Chapter 8 Procreation
PROCREATION
*Samantha*
Sunlight filtered in through the heavy blackout curtains. It took me a minute to realize where I was.
This is not my room.
No, this was Andreas’s room—the main bedroom—because of course. After only one day with Tara as my night watchman, I’d already failed at Operation Sleep in My Own Bed.
Though I had sorta agreed to sleep in the main bedroom when Andreas and I had discussed it yesterday morning, I’d started the night in my own room last night, hoping against hope that I would stay put.
Stifling a groan, I reached for my phone, which was perched on the marble-topped nightstand, and thumbed it to life.
The notification bar was a record of my weakness.
Six unread messages: three from Kaitlyn with photos of a happy baby Joey; two from Dmitry asking me when I planned to be at work on Monday; one from Andreas.
I stiffened, bracing myself before clicking to open his message.
Andreas: How did you sleep
No punctuation. No emoji. No appurtenance that might give me any insight or clue as to his intended inflection or thoughts. Typical.
I lay there, staring at the message, debating how best to respond and how much to admit. This indecision lasted maybe a full minute, then restlessness took over and my fingers began to type.
Before I answered, though, my brain—ever the helpful parasite—replayed the events of the previous twelve hours.
After Thanksgiving at Kaitlyn and Martin’s, Tara picked me up at exactly 8:01 PM, walked me to the car with the discretion of an off-duty Secret Service agent, and drove me to Andreas’s apartment.
No questions, no conversation. I’d been thankful for her silence since I’d still been trying to process Andreas’s sneak-attack kisses.
At the apartment, Tara made sure the perimeter was secure, then explained that Andreas had arranged for her to sleep over every night for the next two weeks.
“This way, if you sleepwalk again, I can help redirect you,” she said, her voice a warm blend of casual and commando.
She even offered to walk me through some basic jiujitsu moves before bed, should I wish to “relax” before hitting the hay.
I laughed at the time. But now, as I rolled over and found the empty, perfectly made side of Andreas’s bed, I realized that somewhere in the night, despite my best efforts, I’d migrated like a very determined barnacle from my own mattress to his.
The only possible explanation was that my subconscious preferred this bed. Yep. That’s the only explanation.
I disputed the pros and cons of a lie. I could just say, Slept great, thanks! and leave it at that. Or I could admit the truth, which was that I had once again invaded his personal space.
I decided to keep it vague.
Sam: I slept very well
There. A statement that was not a lie.
My phone buzzed, his reply instant, like he’d been waiting for me.
Andreas: Where did you sleep
I frowned at the screen. Was this a trick question?
Had Tara reported back to him with a full incident report?
Did Andreas know already and he was just baiting me into an admission?
Was there a security camera I hadn’t noticed?
Nah. He wouldn’t place cameras around without telling me.
That would make him a super creeper, and nothing about him broadcasts creeper.
Technically, I fell asleep in my own bed. Also technically, I woke up in his. Not that I had any memory of the transition.
My fingers hovered. I tried to assemble my response and make it sound as non-sus as possible. Once again, I settled on not a lie.
Sam: I fell asleep in my own bed
Which was, for the record, true.
I watched my phone, waiting for his response. Five seconds passed, then ten. Then, finally, it appeared.
Andreas: Where did you wake up
I made a noise—a sort of compressed laugh-scream—and flopped back against the pillow, phone resting on my chest. The embarrassment was total. Apparently, technical truths had no effect on Andreas.
Reluctantly, but with feeling and while gritting my teeth, I replied.
Sam: In your bed
I punctuated the confession with a self-owning emoji that looked like the monkey covering its eyes. And then, just for good measure, a pile of poop.
The three dots appeared as he typed. Then they disappeared. Then appeared again. Eventually, I gave up waiting for a reply and rolled out of bed.
The apartment was as silent as a cryogenic freezer.
The only sign of life was the faint click of the smart thermostat adjusting the ambient temperature to “optimal living conditions.” I padded down the hallway, careful not to disturb Tara, who was supposedly sleeping in the guest room.
I had no idea what time it was—my phone said 6:04, but the light outside the windows was the kind that only happened on winter Fridays, when the sun doesn’t so much rise as it does negotiate with the clouds.
