Chapter 17 Human Reproductive Biology
HUMAN REPRODUCTIVE BIOLOGY
*Samantha*
The rest of the day passed in a blur of grant paperwork. By four o’clock, my email inbox had been ambushed by no less than nine congratulatory GIFs, including a dancing gnome and a Mariah Carey that looped in perpetual vibrato.
I changed out of my scrubs in the nearly empty locker room and checked my reflection at least three times. Then, upon opening the door, I nearly walked right into Dmitry, who had apparently been waiting outside like a bouncer at a very selective night club.
He stepped back, gave me a very obvious up-and-down, then let out a low, unfeigned whistle. “When did you become so fashionable?”
I looked down at myself and, before I could stop the words, the truth fell out of my mouth: “Oh. Thank you. Andreas bought these for me.”
Dmitry’s eyes went wide, then almost crossed as he processed the statement. “You’re using the best chess player in the world as your personal shopper?”
“He is not my personal shopper,” I said, but the way it came out sounded false.
Dmitry fell into step next to me as we started down the hall toward the elevators, shaking his head in a way that made his glasses slip down his nose. “The kombucha drink you were raving about earlier today, didn’t you say that Andreas bought that for you first?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make him my personal shopper.” I tried to sound resolute, but my voice did a little trampoline bounce at the end.
Dmitry pressed the elevator button and fixed me with a side-eye. “He seems to know your tastes better than you know yourself. Didn’t you say last week that your fiancé picked out the perfume you’ve been wearing recently? I assume you only have one fiancé.”
Once we stepped inside the elevator car, I pressed the lobby button and made a low noise of defeat. “Yes. Fine. He did pick out the perfume, too.”
“How long have you two been together?” The elevator doors closed, sealing us in with the hush of a confessional.
I deflected. “I’ve known him for a really long time, since we were kids.”
Dmitry nodded. “Apparently so. For him to know exactly what cut and shape of clothes look best on you, and what color those clothes should be to flatter your complexion and bring out your eyes, and what food you’ll like even before you try it yourself, and what perfume scent not only smells like heaven mixed with your unique pheromones but also uses your favorite flower, you two must’ve known each other since birth and he’s been taking notes the entire time. ”
The elevator doors parted on the ground floor, and I said, “Cut it out. He should be waiting for me outside. Stop teasing me if you want to meet him.”
Dmitry raised his hands, surrendering, but couldn’t resist a last volley as we crossed the marble floor toward the security desk.
“I’m just trying to point out, you are getting married to someone who loves you very much.
A man does not pay this close attention to a woman unless he plans—or hopes—to spend the rest of his life making her happy. ”
My heart did a little twist and flutter, and I felt an unexpected blush prickle up my neck.
Once upon a time, the thought of someone falling in love with me would have triggered a biological panic response.
I would have ended the situationship. But Dmitry’s words about Andreas didn’t scare me.
In fact, they made me . . . happy. Giddy, almost.
We passed the security desk, said goodbye to the guard, and walked straight for the main glass doors.
Andreas stood waiting for me just outside, eyes on something in the distance.
He wore a dark wool coat and a navy scarf, his hair swept back with the kind of effortless style that cost actual effort.
I felt a tiny, irrational spark of joy at the sight of him.
“Are you ready? Your boyfriend is outside,” I said, nudging Dmitry.
He stumbled for a second then hissed, “Only say nice things about me. Do not embarrass me in front of him. Or else.”
I cackled. The sound actually startled a nearby student.
As we stepped outside, Andreas’s gaze swung toward us and instantly focused on me. For a split second, his eyes did that thing where they got very bright. Then his gaze slid to Dmitry, and the corners of his mouth dipped slightly.
“Dmitry, this is Andreas Kristiansen. Andreas, this is Dmitry Bortnik, one of my fellow PhD candidates and my work husband.” I grinned.
Andreas’s frown deepened, but before he could say anything, I added, “That just means he’s like my best friend at work, and I trust him, and he’s very good to me.”
Andreas’s forehead cleared, and the side of his mouth pulled upward in a not-unfriendly way.
Dmitry shot me a look. “You should have called me your work brother, not your work husband.”
