyes are downcast. She glances up at me, then looks right at the floor again.

The only thing that’s really new about this situation is the possibility that there might be more exposure to Abby’s underwear in my future. Maybe that possibility leaves us both raw and a little exposed. She looks vulnerable, and I feel strangely uncertain because I just had to resist some very X-rated thoughts and that makes no sense at all because I am completely over her.

“It’s after seven thirty,” I say, just to break the awful silence. It slips out as an accusation, and Abby’s eyebrows snap inward.

“Sorry,” she says defensively. “I just lost track of time.”

“Do you always do yoga in your underwear in the mornings?” I try for a teasing tone, but instead I sound breathless. She gives me a searching look, and I clear my throat yet again as I shrug. “Seems like a strange decision for a person who’s supersensitive to the cold.” Abby runs the heat so high I swear I nearly melted during that first winter we lived together.

She runs her hand through her hair, detangling it, then smoothing it over one shoulder. But she can’t see herself, so she doesn’t know that her heavy bangs are messed up, too. I reach down and drag my fingers through the bangs, sweeping it to the side a bit the way she likes. It falls perfectly into place as Abby stares up at me. She keeps right on staring for just a second too long, then her gaze drops to my lips.

I’ve only seen that look on her face once before, and it was New Year’s Eve last year, right before she launched herself at me.

Now, she tilts her chin upward, and licks her parted lips. It’s almost an invitation, and it’s an invitation I discover I desperately want to accept. I never thought I’d get to kiss her again.

Would it be just as good the second time around?

It would. I just know it would.

But I force myself to ignore it because I also know that any second now Abby’s going to jump away from me like she’s been startled. Then she’ll say something awkward.

Right on cue, Abby leaps away from me, a beet-red flush stealing over her features.

“I, ah... The... I...”

“Your bangs were messy,” I interrupt. “I was just fixing it for you.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Our eyes meet again. Her blush intensifies. “The meditation, I mean,” she blurts, lying in her usual style—that is, without finesse or conviction. “I mean, I normally don’t do that at this ungodly hour. But I do it later in the day. I mean—I wasn’t planning on it. I was just getting dressed and I was feeling really anxious—I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about...you know...things. I was listening to a guided meditation. I wanted to clear my head before we talked but it wasn’t working so I turned it up really loud and I didn’t hear you come in, so I’m sorry.”

I decide to let her babble until she burns off some of that frenetic energy—that’s the only chance we have of having anything like a comfortable breakfast together. As she rambles, I flash her half a smile and head toward the door. Abby follows but she keeps just slightly more distance between us than usual, and I wind up a few steps in front of her.

She pauses at the coatrack to pull on her beanie, and I remember the drugstore bag I picked up on the way back from my run this morning. I scoop the bag up and pass it to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s a present. I was going to give it to you at breakfast, but you can have it now.”

She opens the bag and peers inside, then withdraws one of the thick, needleless syringes the pharmacist recommended when I explained our situation. Abby gives me a wide-eyed look.

“Turkey basters are so 1980. DIY-AI is all about syringes these days.” I keep my tone light as I open the door for her, and Abby drops the syringe and the bag back down onto the hall table before she steps through. She glances at me again, but doesn’t say anything, and so I offer her more of the information I discovered Googling yesterday afternoon during the very important yearly planning workshop that I did a pathetic job of facilitating. This whole baby project will be a moot point if Jess rips off my balls, which is an increasingly likely possibility the way I’ve been underperforming at the office lately.

“So, the tricky thing is getting the sperm close to the cervix on your own. I could help if you wanted, but given what that entails, surely that’s even weirder than...you know. And you’re probably flexible enough, so maybe it’s just time to put all of that barre to good use—”

Her footsteps stop abruptly, and she laughs. “Marcus.”

“Yes?”

“You are hereby forbidden from ever saying the word cervix to me in a public place ever again. Do you understand?”

“We’re in the hallway. How is this a public place? And since when are you squeamish about female anatomy? There’s no shame in cervixes. Or is it cervixi? What is the plural of cervix? That seems like something good parents should know.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s one of those questions a toddler always asks. We should be prepared.” She hits the elevator call button and frowns.

“Did I do the wrong thing?”

Abby shifts her weight from one foot to the other, then grimaces and shrugs.

“Other than the long discussion about me reaching my own cervix, no. What you did was perfect, like it always is.” She clears her throat, and her voice is very small as she adds, “So, does this mean you decided this is the best way for us to proceed?”

