Monica looks like she’s at a job interview. She’s dressed up in a gray suit jacket and matching skirt, and her dress shirt is so white, it’s gleaming. She’s wearing makeup but it’s so artfully applied that her face looks bare. Her dark hair is swept behind her head in a tight bun. Her fingers are clasped together on the table of the restaurant so tightly, they’ve turned pale.
Sam, on his part, looks like he’s conducting a job interview. He’s also dressed up in a crisp white shirt and a green tie. His glasses slide down his nose as he peers down at the yellow legal pad in front of him. Apparently, he’s going to be taking notes during this meal. So much for putting Monica at ease.
The whole thing would be funny if my entire life weren’t riding on it.
This is Sam all over—he takes everything so seriously. It’s adorable, except when it’s annoying, like now. It makes me think of the first time we met, actually. I was still Denise’s personal assistant at Stewart Advertising, and we were putting together a campaign for the university where Sam was a grad student in the math department. My job was to meet with grad students in all the departments and gather highlights that we could use in the advertising materials.
For the most part, it was fun. The art grad student showed me some incredible paintings done by his classmates. The chemistry grad student showed me an experiment in the lab. And the English grad student took me all around campus, then offered me a joint in his office.
Sam showed up to our meeting in his office wearing a dress shirt and tie. He proceeded to spend the next half an hour teaching me math. Something about series solutions to differential equations—who the hell knows? I would have fallen asleep completely if he weren’t so incredibly cute in his shirt and tie. I still remember him gesturing at a line of Greek symbols on his whiteboard and saying emphatically, “This should go in your pamphlet.”
“Yes,” I said and pretended to write it down. “Absolutely.”
At the very first moment it wouldn’t have been rude, I stood up and thrust my hand in his direction. “Thank you very much, Mr. Adler. This was really… helpful.”
And then, as we shook hands, I noticed the handshake was lingering more than I would have expected. His kind brown eyes met mine and a nervous smile touched his lips. “So, uh… you wouldn’t be interested in… maybe grabbing some dinner together?”
I hesitated. I had already turned down the English grad student, who had gotten grabby after he smoked that joint. But he had a giant beard and smelled like BO. Sam smelled good. I still love his aftershave, which he applies every day without exception.
“I need to finish explaining how to solve differential equations,” he added.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go to dinner with you but you have to promise not to talk about differential equations again for the rest of the night. Or any other kind of equations.”
I half-expected him to clasp his chest in horror, exclaiming, “But what else could we possibly discuss?” But instead, he smiled and said, “Deal.”
As it turned out, we had plenty to talk about that night. So much that we didn’t leave the diner until well after midnight. So much that I was mid- sentence when Sam leaned in and kissed me for the first time.
And now here we are, over ten years later, interviewing a woman to carry our child in her womb for nine months. Couldn’t have predicted that one.
Sam has made it very clear he’s not excited about doing this. But he consented to meeting Monica and discussing it. If he’s satisfied with the terms, then… well, he wouldn’t give any promises. Sam can be very stubborn at times.
We’ve chosen an Italian restaurant we’ve never been to before, because I don’t want the staff at one of our regular establishments to overhear us asking a woman to rent out her womb to us. It’s a small, dark restaurant, and Sam is squinting to see his notes on the legal pad by the light of the candle on our table.
“This is a little awkward, I know,” I say to break the ice. “But I think it would be great for us all to get to know each other better.”
“Uh huh, absolutely.” Sam taps on the legal pad with his pen. “Monica, do you live in Manhattan?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes. I live downtown with a roommate.” “And what’s your roommate’s name?”
“Chelsea Williams.”
He writes it down, then makes her tell him the roommate’s phone number, which he jots down as well. I want to grab the pen out of his hand.
“Sam,” I murmur. “You’re being rude.”
“No, it’s fine,” Monica says quickly. “I mean, I know this is a really important decision for you guys. Anything you want to know—I’m an open book.”
She tugs at the top button of her white blouse. She’s got her shirt buttoned all the way up to her throat, although I notice that’s something she often does. Monica is not an unattractive girl, but she seems reluctant to show off her sexuality at work. She usually wears slacks or skirts that fall below the knee. I assume she’s got breasts under there somewhere, but you’d never know it. That’s something I respect about her. Too many girls are willing to flash a little skin to get what they want, but Monica doesn’t go that route. She’s got integrity.
A waiter approaches us to take our drink orders. I get a glass of red, because damn, do I need it. Sam sticks with water, and then the waiter turns to Monica: “And for you, Miss?”
She glances down at the menu. I try to send her telepathic messages:
Don’t order alcohol. Don’t!
“Water’s fine for me too, thanks,” she says.
And Sam nods his tacit approval. Not that he doesn’t drink himself, but tonight, Monica needs to be a saint.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your family?” Sam asks, when the waiter’s gone to fetch our drinks.
“Of course not,” Monica says. “Like I said, I’m an open book. I really want this to work out.”
He puts down his pen on the table and peers across the table at her. “Why?”
She blinks a few times. “What do you mean?”
“I understand you respect Abby and want her to have a baby,” he says, “but if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem very eager to make this
happen. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
I kick my husband’s leg under the table. “Sam…”
“No, I think it’s a fair question.” He doesn’t take his gaze off Monica’s face. “Don’t you, Monica?”
Her eyes dart briefly in my direction, then she nods. “Yes, it’s a fair question.”
The waiter comes by at this moment to drop off our drinks. Water for Sam and Monica, wine for me. I take a big gulp.
“Dr. Adler, Abby tells me you’re a math professor,” Monica says. He hesitates, then nods.
“So I’m assuming you like math a lot,” she adds. “Yes,” he agrees.
I snort. That’s an understatement.
“So say you finished college and you weren’t allowed to keep going to school to learn math.” She takes a sip of her water. “And the cost of going to school to learn more math was more than you could ever hope to save in a reasonable amount of time. What then?”
“I’d take out loans.”
“Well, what if your loan payments were already more than your rent?” Sam is quiet for a moment. “There’s always a way.”
“Right.” Her eyes meet his. “There’s always a way.”
He frowns at her. He picks up the straw in his water glass and stirs the ice cubes around the glass. After a minute of silence, he picks up his pen again. “So when is the last time you’ve had a physical exam?”
I smile to myself. Monica may not realize it, but she’s swayed him.
We’re that much closer to getting our baby.
