Chapter 10 Reproductive Health
REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH
*Samantha*
The next morning I woke up with my alarm, before the sun had managed to brighten or color the sky, and rolled out of bed.
The thick wool carpet beneath my feet felt plush and warm, making me wish I didn’t have to traverse the wood floor between Andreas’s room and my bathroom across the living room and down the hall. But I did.
Tara was probably already gone. Regardless, I decided to tiptoe to the bathroom.
Then I ran through a shower, brushed my teeth, and stood for a solid three minutes trying to decide what to do with my hair.
There was no reason to do anything with my hair.
And yet, my hair existed. Thus, the question remained.
Bun? Ponytail? Down? I split the difference and left it a damp mess around my shoulders. There, decision fatigue solved.
I used Andreas’s fancy espresso machine.
It felt more approachable than his pour-over contraption, and I sipped it standing at the kitchen counter, staring at the digital clock on the oven.
It was 5:18 AM East Coast time. In London, it would be just after ten in the morning.
He’d probably been up for hours, already destroying some unfortunate international grand master, or whatever it was they did during the early rounds of chess tournaments.
He hadn’t texted me yet, but that was normal; he always waited until after 7:00 AM my time.
The knowledge that every time I’d texted him so far, he’d sent a near-instant reply, felt oddly .
. . comforting. Like a safety net. Maybe that was why I felt nervous about calling him today.
Because I was about to cut that line, or at least threaten it, by telling him what I’d put off saying since Thursday.
I paced the apartment for twenty minutes, then padded back to the kitchen for a second shot of espresso.
I opened the fridge, looking for the oat milk, and was greeted by a single row of vegan yogurts, each container organized with military precision.
How did he even do that when he wasn’t here?
Had he called Tara and asked her to alphabetize the fridge?
Had he bribed the cleaning service? Did the food arrange itself when he left the room, like Toy Story but with probiotics?
Stop stalling and just call him!
I shut the fridge and drank the coffee black.
The bitterness helped focus my thoughts.
Grabbing my phone, I went to his bedroom, which I still couldn’t enter without a fluttery, dumb feeling in my chest. Shutting the door, I sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, and opened our message thread. I stared at the last text he’d sent.
Andreas: I need to go to sleep. Don’t want to be late tomorrow. Call me when you’re free.
I smiled despite myself, then forced my face back to neutral. I needed to focus. I needed to be honest. I texted,
Sam: Hey, can we talk later today? Not urgent, but I’d like to call you.
Less than sixty seconds later he responded,
Andreas: I can be free whenever you need me to be free.
That was so him. An immediate, all-in commitment to my whims.
Sam: How about now?
There was a brief lag—maybe a minute—then my phone rang, and there he was: ANDREAS KRISTIANSEN calling.
I let it ring twice, just to take a deep breath, then answered.
“Hello?” My voice sounded rough. I cleared it and tried again. “Hello.”
He was somewhere busy; the background was a low thrum of voices and the tinny sound of plates clattering. But his voice was calm and immediate. “Hi. Are you okay?”
I hated that this was the first thing he asked, but also, I loved it. No hello, no small talk, just a direct line to my internal status.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, swallowing. “I . . . I wanted to tell you something. Before I lose my nerve.”
He made a small hum, not impatient but maybe a little wary. “What happened?”
“Nothing bad,” I rushed to clarify. “It’s not bad. I—well, it’s something you should know. About Kaitlyn and Martin.”
The line was silent for a beat. “Yes?” he prompted, when I didn’t immediately continue.
“I told them,” I said, all in a rush. “About us. Before I agreed to anything with you, I needed to talk it over with someone, so I talked it over with them. Or, well, Kaitlyn, but Martin was in the next room and he eavesdropped, so he found out, too.”
There was another silence, but it was longer this time. It didn’t feel like an I’m-about-to-yell-at-you silence, but more like an I’m-recalibrating-my-assumptions silence.
I hurried on, “They haven’t told anyone, I promise. But I feel bad for not telling you sooner. It was bothering me. I wanted you to know. I trust them completely. But I should have told you before.”
I heard a sound like a door close, and then all the background noise suddenly stopped. His side was so quiet I wondered if the call had dropped.
I gripped my forehead. “Are you still there?”