“Abby, I told you. I’m fine with whatever you decide—I just wanted to make sure you knew that. Now we’re prepared. Whenever it’s the right time, we can go ahead however you choose to.”

“I think the right time might be soon. I think maybe I’d be ovulating a few days from now,” she whispers, and my stomach drops to my toes.

“Oh,” I say, and the elevator doors open. We step inside and stand beside one another as it travels to the ground floor. I dare to glance at her in the mirrored doors, and find she’s studying her shoes furiously. “We can wait for next month.”

“I don’t want to wait. I want to start trying as soon as we can.” She doesn’t look up, even as she adds hesitantly, “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” The elevator seems to be moving much slower this morning than it usually does. “My results came in on email last night. It’s all clear.”

“Mine, too.”

My stomach is in my throat now. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster.

“Okay.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I think the ideal time for us to do a first insemination might be today or tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say again, because the blood is thundering in my ears and I can’t think of anything more helpful to offer her. I’m hyperaware of my body as the elevator crawls downward. My breath is shallow, my palms are sweaty, my face feels hot—but my dick is already hardening. Shut it down, Ross. I try to subtly adjust myself before Abby notices, but when I glance at her, I see that she’s still staring at the floor. I could probably burst into song right now and she wouldn’t so much as react, she’s that determined not to look at me.

It’s a relief when the doors finally swing open and we can step out from the confined space. We cross the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, where we’re greeted with a blast of traffic noise from the street. Abby leads the way as we slip into a gap in the foot traffic outside our building, only to find ourselves caught just behind a young family. They are walking along far too slowly for the morning sidewalk rush, clogging up the stream of workers racing to their desks. Some step hastily around the family, casting them sharp looks. One particularly sour guy mutters under his breath.

Maybe any other day, I’d be overtaking the family, too, but not today. Abby and I automatically slow our footsteps and fall into a slow rhythm just behind them. By some unspoken agreement we have apparently decided on a spot of people-watching. A woman in a suit is on the right, a man in jeans and a sweater is on the left, and caught between them a toddler in a superhero costume holds one of each parent’s hands in hers and walks as if every single step is worth savoring. She’s chatting excitedly about the coming day at daycare, and her parents keep exchanging fond glances over her head.

It’s all pretty standard for a family with a young kid, I guess. It’s also ridiculously adorable, and I feel a sudden and surprising pang of longing. Abby stretches up to whisper in my ear.

“That might be us soon.”

Judging by the wide set of her eyes and the tension in her shoulders, she’s equal parts excited and terrified. I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently, and I can’t temper my grin.

“I really can’t wait.”

We continue our too-slow walk along the sidewalk, crawling along at a snail’s pace behind the young family until the toddler decides she’s had enough walking and the father stops to pick her up. Abby and I step around them at last, but it’s only then that I realize I’m still holding her hand. The gesture was supportive and encouraging a moment ago. Now, I’m not sure what it is—all I know is that it takes surprising effort for me to convince my hand to let go of hers.

I open the door for her when we reach the café, and Abby flashes me a quiet smile as she steps inside. I watch her face brighten as she takes in the space—this is one of her favorite places to eat out, and I think part of the appeal is how homey and simple it is. This café is quietly understated, with exposed brick walls and well-worn decor. The food is unpretentious and tasty, and the coffee is consistently fantastic.

Just like Abby herself, this café is real, warm and perfect in an absolutely unique way.

We place our regular order as soon as we’re seated, and as the waitress walks away, Abby and I share a moment of sudden, shocking eye contact. Sparks of electricity fire in my gut and I force my gaze to a group of diners behind her, trying to clamp down on the feeling.

I really was over her. I was so over her. I am so over her. I repeat this again and again in my mind, but the mantra isn’t helping at all. My body is having a pretty serious regression back to that momentary infatuation this morning, and I have no idea what to do with how excited I am about the idea of touching her. I’m stunningly, shockingly conflicted.

“What are we going to do, Marcus?” she asks, her voice low and unsteady. “What’s the best way to proceed here?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I admit heavily.

“One of us is going to have to make a decision.” Abby’s nervous laugh gives me an idea.

“Well, maybe we can make it easier.”

“Oh?” She sits up a little, encouraged by the idea of an out. “So, we’re going to roll dice or something? I think I have a dice app on my phone—”

“No, Abby...” I laugh softly. “Let’s get dinner tonight, have a few drinks and then decide. I don’t think either one of us is ready to make a decision on this right now, so let’s put it off until we really have to figure it out.”

