Chapter 23
The clear shower doors fog over with steam as I turn the water temperature to scalding. I tried to nap, wanting to escape the disappointment from my appointment this morning for a few hours, but sleep eluded me.
I snagged a eucalyptus-mint shower steamer from one of the PR boxes I received months ago. It was from a new wellness company that I never ended up partnering with. They still insisted on sending it as a gift, even after I told them I was slowing down on social media. Nothing is ever free, though. The guilt has been eating away at me. The company spent good money on the pretty box and they will not see any sort of return on their investment in me. This box, filled with full-sized product samples, has to be worth over two hundred dollars. But there’s nothing I can do for them. I can’t help their business succeed. I can’t get anything to work properly in my life right now.
Still, I’m enjoying my minty spa shower, promising myself that when I have the money to, I’ll purchase more bath and body products from the company. I couldn’t force their products into social media relevance, but at least they have a new dedicated customer for their kindness.
Lathering my loofah with body soap, I gently run the sponge over my shoulders, my arms, over my breasts, down my stomach. I try to be gentle and kind to my body in case spiritual energy is a real thing. All I’ve done over the past year is berate my body for failing me. It’s not kind. I haven’t given my body any credit for what it’s endured.
Perhaps a baby isn’t a possibility, but over the past year, I’ve endured some challenging things. IUI wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as IVF. However, the back-to-back disappointment, feeling like a failure because I couldn’t get the damn pee stick to read “positive,” was psychological warfare.
IVF has been psychological and physical warfare. I’m trying not to complain because at least this is an option. Even if it’s a slight chance, there’s still a chance. How many women don’t get to say that? So I’ve been trying to ignore the nausea, fatigue, the drastic lifestyle changes, and the mental stress of desperately trying to control something that is mostly out of my control.
But today was heartbreaking. Even Dr. Michel couldn’t hold his poker face together at my appointment. He was disappointed, too, and I found solace in that. I know he’s getting paid the big bucks to care, but it’s nice to know he understands my frustration. I’ve been a model patient for a year now. Shouldn’t I have my reward?
Once my skin is well past pruney and I’m lightheaded from the steam, I turn off the shower. I see my phone lit up with notifications as I pat my body dry with my fluffy oversized bath towel.
There are two texts from Adam spaced a half hour apart.
Adam
Don’t be alarmed. I’m in the kitchen. Used my key.
Babe, your skin is going to fall off if you stay in the shower any longer. Come out here. I brought a special dinner.
I sigh. Adam and food. I used to think Adam was food-obsessed, but now I realize it’s his love language. All his fondest young childhood memories involve his mother’s cooking. He keeps himself open to the world and new experiences through his adventurous tastebuds. Whenever he’s worried about me, happy with me, sated from sex, or trying to express any sort of affection, he feeds me. If in a year from now I’m twenty pounds heavier, it’s because Adam Montgomery really loves me.
I pat my hair dry and comb it through, then pull on a plain T-shirt and a pair of boy-short underwear. I don’t know what Adam’s plans are tonight, but it better not be leaving the apartment. It’s Friday anyway. I know typically Friday is going out night for most people, but not for me and my girls. Fridays are about staying in, swapping battle stories of our dreadfully long work weeks, or in Noa’s case toddler mom-drama, and basking in our sheer dumb luck that we had each other to face all the shitty life stuff.
Lately, I want to go home. I miss my friend-family and my mom. Enough time has passed, and I came to L.A. for something that’s clearly not meant to be mine. I’m ready to be Amani again.
“Hey you,” Adam says with a big grin on his face when I emerge from the bedroom. He’s dressed casually, which is a rare occurrence for Adam. I’ve only seen him in sweatpants and an athletic shirt like this when he helped me move into his condo all those months ago.
He points to the kitchen island where he’s put out a spread of Styrofoam takeout containers and there’s a pitcher of red liquid with floating fruit. He then points to the TV where he’s paused on Season One, Episode One of Sex and the City. “Welcome to girls’ night. I figured you’d be missing your friends tonight.”
My mouth falls open, and I’m momentarily speechless. All I can do is soak in the visual. I’ve never had a man work this hard for me in my life.
Crossing the living room, I barrel into his chest and wrap my arms around his waist. My damp hair makes wet, see-through spots on his white T-shirt, but he only holds me tighter. “Full transparency, the sangria is Ocean Spray Cran-Grape juice because I’m not sure if you’re supposed to be drinking right now.”
Goodness.Leave it to the IVF police to be a buzzkill.
“Adam,” I say, leaning back slightly and tilting my chin up so I’m looking into his eyes. “I’m not pregnant.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead. “I figured. I’m sorry, baby.”
“But I love you, too.”
He kisses my lips this time. “That’s good to know. Thank you,” he says with a little smirk.
I cackle. “Ah, you’re going to punish me now because I called your big declaration over the phone cheap?”