“Let me see if I have this correct.” His tone was calm but struck me as precise. “They knew about our arrangement, even when I came for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, they did.” I gave into my urge to wince. “Are you mad?” I asked before I could chicken out.
His response was quick. “No. No, I am not at all mad.” He let out an audible breath, then added, “But why did you not tell me when we were there on Thursday?”
This, I had rehearsed. “Because it completely slipped my mind, honestly. And then you were there, and you started pretending—kissing my forehead, holding my hand—and that’s when I remembered—that I hadn’t told you—but I didn’t want to make you self-conscious about it, not when we were already there.
It’s been really bothering me since, that you still didn’t know.
I want us to be honest. That’s why I’m telling you now.
I didn’t want to wait any longer. I’m sorry. ”
He was quiet again, but—thankfully—this time the silence felt less loaded. “It is fine,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
I let out a breath. “You’re really not upset?”
“No. I am glad you have friends you trust. To be honest, I am somewhat glad I did not know on Thursday. Meeting your good friends, I was already very nervous. But being your fiancé gave me a good reason to be there. Otherwise, why would I deserve a place next to you?”
His tone sounded matter-of-fact, but something about the way he said it made my insides tighten. “What are you talking about? Kaitlyn is the best. She wanted you to come. You were invited. You don’t need to be my fake fiancé to have a place at the table. You’re my friend. That’s enough.”
He was very, very quiet. Then, softly, he said, “It is good to know you consider me a friend now.”
I blinked. “Of course we’re friends! Do you not want to be my friend?”
There was another pause and it struck me that Andreas had paused and considered his response for a significant period of time nine out of ten times so far on this call.
Whereas, I hadn’t paused and considered my responses at all.
Usually, I wasn’t this reckless. Only with Kaitlyn, who I trusted completely.
Eventually, he said, “Knowing one’s position on the board is imperative before making the next move.”
I snorted, and the tension that had been coiling in my gut all morning started to unwind. “Everything is chess with you.”
“It is what I know,” he said.
“I’m so glad you’re not mad. It’s important that we trust each other completely, right?
We’re in a very precarious situation. If I couldn’t trust you, I wouldn’t know what to do.
” My confession, and therefore vulnerability, settled around me with a hush.
I’d stopped short of admitting to Andreas that the level of trust I’d decided to place in him was monumental for me.
It felt scary, but also strangely good. I found myself smiling at my phone screen like an idiot.
Again, he said nothing for a while, and the silence didn’t feel awkward at all. It felt like the inside of a snow globe, muted by something gentle and invisible.
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” I asked again, because I needed to hear his assurance again. I’d really done a number on myself this morning, twisting my worries into a noose.
“No,” he said, his tone intoxicatingly gentle. “I am not mad at you, Samantha. Not even a little.”
But there was an odd edge in his voice this time, something almost sad.
Instinct demanded that I try to cheer him up. “Is everything okay there? Any challenging matches? You sent me cookies and tea from London, and all I can do is sit here in your apartment and eat them without you. I wish I could send you something in return.”
“All is well here, but . . .”
I gripped my phone tighter, waiting with anticipation. “What? What can I do?”
“You could send me more photos.”
I laughed. He must be joking. “Of what? You live here. You already know what New York looks like in winter.”
He cleared his throat. “You could send me photos of what you are doing. You do not have to, of course, but . . . I spend a lot of time at the tournament waiting. It can be boring.”
His voice was weirdly gruff, like he was embarrassed by the request. My stomach did a weird summersault at the reemergence of his bashfulness. “Then I’ll send you photos meant to entertain.”
“As long as you are in them.”
I tried to ignore the way his words made my chest tighten, and endeavored to dispel my body’s reactions with a joke. “I’ll dress up in a clown costume and have someone record me juggling petri dishes.”
He laughed, the sound low and lovely. “By the way, I meant to say, thank you for helping me pick out the suit. You know, I can also help with that kind of thing, if you want.”
“Helping me pick out clothes?” I asked, amused.
“Sure,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Is this your way of saying my wardrobe needs an upgrade?”
“I am saying, your style is very American.”
I cackled. “I’ll have you know, half the girls in my department consider my ten-year-old skinny jeans awesome cosplay.”