Chapter 17 Failure Cara
THERE ARE FOUR THINGS I love to do with my mouth, in no particular order: Talk, eat, drink, and suck cock.
Actually, scratch the no particular order bullshit. That last one is definitely my favorite.
And I haven’t been able to blow my husband in two weeks.
“It’s because you’ve been eating all that pineapple core,” Shazia reminds me. “Your tongue is raw.”
She’s not wrong, but still. “It’s a crime, Shazia.
Maybe even punishable by death.” The top of my pen finds its way into my mouth as I stare out the window, barely noticing the fat snowflakes drifting slowly from the sky.
“Emmett’s got such a beautiful, girthy cock.
Just thick enough to lodge itself down my throat. ”
Shazia gags, and I grin, glancing at her as she pretends to heave into the garbage can.
“That’s exactly what I sound like when I’m choking on his cock.” Twisting back to my computer, I open the file folder titled The Family Project, then navigate my way through three years of events I’ve run with Adam’s charity, and find our newest project, the Summer Camp folder.
“How long do you have to eat pineapple core for anyway?” Shazia flops into the chair across from my desk, twirling one of her long, dark curls around her finger.
“Technically, I only needed to eat it the first five days following the embryo transfer.”
“But you’re…” She cocks her head, counting on her fingers. “Eleven days post-transfer?”
I pull out the lunch bag Emmett tucked into the passenger seat of my car this morning.
Inside is a small blender cup packed with all the bullshit that’s supposed to help me get pregnant, like spinach, kiwi, avocado, coconut yogurt, chia and flax seeds, collagen powder, and—you guessed it—pineapple.
I call it my crotch-goblin smoothie. Finding the mini blender base I keep in the office, I attach the cup and stare into Shazia’s annoyed brown eyes as the room fills with the loud whir of the machine while I ignore her question: If I only need to eat the pineapple for five days, why am I still torturing myself eleven days later?
Because if pineapple core contains bromelain which, supposedly, helps with implantation and a sticky embryo, then could stopping it make it… unstick?
Shazia smiles, kind and soft. If she sees my fear, she doesn’t say so. Instead, she looks me over and says, “You’re different this week.”
I feel different. More present, maybe. Hopeful, even though I keep trying to tone it down, because being hopeful in the face of twenty-nine months of failed cycles and negative pregnancy tests feels like a crime. But with that sliver of hope, I can’t help feeling more myself again.
Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I brush my fingertips over my bare collarbone, pushing my chest out. “How do my boobs look?”
Shazia rolls her eyes. “Is this real life? They look great, as always.”
“Obviously, but,”—I cup them through my tight ribbed top, pushing them up, feeling their weight—“do they look bigger? They feel bigger. Fuller, maybe, and my nipples are so sensitive I got horny from them rubbing against my bra yesterday. I told Emmett, so he pulled my bra down and lic—”
“Stop.” She holds up her hand, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t need the sordid details.” She cracks one eye, checking if it’s safe. I make a face, sticking my tongue out before reluctantly releasing my boobs. She sighs, and I rush out my next sentence in a single breath.
“HelickedandbitmynipplesfortwominutesandIcamesohard.”
“For fuck’s sake, Cara.”
Giggling, I sip at my smoothie while I recount all the signs that have been making themselves known these past few days.
A headache that won’t quit, and an early bedtime because I can’t make it to nine o’clock.
A dull ache in my lower back, and the urge to vomit every time I catch a whiff of Natasha’s cotton-candy body wash.
Though I suppose that could just be my general distaste for my rude-ass housekeeper.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach as I ruminate on the changes in my body, and I fail to bite back my smile. “I just… I feel really good, you know? I can’t explain it, and maybe it’s stupid of me to hope…”
Shazia covers my hand with hers, squeezing tenderly. “It’s not stupid to hope, Care.”
“It feels like it sometimes. Most times, actually.” The butterflies dip as grief swoops in, reminding me how easily it steals everything good.
“Twenty-eight failed cycles in a row will do that to a person,” I murmur on a defeated breath.
Suddenly, I feel ridiculous and embarrassed.
What right do I have to be hopeful? Am I actively seeking heartbreak?
“Hey.” Shazia taps my forehead with two fingers, bringing my eyes back to hers.
“Don’t do that. Don’t go down that road, where you tell yourself you aren’t allowed to have faith.
Miracles happen every day.” She smiles in that playful way I love.
