“On a scale of one to ten,” Shelley says, “how much do you hate Denise?” “Twelve,” I say.
“Might I remind you, this is a scale of one to ten.” “A hundred.”
“I feel like you’re not taking the parameters of this question seriously.” I signal to the waiter that we’re ready to order. We can’t spend very long at lunch today because Denise saw us walking out. And asked very pointedly where we were going. And when Shelley replied “to lunch,” she looked aghast. I don’t know if I’ve ever used the word “aghast” before, but the expression on Denise’s face when we informed her we’d be leaving the
premises to eat lunch was a perfect personification of the word “aghast.”
The waiter approaches our table carrying a wine glass filled with dark red liquid and places it down in front of me. I suppress an urge to roll my eyes—poor service is something I have low tolerance for.
“I didn’t order that,” I inform our waiter.
“I know.” He jerks his head in the direction of the bar. “That gentleman over there asked me to bring you a glass of pinot noir.”
I glance over at the bar, where a man with blond hair raises a glass and winks in our direction. He’s got a cocky smile and he’s wearing a gray business suit. Brooks Brothers—I’m pretty sure.
Shelley giggles. “Looks like you’ve got another suitor, Abby.” I push the glass away from me. “It’s probably for you.”
“No,” the waiter, a baby-faced young man, insists. “The man said it was for the woman with black hair in the white dress. He said he hoped you would join him after your lunch.”
Shelley laughs harder. “I told you you’ve got a suitor.”
My cheeks burn as I push the glass more firmly away from me. “I’ve also got a husband. Please remove the drink.”
“And her husband is very hot,” Shelley informs the waiter, who I’m sure really cares.
As awkward as that encounter was, I can’t say it wasn’t a boost to my self-esteem. Sometimes I think Sam just gets more attractive as he gets
older while my own looks slide away. I don’t get hit on nearly as much as I used to. It’s nice to know a handsome stranger at a Mexican restaurant saw me across the room and found me desirable.
I look down at my watch, cursing the fact that I didn’t make the waiter take our order while he was here. Shelley raises her eyebrows at me. “What time is that meeting you need to be back for?”
“It’s at one-thirty. But it’s fine. Monica is getting everything set up.” Shelley nods in approval. “Nice. She’s really efficient.”
“Actually, she’s amazing. I really like her.” “Me too.”
“I like her so much,” I say, watching my best friend’s face, “I’m asking her to be a surrogate so Sam and I can have a baby.”
Shelley laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I told her after the failed adoption attempt that Sam and I would be trying for an older child. This sounds like a joke. And admittedly, even as the words were leaving my mouth, they sounded comical. Who asks their assistant to carry a fetus for them in her womb? Last month, we got a memo saying we weren’t allowed to have our assistants do laundry for us.
I clear my throat. “That wasn’t a joke.” “Yeah, right,” she snickers.
I don’t say anything.
Shelley’s mouth falls open. “Wait. Are you serious?” “I am.”
She stares at me, shaking her head. “I… I don’t understand…”
Briefly, I outline everything that’s happened so far. Monica’s offer. The terms of what our contract would be. Sam’s reluctant agreement to “think about it.”
“I can’t believe Sam is going along with this,” Shelley mutters. “I thought he had more sense than this.”
“So you don’t think I have any sense?” “Clearly not!”
My face burns. Shelley doesn’t get it. When we both started here as assistants, we were single and happy about it. Then I found Sam and she found Rick, and everything changed. After Sam talked me into trying for a baby, Shelley started trying too. We jokingly talked about how they’d be the same ages so they could play together. When Shelley got pregnant before I
did, we joked her daughter would be a big sister to my child. Then she got pregnant again, and I was informed my eggs were useless.
Even though Shelley and I are still best friends, she scrupulously avoids talking about her kids in front of me. We talk about work, our husbands, the latest movies—but never kids. Not until the promise of this adoption—the one that’s now fallen through. Shelley knows how much I want this. She knows how much this means to me.