Andreas took off his glove and extended his hand to Dmitry. “No, work husband is better. I do not get along with my brothers. It is nice to meet you. I am Samantha’s soon-to-be real-life husband.”
I tucked my chin into my scarf to hide my smile.
Dmitry gripped his hand. It was a very firm handshake but without aggression, the kind that telegraphed mutual respect.
“I have followed your chess career for many years. You obviously already know this, but it is truly an honor to meet the best chess player in the world. I wouldn’t let Sam marry anyone less impressive. ”
I did a double take at the chill in Dmitry’s voice, like he was meeting an old friend for a beer and not the person he’d been fanboying over since—as per his own admission—he was a kid.
Dmitry continued, “I have to get going, but if you ever want to beat an amateur chess enthusiast, I am at your service.”
Andreas grinned, a real, dazzling grin. “If you are free after the break, perhaps we could have you over for dinner.”
Dmitry nodded, king of being unconcerned. “I will look at my calendar and get back to you.”
As Dmitry started to walk away, I made a face at his retreating back, equal parts disbelief and admiration at how unshakable he was acting in the presence of his literal idol.
I waited until he was out of earshot before shaking my head.
“Was I nice to your friend?” Andreas asked.
“He is so weird. He’s like your biggest fan and yet is all chill, acting like he has plans and needs to check his calendar before playing chess with you. What a weirdo.”
Andreas’s eyes sparkled. “Not all Russians are the same, obviously. But I had many chess coaches who were Russian, and my experience is if they said, ‘Good job,’ it was like getting a round of applause from anyone else. He seems similar. Understated.”
I slotted my arm through his. “Enough about Dmitry. Why did you insist on picking me up this evening? Are we going on another date night?”
He tilted his head, feigning offense. “Did you forget? We’re going to go pick out a Christmas tree.”
I gaped. “We’re doing it tonight?”
He nodded, entirely serious. “It is already past the first week of December. I made a list of tree vendors within walking distance.”
I grinned, letting myself be led down the sidewalk. “Have you ever picked out a Christmas tree before?”
“No,” he said. “I will have to defer to your superior experience.”
“Indeed,” I said, fairly certain my cheeks were going to be stuck in a smile for the rest of the night.
* * *
Four hours after Andreas had reduced my body to a grinning machine, we were locked in a silent domestic standoff in his apartment.
The Christmas tree—our pride and sorrow—stood at one end of the living room, still oozing pine sap onto the plastic tarp we’d finally remembered to put down after the fourth try.
At the other end, Andreas was slumped on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, a scowl engineered to repel all attempts at cheer.
“See? Doesn’t it look great?” I said as brightly as I could without setting off his sulk sensors.
He glared at me, a thundercloud of discontent, and made a noise that might have been “Mmm.”
I admired our work. The tree was lopsided.
A quarter of it faced the wall because that’s where the branches were the most anemic.
Several strings of lights ran in drunken ellipses, not the crisp Fibonacci spiral I’d intended, and the stand oozed sticky sap onto a fortress of doubled garbage bags.
I stood back, hands on my hips, channeling every suburban dad.
“Look at it this way,” I said. “We couldn’t enjoy the wonderfulness of this moment if we hadn’t lived through the pain and suffering of setting it up.”
The scowl deepened. Andreas might have been plotting to torch the tree and salt the earth with the charred remains.
Truthfully, the evening’s pain and suffering had not been minor.
We’d left my department together, hand in hand, and found a Christmas tree lot on the east side of Central Park, just as the sun dipped behind the buildings and threw the world into blue shadows.
We had agreed on a tree in less than four minutes—a record that should have been immortalized on a plaque—but then our differing philosophies of logistics clashed like tectonic plates.
Andreas wanted to hire professionals. “I will call the building. They can send staff to pick it up and install it for us. There is no need for us to carry it,” he’d said, already dialing the number.
But the whole point, I’d tried to explain, was to carry the tree ourselves. “Have you ever seen When Harry Met Sally?” I’d asked. “There’s this part where they carry the Christmas tree back to Sally’s apartment and it’s iconic.”
I’d pressed my case, citing romantic comedies and the importance of seasonal tradition. In the end, Andreas caved. He always caved when I made irrefutable arguments. Or, in this case, when I kissed him on the mouth until he lost the will to argue.