He hooks his finger under my chin. “Any other day, I’d give you crap, but not today. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”
“A little defeated. That was a lot to go through for yet another negative test,” I admit. He rubs his hands up and down my back.
“I know. You did great, though. You surprised me.”
“How so?”
“Here, let’s get you comfortable first.” Releasing me, Adam grabs my hand and guides me to the couch. He pulls the throw blanket from the back of the couch over me and tucks in the sides. I’m alone for barely a minute when he returns with a paper plate of samosas, two different dipping sauces, and one large cup of the wannabe Sangria. Setting the loot on the coffee table, he settles into the couch next to me.
“Only one cup?” I ask.
He raises one brow, a wicked little smile on his face. “I come in you all the time, but you’re scared to swap a little spit?”
I laugh as he holds out his arms, inviting me into his snuggle. I tuck my head into the little nook between his chest and shoulder. There’s a perfect little natural divot that cradles my head. Or maybe I made that divot, seeing as I’ve been cuddling like this with him for months.
Adam grabs a samosa, takes the sacrificial bite of extra crust, and then holds it out to me so the warm, curry-flavor potatoes and onions are right at my lips. I take a huge bite, grazing his fingers.
“Whoa, chompers,” he says. “I’d like to keep my fingers.”
I’m trying to keep my mouth closed to chew while chuckling. Once I swallow, I say, “Holy shit. These are better than our go-to place in Denver. Much better.”
Adam pops the rest of the Samosa in his mouth. “Like I said, food is better in L.A.”
“Pshh. Visit me in Denver, and I’ll introduce you to real microbreweries and pork green chile-smothered burritos. There will be no going back.”
I smile, but Adam’s face flattens. “Visit you?”
“Well…yeah… The plan was always for me to move back home. L.A. was always meant to be temporary. I just came out here to find myself.”
He trails his fingers up and down my legs, still buried under the throw blanket. “Did you find yourself?”
I nestle deeper into his embrace. “I think I came here to find out what I wanted. Instead, I figured out what I didn’t want. That’s still part of the process, right?”
“Definitely,” Adam replies. “But you can’t think of even one thing in L.A. you want?” He pumps his eyebrows at me playfully, but I know he’s asking a serious question.
I’m taking my time crafting my response in a way that won’t ruin this evening. But I must be quiet for too long because Adam jostles me in his arms. “Did I upset you?” he asks. “It wasn’t my intention.”
“No, not at all. It’s just… You have your life established here, but I see nothing in L.A. for me. It’s a daily reminder of everything I’m trying to leave behind. I’m sick of accumulating stuff, begging for attention, and living in fear of verbal lashings delivered by cowardly keyboard warriors. It’s not that I’m afraid, I’ve just outgrown it. I want to see things with my eyes, not through a lens. When something is beautiful, I don’t want my first reaction to be how I can create content from it. The world has enough content. Coming here, being in the midst of it all, showed me it was time for a drastic change. I probably should’ve left early in the summer, but you were the detour I never saw coming. I expected to like you, Adam, but I didn’t know I’d love you. Now, I don’t know what to do.”
“I understand,” he says, but his somber tone isn’t convincing.
“What about you? Would you consider coming to Denver with me?”
“Amani, I’m all my dad has. I can’t.”
I debate telling Adam that’s not necessarily true. Mr. Montgomery has Holly, Alex, and Carson. He has a wonderful support system at Piermont. Not to mention, Adam easily has the financial means to fly back and forth as he pleases. But if he’s using his dad as an excuse right now, it means he’s not ready. That, I understand, and I won’t push.
“True. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“Okay,” Adam says. His face is still frozen with worry. “So what’s next with IVF?”
Leaning forward, I grab the juice off the table and take a tiny sip of the tart beverage. It’s sweet and refreshing. Better than real Sangria, actually. “Dr. Michel thinks we should take a full cycle off before trying again. Statistically, a brief break increases your chances and I only have one more embryo. So one more round in December, and then that’s that.”
“And if you get pregnant, you’ll stay here? So I can help you?” he asks.
I blow out a deep breath. “I hate how that sounds, but yes.”
If I get pregnant, judging by how difficult IVF has been on my body, I will probably need Adam. As supportive and loving as my friends are, they have their own stories that need attention. Adam’s really the only one who can be in this with me.
“And if you don’t get pregnant?” he asks. I say nothing. I just hang my head. Adam rubs my shoulders, then squeezes. “Hey, babe, forget it. I’m here to cheer you up tonight, okay? Let’s table this conversation until we have to have it. You’re mine at least until December, summer girl.”
Summer girl. I know it’s just a nickname, but it feels like an accusation. We’re approaching winter, but in California, the whole damn year feels like summer. Was this always our destiny? We fall in love and then rip each other’s hearts out when we go our separate ways?
Is this how all summer love ends?