I peeked into the guest room, just to be sure.
The door was open a crack and Tara was sprawled on top of the covers, one arm above her head, mouth slightly open.
She looked peaceful, which was weird considering she could probably kill a man with her pinky.
Deciding not to risk waking her, I crept down the hall to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The water pressure was water-pressuring, which is how I liked it.
As I soaped myself, I replayed every glance, every micro-interaction with Andreas since this whole thing began.
The more I tried to categorize what we were, the less I understood it.
We’d gone from mostly strangers to co-conspirators, to maybe friends, to .
. . whatever this was. I didn’t have the right vocabulary for it.
I wondered if he did, since he seemed to know every single language.
After I finished showering, I dried off and headed back to my room, determined to at least get dressed before I had to interact with humans. I pulled on a soft T-shirt and jeans and my phone buzzed as I was twisting my hair into a bun.
Andreas: We should schedule date nights. We’ll look more like an engaged couple if we go on dates.
I sat down hard on the edge of my bed and spent several minutes staring at the message. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, not knowing what to type. The air felt electric, and for a minute, I just sat there, feeling my heartbeat echo in my chest.
After a long pause, I responded.
Sam: Okay
I stared at the word, then hit send before I could overthink it.
* * *
If you pumped all the world’s agitation into a single floor of a university building, you’d get my department on the Monday after Thanksgiving.
The halls smelled like burnt coffee and sadness, and every colleague I passed looked like they’d only barely survived their own family dinner.
Some had the thousand-yard stare of people who’d spent the break explaining, for the fourteenth consecutive year, that no, they weren’t going to be a “real doctor” but were in fact a “PhD,” which was “different” but “still a doctor, Uncle Bob.” Others had the hollow eyes of those who’d failed to meet a single writing deadline, or, worse, had met the writing deadline and now awaited the bloody aftermath of reviewer comments.
I, on the other hand, sat at my desk grinning like an idiot at my phone because I was, in fact, engaged. Not in the classic sense, but in the “I am currently engaged reading the plethora of texts my fake fiancé keeps sending me” sense.
Andreas had left for London Thursday night, but he texted me every day.
Multiple times a day, in fact. He sent good-morning messages every morning.
He sent me photos of London. He sent me photos of him around London.
He asked me how I was, what I was doing, he asked my opinion about scarves, ties, gloves, jackets.
He’d gone shopping on Saturday and I’d participated via text message.
At one point, someone took his photo while he modeled a suit and he’d asked me what I thought.
I couldn’t text him back what I really thought—which was that, though he looked mighty sexy, I suspected he’d look even better out of it—so I responded with two thumbs up.
Today, before I was awake, he texted me a photo of a pigeon eating a croissant off a chessboard in some park.
The accompanying text had been “She’s my main competitor here. ”
I’d snort-laughed.
It was exactly the right kind of dry humor and passive-aggressive adorableness that I’d always wanted in a pen pal, only this pen pal was in fact my fake fiancé. Who I missed, which was deeply concerning, but here we were.
I glanced around the office, making sure nobody was peering over my shoulder, and scrolled through our thread.
It was almost exclusively photos and text plus a few emojis from me when I was at a loss for words.
He’d only sent one emoji. It had been in response to a picture I’d sent of me after Tara’s kickboxing class on Saturday at her gym, grinning while wearing a sports bra and black leggings, beet red and sweating like a pig.
The emoji he’d sent in response was of a queen chess piece. I’d spent well past midnight trying to decipher its meaning. Did this imply that I was a queen? Or powerful? Or . . . what was he saying?
Tara was, as it turned out, the perfect roommate.
She got up early, made magical protein shakes, and coaxed me into self-defense practice every night before bed.
When I’d attended her Saturday night kickboxing class, she gave me a “Hell yeah!” and within ten minutes had taught me how to break someone’s nose using the heel of my palm.
“Just in case Henrik shows up again,” she said, not at all joking.
I knew she wasn’t joking because, after I got the movement right, she’d added, “I can’t wait.
The crunch of a nose breaking is incredibly satisfying. ”
Then, she’d winked.
I’d gotten used to having her in the apartment.
More than that, I liked it. There was a particular comfort in knowing someone slept nearby whose main professional skills were violence and discretion.