“Yeah, okay...” Abby says thoughtfully. “All right. We’ll just do whatever seems right when the moment comes.”

“Exactly. So you don’t need to spend the whole day gagging at the thought of bumping uglies with me.” I try to make her laugh, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she offers me a weak smile, which quickly becomes an embarrassed grimace as a squeaky teen voice asks, “Excuse me, are you Abby Herbert?”

Abby and I both look up as three teenage boys approach our table. They’re about thirteen or fourteen, all limbs and awkwardness, heavy schoolbags hooked over their bony shoulders. The hopeful excitement on their faces is unmistakable.

“Hi!” Abby says, flashing the boys a smile. “I sure am.”

For the next few minutes, she chats with them about her gaming videos and an action role-playing game she recently recommended that they are all in love with, and their plans for an “epic sleepover”...just as soon as they can convince their parents to let them play games online for twenty-four hours straight. Abby opens her purse and slips out three glossy stickers with her website and social media details. She even has a Sharpie on hand, so she signs the stickers and then poses with the boys while I take a photo for their Instagram accounts.

When Abby hands me her phone and asks me to take a shot for her Instagram, too, I’m genuinely concerned that one or more of the boys is going to injure a cheek muscle. They can’t even play it cool anymore, their smiles are that wide.

She skillfully wraps up the conversation and says goodbye to her surprise fan club, and I don’t think they even realize they’ve been dismissed. They are so completely under her spell, they’re grateful for any attention she was willing to give them.

Abby used to be so shy with everyone but her closest friends. I’m certain she got into online gaming originally because it was a place for her to hide. Even now, she’s still introverted as hell, but somehow, gaming has bolstered her confidence to the point that when circumstances demand it, she’s also a confident, successful youth celebrity. Grown-up Abby is so many wonderful things all at once.

And I know a thing or two about how those boys feel, caught under Abby’s spell. Staring at her now, it’s a little too easy to imagine myself slipping all the way back there, just like I was in January.

“It’s still weird every time that happens,” she mutters, glancing up at me through her lashes.

“You made their day,” I say softly. She waves her hand dismissively at me, but I know it’s true. “How does it feel to have an army of teen fans at your beck and call?”

“My plans for world domination are coming together nicely.”

The waitress approaches with our coffees, but the interruption has stalled the conversation, and the awkwardness quickly descends again. We sit like that until our breakfast arrives, stirring our coffees for far too long, each waiting for the other to speak.

“So...we’ll just meet up for dinner?” Abby asks eventually. I do have dinner plans with my team, but I don’t want to come home and battle awkwardness if we don’t have something to keep us busy until it’s Go Time.

“I’ve got evening meetings again today.” Besides, if anyone can handle two dinners, it’s me. “But I’ll be home by 9:00 p.m. so we could do a late one.”

“Okay.”

“So we’re okay?”

Abby draws in a deep breath, then she nods.

“Yep. We’re good.”

And I almost believe her, except for the fact that she flashes me a very quick smile and starts picking at her fingernails, which at some point since yesterday morning she’s painted bright pink.

I can tell the conversation is going nowhere, so I let it drop and we sit in the slightly strained silence as we eat. Eventually I take out my phone and work on some emails, but every time I raise my gaze to Abby, she’s staring at me, and each time she looks away. Even after this happens twice, I still feel her eyes on me, but I pretend I don’t notice. I just let her stare. I keep moving my fingers over the screen, but I’m not achieving anything.

How could I possibly focus with the tension crackling in the air between us this morning? I swear the sight of Abby in her underwear under that window has been burned into the backs of my eyelids—every single time I blink I see it again.

Until this morning, I’ve been pretty calm about the idea of Abby and I actually having sex. I haven’t been dwelling on the possibility, nor have I been worried about it. I was confident we could make it work as a means to an end, but I didn’t think too much about what it would mean if we did.

This morning, that calm has disappeared, and I’m not really sure what to make of that. If we do this, it’s just to make a baby. That’s got to be it.

If we do this, it’s hopefully just a few nights, and then everything has to go right back to normal.

If Abby decides to do this, she’ll have thought it all through and she’ll be certain that she can get the deed done tonight, and still look at me the same way tomorrow.

But what about me? It was surprisingly difficult for me to move on after that kiss on New Year’s. When I realized Abby wasn’t even willing to discuss the subject with me, it took every bit of my self-discipline to suppress my attraction to her.

What if, this time, I can’t put the genie back into the bottle? For the very first time, I’m nervous about this pregnancy project, and the shocking thing is, it isn’t even the potential baby that scares me.