“Just look at you. Nobody has ever been this beautiful, and yet here you stand. You’re a walking miracle. ”
My eyes roll, but the grief ebbs just enough, making space for those hopeful butterflies to take flight again if they find the energy. “What do you want? A raise? A trip to Vegas? I know you’ve had your eyes on my car, but you’ll have to wait for your birthday for that.”
Her mouth gapes. “Please tell me you’re not serious. You can’t give me a car for my birthday.”
“Nobody tells Cara Brodie what she can and can’t do.” I give her a pointed look, daring her to challenge me. She won’t; she knows better after all this time.
Shazia was incredibly reserved when I first hired her.
She wasn’t used to my (allegedly) vulgar language, and I could barely pull one-word answers out of her when I tried to get to know her.
All I knew was that she spoke Arabic, she moved here from Lebanon when she was twelve, had a cat named Najme, and loved anything doused in chocolate.
I’d known her all of two months when she nervously approached me one day and said that Ramadan would be starting the following week and she wanted me to know she’d be fasting, so she’d appreciate it if she could sit out any lunchtime meetings, and that she’d need a day off afterward to celebrate Eid.
I showed up to the office on the last day of Ramadan with a gift basket the size of her, filled with all kinds of chocolate-covered treats, a personalized bed and collar for Najme, a necklace with Shazia’s name in Arabic on it, and a donation to Islamic Relief Canada made in her name.
But it was when I opened my mouth and absolutely butchered my way through an Arabic rendition of Eid Mubarak, Shazia.
I am grateful for you that she lost her shit and fell into my arms, crying.
I haven’t been able to shut her up since then.
Now, she crosses her arms over her chest, pointing her nose to the ceiling. “You spoil me.”
“You like when I spoil you.” I glance at my phone, smiling. There are several messages in our group chat, The Tea Is Hot But Carter Is Scalding—one guess at who named it that.
The guys are at the children’s home today, and apparently Carter thought it was a brilliant idea to bring a 4,800-piece Lego kit of the Disney castle to complete as some sort of bonding and team-building exercise.
The picture of Carter on his hands and knees, grasping his devastated face, surrounded by thousands of pieces of Lego and at least ten kids, three of which are having a meltdown, says it was, in fact, not a brilliant idea.
I save the picture and update Carter’s contact photo.
“Adam will be here soon,” I tell Shazia, setting my phone down after checking the time.
She nods, threading her fingers through her hair, weaving the strands together until she has a long, thick braid running down her back.
She wraps it into a bun, fixing it at the nape of her neck, and starts putting her hijab back on while we go over the preliminary plans for the grand opening of Adam’s children’s camp in the spring.
When the man himself walks in ten minutes later, it’s with the other four boys lagging behind him.
“We were talking on the way over about fun stuff we could have at the grand opening, and—”
Carter slams his hands down on my desk, an excited, deranged look on his face. “Foam party.”
“No.”
“What?” He rips off his toque, tossing it to the floor. “But why?”
“Told you she’d never agree.” Garrett lays a hand on his chest, looking awfully confident for someone whose bad ideas only take second place to Carter’s. “That’s why I suggested a ball pit.”
“Okay, that could be fun.”
His eyes light. “Right? So, it’s a little bit Tarzan-style, but you have to climb up this tree, and then you swing from a rope into—”
“No.” I look to Jaxon. “Whatcha got, Casanova?”
“Okay, picture this.” He arcs his hands through the air. “Yoga with animals.”
Humming, I tilt my head to the side. “I like it.”
He grins. “With cats.”
“I hate it.”
He throws his arms in the air. “This is bullshit!”
Shazia watches with a wide grin as the boys dissolve into chaos. “Somebody really needs to give you guys a TV show.”
Carter points at her. “Thank you! I’ve been saying that for years!”
Shaking my head, I navigate back to my computer, typing in their ridiculous ideas and the better ones that my brain transforms them into.
Lunch arrives for everyone twenty minutes later, and I place my hand over my stomach when everyone opens their wraps, the overwhelming smell hitting my nose and making me queasy.
Shifting my bag away, I pull up Google, typing into the search bar as everyone eats and chats.
10 days post embryo transfer, smell of food makes me nauseous
Those tired butterflies stir, slowly taking flight in my stomach as my eyes pore over the search results.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, an exhilarated dance I can’t slow down.
A warm, heavy hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump in my seat, reaching for my mouse to close out the screen.