I also liked that, despite being a total badass, Tara had no shame in binge-watching British reality shows and giving running commentary on everyone’s wardrobe choices.
Also, I’d given up sleeping in my own room after waking up in Andreas’s on Friday morning. Truly, I’d surrendered to sleeping in his bed every night. And let me tell you, I’d been sleeping like a wee little baby. Never better. Snug as a bug in a rug. Legit.
Thus, it was with a weird mix of well-rested contentment and adrenaline that I started my Monday, sipping the last of my sad office coffee, reading Andreas’s latest message (“My tournament started today. I am free to talk after noon your time if you want a call”), and prepping for the day ahead.
I was mid-response to Andreas when Dmitry’s pale, stubbled face appeared over the cubicle divider, a can of some indie-brewed coffee in his hand, complete with a sad little red bow on top.
“My dear future Dr. Jarlston,” he intoned, voice like a melancholy cello, “I know you already have a JD, but I’m talking about your future PhD, my friend. How can I thank you enough for all your amazing help last week? You rewrote my methods section and now it isn’t shamefully inadequate.”
He held the can aloft like a tiny Olympic torch. “Please accept this can of gourmet coffee as a humble token of my gratitude. It is all I can afford.”
I accepted the coffee. “Thank you, Dmitry. ’Twas nothing.”
“In that case, may I have it back?” he deadpanned, hand over his heart. “I was late this morning and haven’t had coffee yet.”
I hugged the can to my chest. “Buzz off, ingrate. It’s mine now.”
Dmitry shrugged, unoffended, then peered at my hand, which still donned the diamond ring. “Wait. What’s this? Are you engaged?”
“Oh, uh . . .” I glanced at my hand. “Well. Yes.” Setting the coffee can to the side, I slipped the ring off and put it on the chain around my neck, tucking it under my shirt as I spoke. “I forgot to take it off this morning in the locker room.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s it? You’re not going to give me any more details? Who is the guy? Or girl? Or non-binary human?”
Caught, I stared at Dmitry, wondering how much to say.
It was one thing dragging my friends into this farce.
I didn’t like it, not at all, but I understood why it was necessary in order to enact revenge and sell this smoke screen Andreas and I had created.
I hoped that they would understand my motivations once everything was settled.
But this was work. Dmitry was my colleague. I would never expect a work colleague—or ask a work colleague—to give me the benefit of doubt.
Dmitry seemed about to press for more details when Dr. Nieminen materialized in the doorway of my cubicle, his ever-flawless hair and jawline radiating influencer energy.
“Sam! You’re back.” His voice boomed across the whole aisle. “How was the holiday? Do anything fun?”
Instead of pointing out that I wasn’t back because I’d been in the office and lab every day last week except Thanksgiving, I said, “Nothing of note.” Lord help me, but I still didn’t want to have a sharing kind of relationship with Dr. Nieminen.
Something deep inside me still didn’t trust the guy.
“Did you receive my email with all the cross-checked citations? I sent it to the group.”
“Yes! Thank you for doing that so quickly.” Dr. Nieminen pulled out his phone to show me the calendar. “We’re on track with the poster. Are we still on for our Friday evening meeting? I have it on my schedule. Does that time work for you still? No plans?”
I nodded. “That time works.”
Dr. Nieminen grinned wider. “Awesome. Awesome. I have to run to a meeting, but let me know if you need anything, okay?”
He left as abruptly as he’d appeared, leaving behind a cloud of expensive cologne. Dmitry, perhaps sensing that I truly had no plans to return his can of coffee, tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “I need caffeine. Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head. “Thank you, no.”
He waggled his eyebrows and left.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to bask in the normalcy of it all. Office banter. Group projects. The comfort of old routines. I could almost forget that I was now a pawn in a multigenerational revenge plot.
You’re not a pawn. You’re a bishop, at least.
And then my desk phone rang.
“Sam here,” I answered.
The voice on the other end was monotone but polite. “Ms. Jarlston, this is building security. We have a VIP visitor for you at the main entrance.”
My heart stuttered. “Did they give a name?”
“Let me check.” The line went quiet for a moment, then the security guy returned and said, “Tobias Kristiansen.”