“You don’t get it,” I finally say.
Shelley lets out a sigh and takes a sip from her Diet Coke. “I know you want this, Abby. I get it. But… you really don’t see why this is a bad idea?”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re using Sam’s sperm, right?” “Uh, yeah.”
“So,” she says, “this pretty assistant who is over ten years younger than you will be pregnant with your husband’s child. And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It will be our child. Sam’s and mine.”
“Unless Monica changes her mind and decides she wants it.” She gives me a pointed look. “And then Sam’s on the hook for child support. Or worse.”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “We won’t sign the contract if she’s allowed to change her mind.”
“Can you do that?” “Sure, why not?”
Shelley keeps shaking her head. I know she doesn’t approve of this, but I wish she’d be supportive anyway. She’s got her two babies. It’s my turn now.
“Stop looking at me that way,” I say. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Listen to me, Abby.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m going to try to explain this to you the best way I can.” She pauses. “I’m sure you’ve noticed Sam possesses some physical attributes which women find… desirable.”
Yeah, no kidding. When the math department was trying to attract more female students a few years ago, their big idea was to put a photo of Sam in their brochure and mention he was one of their professors. Sam found the
whole thing baffling, but he went along with it. And the crazy part is, it
worked. Their female applications tripled thanks to him.
And he’s not just eye candy either. I’ve read over some of the reviews he gets from his students, and it’s obvious they find his enthusiasm for the subject just as attractive as his more superficial qualities. He gets equally revved up to teach freshman calculus as he does from his grad level courses. And it shows. I’ve never had a professor as excited to teach me math as Dr. Adler, one student wrote. Then they may or may not have mentioned his butt.
To be fair, my husband does have a very nice butt. “I’m aware,” I say.
“And don’t you think Monica has noticed?” I flinch. “She’s not like that.”
“She’s female, isn’t she? If she isn’t a lesbian, she’s noticed. Trust me.” “So?”
“So.” Shelley gives me a look. “So what if she decides she wants him?”
“Shelley…”
“Hear me out.” She lifts a finger. “Let’s assume her intentions are good going into this…”
“They are.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, we’ll give her that. But even if that’s true, think about how she’s going to feel a few months into her pregnancy. There she is, hormones raging, parasite growing inside her uterus, getting fat— and she knows Sam is the father of this baby. They’re connected by blood. And of course, she’ll see what a great guy he is, that he does dishes, laundry, and that he’s an excellent kisser…”
I can’t argue with any of that. Sam does do dishes and laundry. And he
is an excellent kisser.
“I trust Sam,” I say stubbornly. “And I trust Monica.”
“Sam—fine. He wouldn’t cheat. But how well do you know Monica?” “Very well,” I insist. “She’s been my assistant for almost six months.” “Right. So you know her for six months. Which isn’t very long at all.” “I trust her.” It’s hard to explain that good feeling I got the first time I
sat across from Monica. How I saw so much of myself in her and wanted to take her under my wing. I trust Monica as much as I trust myself.
Shelley peers at me over the rim of her Diet Coke. She’s thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I’ve seen her listening outside the door to your office.”
My heart skips a beat. “What?”
“I’ve seen her. She stands outside your office door when it’s closed, and I think she’s trying to hear your conversations.”
“I…” My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. Monica is trustworthy—I know it. I don’t need to hear this ridiculousness from my supposed best friend. “Maybe she was just checking to see if I was busy before she knocked on the door.”
“But isn’t that what knocking is for? To see if someone is busy?”
I glare at her. “So… what? You’re saying Monica is spying on me? Is that what you think?”
“No!” Shelley’s cheeks redden. “Look, all I’m saying, Abby, is be careful. You can’t trust anyone a hundred percent. Especially when it comes to something like this.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
She’s right. That’s why I intend to investigate all of Monica’s references before jumping into this. I’m not making a mistake. I don’t care what Shelley says—I know Monica. I can trust her. This is all going to work out.
