But it's the next words out of Iris's mouth that leave me shook. "You've decided to do the motherhood thing alone and we can't talk you out of it, so the least we can do is support you with anything you're going to need.”
I watch the back of Lexi's head as she nods. "I know this artificial insemination thing is expensive so if you're serious about it, you’ll need Cannon to help you get as many clients as possible."
"Guys!" Penny hisses and I can tell she's embarrassed. I can just imagine the pretty pink splotches decorating her high cheekbones. "Stop blabbing all my business, would you?!"
Lexi shrugs off her friend's concern. "Don't worry about it. We're alone in here. Jude and Cannon are out grabbing firewood."
I think I've heard enough. I back away from the door. My toes feel numb. Oxygen is not pumping to my brain fast enough. I'm not even sure I'm breathing.
I sneak down the hallway and out through the kitchen door, snatching my hat and jacket off the hook. Heavy droplets of rain pound at my back. The path toward my cabin is growing dark, and I don’t even remember the walk home.
The only thing on my mind is Penny.
All these years, I've been afraid of losing her. I've been so damn focused on keeping her away from dumb idiots, terrified that she'd fall in love and I'd lose her for good. But I never saw this coming. I never considered losing her like this. Now that I know she’s seriously considering having a baby—on her own—I know I'll lose her anyway.
As I walk through the rain, down the wet dirt path toward my tiny cabin, I know I won’t make it until morning without doing something stupid. Something reckless. I know I won't make it through the night without going to her.
6
Penny
I’m curled up on my vintage suede sofa with my calendar, my colored pens and my trusty notebook in my lap. I’m grinding my poor fingertip between my incisors as I read through information on the fertility clinic’s website.
“Note that, the use of washed sperm combined with fertility drugs greatly increases the likelihood of multiple eggs being fertilized simultaneously. When traditional artificial insemination is utilized, the probability of multiple births is higher than with natural pregnancies…”
My stomach does a nauseating flip.
Twins? Hol-ee hell.
I never considered twins. I may be ready for one little, squishy, bouncing bundle of joy, but I don’t think I could juggle multiples at once. How do you even feed two babies at the same time? And diaper changes? Baths? Bedtime?
I grab a celery stick from my plate and read on. I want to be as informed as possible when I go into the clinic. I need to have enough money saved and know every step of the procedure like the back of my hand. That’s just the type of person I am. I hate unwelcome surprises.
To the outside world, my plan to be a single mother may seem reckless but I’m the type of girl who thrives on doing my research and having a well thought-out plan. This is super important to me, especially given my concerns related to my medical history. I don't want something going wrong. I've already marked-up my calendar, taking note of my upcoming ovulation cycles.
According to the article open on my computer, I learn that for my age, I only have about a 15 percent chance of the procedure working with each cycle. Gosh. Just 15 percent? I suppose that’s 15 percent higher than me getting pregnant by just staring at hot men on the internet, but still, that’s super expensive when I have to pay for each donor’s specimen.
And—ugh—I don’t really like the word specimen. It makes me feel like I’m going to have an alien baby.
I’m an anxious mess.
Strong winds rattle my creaky windows. Heavy rain beats the glass. I sit on the couch, crunching on my celery and I can’t get the idea of twins off my mind. I really want to do this, but the whole thing makes me nervous. Maybe if I can find out the history of twins in my family, I’ll feel better about that part.
Deciding it’s not that late, I pick up the phone and dial my mother’s number. As the call connects, I battle the urge to change my mind. Is it weird that the thought of speaking to my own mother makes me nervous enough to want to just hang up?
But she picks up almost immediately. “Hello Penelope,” she says in that flat, dry, always-preoccupied tone of hers.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?” I’m stalling already, not sure why I’m eager to share my baby-making plans with her. I know she wasn’t all that fond of having a kid herself.
“Good, good.” Through the line, I can hear her fingers cracking away at her keyboard.
My mother is the most driven career woman I know. Nothing matters more to her than her job. A few years ago, she was diagnosed with some obscure autoimmune disorder that necessitated a liver transplant. Mom’s announcement pitched the Merlini family into an upheaval when she came around looking for a donation. I did not hesitate. I was the first person in line to get my internal organs hacked and portioned to save my mother's life. The surgery knocked me off my feet for months. But her transplant barely slowed her down. Within days, she was merrily conducting conference calls and tapping away at her keyboard from her hospital bed.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m in the middle of drafting a billion-dollar trans-national acquisition agreement right now. Can I call you back later?”
Well, I know that my news is pretty important but it’s hard to argue when she phrases it like that. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I mumble. But Mom has already hung up.
I hate the sting—the disappointment—that floods me. I don’t know why I thought today would be any different. My mother hasn’t had time for me since the moment the doctor snipped my umbilical cord. God knows I've gone above and beyond to make her notice me, to make her love me. I guess I'm sort of hoping that since she might be a grandmother
