Chapter 17
I’ve been in Dr. Michel’s exam room so many times before, in this same thin paper robe, perched on this exam table with my feet dangling the same way. But today is different. I’m not alone.
“What are you staring at?” I glance at Adam, who is staring at a poster containing the steps of IVF.
“There are so many parts of the vagina I didn’t know existed,” he mumbles.
I snort to myself. “That’s okay, buddy. You know where the important parts are.”
“First of all, thank you for that.” He tears his gaze away from the poster and winks at me. “But I didn’t realize IVF involved so many needles. I don’t like the idea of them poking you so much. Look,” he says, pointing over his shoulder to step two, which involves the first round of hormone injections.
“You think that’s bad? Look at the needle in step six. That’s how they get the eggs out.”
Adam’s jaw drops as he gawks in horror. “I thought that was a really long arrow pointing to the egg. That’s a fucking needle they are going to stick through your lady business?”
“Did you just say ‘lady business?’”
“That’s torture, Amani. I can’t let you go through that.”
I stifle my giggle because I don’t want to ruin this. I’m kind of enjoying being fussed over like this. Since summer started, Adam has advanced from my summer guy to something more. He sleeps over every night, and for the past few weeks, it’s been nothing but laughing, sex, cuddles, and eating at all of Adam’s favorite restaurants. I even caved and let him buy me a bed and some other basic furniture. He said it was more for the health of his back than anything. But I know that’s bullshit. He’s told me several times that he prefers a very firm mattress, whereas I like a fluffy, soft mattress. The bed he had delivered felt as soft as a cotton ball.
This would be so much easier if we found each other in a year. I probably would’ve put the baby thing to rest. Adam’s and my relationship could be far more straightforward. We don’t really talk about what happens when I move back to Denver. Adam can’t leave his dad. I’m eager to get back to my mom and friends. This baby I’m trying to conceive may or may not change everything. Basically, I’m trying not to think too much about the future.
“Hey, I wanted to tell you something before we start all of this,” I say, rubbing my fingers against my thigh.
Adam swivels on the doctor’s stool he’s borrowing as we wait. “What’s up, summer girl?” Our situation may have changed, but the nickname stuck.
“I’ve been thinking that I’m going to shift careers, so to speak.”
“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing in question.
“I want this baby to have a mom who is in the best possible mindset. I’ve been looking for opportunities outside of being an influencer. Specifically web design and graphic design. It’s more along the lines of what I studied in school, but I have to take some refresher courses.”
Adam holds up his finger and rotates his wrist, gesturing to the room. “Amani, I’m doing this for you regardless of what job you have. You know that, right?”
“It’ll be a huge pay cut.”
“Remember our contract? You and this baby will never be hungry or homeless. I promise you that.”
“That’s why I’m telling you this. I’m not quitting the influencer stuff because I think I can rely on your wallet. I thought long and hard about this, and I see where I’m struggling and it’s time to make changes instead of staying stuck. So I won’t be raising my kid on steak and lobster, but he’ll have a happier mom.”
“He?” Adam asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. In my mind, it’ll be a boy.”
“Funny, I was picturing a girl.” Adam scoots toward me on the rolling stool and places his hands on my knees. “Remember a month ago when you asked if I’d ever scrolled the comments of a viral video? Well, I finally did it.”
“What video?” I ask.
“It was a baby with the most infectious laughter. He was lying on his back on the bed with balloon strings tied loosely around his wrists and ankles.” Adam waves his hands around in the air to demonstrate. “Every time he’d move, the balloons would fly around and he loved it. The mom was lying right next to him as the dad filmed. Everything was safe. I just kept thinking how clever that was for baby entertainment, so I was going to send it to you…but then I scrolled the comments.”
I roll my eyes as I inhale and exhale deeply. “Let me guess. There were trolls calling the baby ugly, Karens blaming the parents for child torture and endangerment. More trolls accusing the parents of being attention-seeking and using their baby as social media bait for views. Probably some more commenters griping about their bedroom decor.” I raise my eyebrows. “How am I doing here?”
“Right on the money. You basically got it all, except the long tangent about Taylor Swift and if she would treat her nonexistent baby that way.”
“Ah, yes,” I say with a chuckle. “That’s the golden rule about social media. In one way, shape or form, all viral videos will somehow lead to conversations about Taylor Swift.”
Adam laughs. “Poor woman. But my point is, I get it. And it’s not like I take those people seriously, but it’s a lot of aggressive opinions. If you’re constantly in the middle of that, I don’t know how you hear yourself think.”
“I haven’t been able to hear myself think for a while.” I place my hands on his cheeks. “But I’m getting there.”
“I’m proud of you, Amani. And as for your refresher classes, I’m happy to—”
I place my finger against his lips, silencing him. “Don’t you dare even think about offering to pay for classes.”
“It’s a baby expense,” he insists.
Adam does this often. All of my meals and groceries, my Netflix subscription, even my pedicures are somehow all “baby expenses” that he insists on covering as per our agreement. I used to think he pitied me, always throwing his money around, but then I realized it’s how Adam proves his commitment to our whole arrangement. He must feel guilty he isn’t offering his own sperm, so he tries to overcompensate in every other way possible. I wish he understood he doesn’t have to. He’s already done more for me than any sane man would.
A sturdy knock on the door interrupts us.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say in a hurry before Dr. Michel enters the room. His salt-and-pepper hair is looking more salt than usual. Apparently, we’ve both had long summers.
“Ms. Rhodes, it’s so good to see you back. You look wonderful and healthy.”
I pat my stomach and gesture toward Adam, who is scrambling out of the doctor’s stool. “I put on a few. He makes me eat.”
Dr. Michel approaches Adam with his hand outstretched. “Ah, so you must be…?”
Adam shakes his hand. “Adam Montgomery. It’s nice to meet you.”
“So you went with a non-anonymous donor?” he asks me.
“Um, no, I’m using the same donor that I did with IUI. Adam is my, uh…” How do I explain this? I don’t want to be the first one to call him my boyfriend, especially not in front of Dr. Michel. “My emergency contact?”
Adam shoots me a narrow-eyed glance. “I’m her boyfriend,” he says firmly.
“But not the donor,” Dr. Michel seems to both ask and say.
“I’m funding this whole thing,” Adam explains, but when Dr. Michel still looks confused, he elaborates. “To clarify, if this was the Super Bowl, I’m not on the field playing…I’m just sponsoring the game. Consider me Bud Light.”
“Oh my God, Adam,” I murmur as I bury my face in my hands. But Dr. Michel is laughing, appreciating Adam’s humor.
“Okay, well, I’m assuming I’m fine to speak freely in front of Mr. Montgomery about your medical history?” Dr. Michel asks.
“Yes, go for it.”
“Okay, so let’s talk about the next steps. I’d like to get you on medication to increase your estrogen now. And then in about two weeks, we’ll start with ovarian stimulation. I’ll need you to come in daily so we can monitor the maturation of the eggs. My goal is to procure and extract at least twenty eggs—”
“Whoa,” Adam squawks with both palms in the air. “We just want one baby.” He looks at me and widens his eyes. “Right? You were thinking one baby, right?” He looks back at Dr. Michel and asks, “How many eggs does she need for one baby?”
“Adam, calm down,” I scold, my voice firm as I widen my eyes at him.
“Mr. Montgomery, Amani has been my patient for over half a year now. We discovered in past attempts at IUI that her egg viability is low. I want to extract at least twenty eggs, maybe more, in hopes that we end up with four or five viable embryos. I’m going to be honest. Our chances are still relatively low.”
“We can keep trying as long as necessary. My bank account can handle it. Whatever she needs, we’ll do.” Adam gives me a small half-smile.
“It’s not finances I’m most concerned about. Amani is reaching the tail end of her ability to produce viable eggs. We’ll see what we’re working with, but I think donor eggs would give you guys a much better chance.”
A page comes through Dr. Michel’s radio, and he quickly silences it. But it beeps again. Pressing the red button, he says in a hurry, “I’m with a patient.”
“It’s an emergency, Dr. Michel. We only need a moment,” a woman’s voice through the walkie-talkie says.
“Sorry. My nurse,” he explains. “Why don’t I give you two a moment to discuss and I’ll be right back.”
As soon as the door is closed, Adam clasps his hands around his head. “They were going to put twenty babies in there, hoping one would stick? That’s madness. What if you got lucky and carried like half of them to term?”
“Eggs, Adam. Not embryos.”
“The difference?”
I hang my head, rubbing my bare feet together, focusing on my big toe with the chipped purple polish. “I have the same chances as a forty-year-old woman for conception. The doctor thinks it’s POI. He wants to collect that many eggs because he knows most of them won’t work. You’re spending a lot of money on a very slim chance. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before.”
“Hey,” Adam says. “Come on now, I don’t care about that. I’ll pay for fifty rounds of IVF if I need to.”
I peer at him, twisting my lips. “Okay, seriously, how rich are you?”
He shrugs, not answering my question. “What about the donor egg thing being a better chance for you? What does that mean?”
With my head still ducked, I look up, meeting his eyes. “It means the baby would most definitely not get my freckles.”
“Ah.” He nods in understanding. We’re quiet for some time, listening to the low hum of the air conditioning and the low, muffled voices of the patient in the room next door. Adam finally breaks the silence and says, “The best stories are the long shots. The ones where there’s barely a slight chance and yet by some miracle it always works out.”
“You think I’m in one of those stories?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I feel like I am,” he says. “Never in my life did I think I’d be with a woman again in an exam room like this, but here we are. You apparently have a magic touch.”
“Well, let’s hope my uterus is magic, too.”
He chuckles, then his face grows serious. “Baby or not, promise me you’ll take those classes.”
“Huh?”
Adam grabs both of my hands, wedging himself between my knees, causing my robe to shift. “The design classes. Promise me that the whole thing about you trying to get unstuck doesn’t live and die with having a baby. Amani, you deserve to have a life that makes you happy.”
“Summer guy, you have all the right words, you know that?”
“Part of my job description. I am epic at pep talks. My material is mostly for auditions, but I can tweak a few lines to make them fit anything.” Adam winks at me.
“Cute,” I reply, my voice laced with affection as I scrunch my nose at him.
Dr. Michel knocks on the door again before reentering and taking a seat back on his stool. “I’m sorry about that. So, Ms. Rhodes, please make sure you’re continuing with prenatal vitamins, and I put in that prescription for your new medication. Two pills a day, one morning, one evening, until they are gone, and then I’ll see you back here in about two weeks.”
“Perfect. I’m heading home next week for my best friend’s son’s fifth birthday party. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Dr. Michel glances at Adam with an awkward smile. “And we’re feeling more comfortable with the extraction goals?”
Adam nods. “Amani explained it to me. But actually, I have a question. If we only have one shot at this, how much would it cost to double down? Why stop at twenty eggs? Let’s shoot for forty. That’d give us a better chance, right?”
“Adam, stop,” I hiss.
“What? It’s math.”
“I am not a chicken coop.”
Dr. Michel chuckles, and I’m not sure if he realizes Adam is being dead serious. “We are going to be aggressive about the follicle stimulation, so we will get as many eggs as we can. But I warn you, the treatment can have side effects—namely severe nausea, mood swings, fatigue.” Dr. Michel removes the pen tucked behind his ear and points at me, then at Adam. “I’m very glad you’re not doing this alone, Ms. Rhodes. Sometimes a solid support system is the magic ingredient for success.”
Dr. Michel’s radio buzzes again, and he grumbles as he rises. “I’ll see you in a few weeks. Oh, and I should mention, intercourse is completely fine until embryo transfer and then it’ll be strict pelvic rest.” He raises his thick eyebrows in warning before he exits the room, leaving me alone with Adam and the stupid, cheesy grin on his face.
“Are you smiling like that because he said we can still have sex? Or because he called you the magic ingredient.”
Adam kisses my forehead. “Yes.”