Chapter 2
Cassie
I know it’s not my fault.
I’ve gone to so, so, so much therapy to convince myself in every conceivable way that it’s not my fault.
And even when the guilt slithers sour around the bottom of my rib cage, I know I’d make the same decision again if circumstances were the same.
Halfway through college, in the middle of a messy fallout with my abusive mother and my shitty ex, was not the time to have a baby.
That poor embryo would have soaked up all my stress. Would have been born into a world of confusion and chaos and hurt. My separation from my mother was still fragile, and she absolutely would have used an infant to worm her way back into my life.
I couldn’t have busted my ass studying, graduated summa cum laude, dove into management consulting, and come out the other side with the stable job I have now. Running a team of marketers, taking good care of them, is deeply satisfying. They’re amazing people, and I can’t imagine not knowing them.
It feels impossible to even imagine a life where I missed out on all those experiences, all those relationships.
They’ve made me who I am now, and I can’t imagine giving my hypothetical child any less.
My child deserves the person I am now: mature, fulfilled, grounded.
They deserve to be received into this world with unadulterated joy, not the terror I would’ve felt when I was still a child myself.
I made the right decision.
The guilt still fucking sucks.
As does the test result printed on the piece of paper in my hand. I stare at it as I sit in a coffee shop across from my doctor’s office, absolutely hosing an iced coffee.
Pregnancy: Negative
I crumple up the paper and shove it into my purse. “So much for top-shelf sperm…”
The trappings made it seem so modern, so scientific, so perfect. The sleek modern lounge, the leather portfolio filled with photographs and statistics, the assurances of a thorough screening and selection process.
But at the end of the day, they got some guy’s jizz, froze it for a while, then squirted it into me.
And it didn’t fucking work.
I promised myself—and my bank account—that I had three shots. Three and only three.
This was the third one.
But maybe dances at the edge of my mind, and I shut it down. I know how I am. That’s a slippery slope liable to land me with an empty womb and an empty bank account.
I worked hard for this money. I worked hard for this life. And I worked hard to find a therapist I trust to tell me, let go, move on, it’s not meant to be.
Tears prickle in my eyes. I gulp down iced coffee until I get a brain freeze.
I’ll talk to my therapist. Soon.
Right now, I need my best friend.
I pick myself up and force my mind to the task at hand, wading through the late summer heat to hop on the train and head over to a more residential part of town.
Here, row homes snuggle up next to big, old trees whose roots turn the cobblestone sidewalk into an obstacle course.
I approach the familiar door and knock.
Rachel opens it a second later, her wavy brown hair thrown up in a messy bun that makes her look effortlessly beautiful.
She’s always returning the compliment, saying she’s jealous of my dark ringlet curls, olive complexion, and, as she puts it, ‘goddess-level curves.’ Lot of good these child-bearing hips have done me.
Concern furrows Rachel’s brow—it’s not like me to come over without at least texting. But I knew that forming the words would burst the dam, which is already crumbling to pieces.
My face twists up with tears as Rachel throws her arms around me.
I wail, “I’m a broken, stupid woman with a broken uterus, and it’s my own fault for getting an abortion.”
“Oh, honey,” Rachel soothes, pulling me inside as I sob. “You had the appointment today?”
I nod against her shoulder.
She gives me a tight squeeze, then gently-yet-firmly pushes me down onto her couch. It’s plush and green and covered with dog hair. The culprit—an adorable little terrier mix named Snickers—jumps into my lap and licks the tears from my face.
“Thanks, Snickers,” I sniffle, reaching for the tissues on the coffee table.
Rachel returns a moment later, uncorking a bottle of wine. She fills my glass nearly full, hands it to me, and snuggles next to me on the couch.
“I’m supposed to be a mom,” I sigh, “and you’re supposed to be an aunt, and it was all going to be perfect, but I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin everything.” She loops her arm around my shoulders and pulls me to her chest. “You’re not broken. That’s a load of bullshit. You’re an amazing woman and an amazing friend, and we’re going to get drunk and watch the stupidest reality TV, okay?”
“Okay,” I choke out, squeezing Rachel tight. I take a deep breath, and gratitude overwhelms me. How lucky am I to have a friend who doesn’t even bat an eye at letting me get snot all over her shirt? “I love you so much,” I get out, then I’m sobbing again.
A full box of tissues and half a bottle of wine later, I’ve stabilized.
“I hate being responsible,” I slur as we watch a couple make out on a gorgeous azure beach. “I could be out there… fucking anything with a pulse… but I’m a fucking square and I want my child to know their genetic medical history.”
“You’re a beautiful square,” Rachel says sincerely, having done her part to finish the other half of the bottle. “An amazing square, and you’re gonna have perfect square babies.”
“Ugh, why is IVF so expensive?” I throw myself back into the couch. “I can have a kid or a college fund for them, but not both. Isn’t that fun?!”
“Your fancy sperm bank was pretty expensive too,” Rachel adds. “Predatory. Squeezing money out of desperate women.”
My eyes water. “You think that I’m desperate?”
“No! Yes. But I love that about you! I love how bad you want this! I wish my mom had wanted me this badly.”
I sniffle and wipe my nose on my arm. “The other clinics were just… ugh, I didn’t trust them.
They could have anyone’s sperm. Did you hear about that doctor who shot his jizz into a bunch of women who thought they were getting donor sperm?
Disgusting. Sorry, kid, your dad is a sociopath. Hope you turn out okay.”
“Yeah, fuck that guy. Well, not literally. You know what I mean. Gross. There has to be someone else out there who isn’t gonna charge you some ridiculous amount of money but also doesn’t suck…” Rachel pulls out her phone.
“Don’t bother,” I sigh. “I’ve already pored over every website, called every clinic, reviewed every waitlist—”
“What about this?” She turns her phone towards me.
I squint to read past the alcohol’s effect. “Rachel, that says breeding program. That’s not for people.”
“Okay, then who wrote this glowing review?” Rachel scrolls down and shoves her phone at me again.
I take it from her wobbling hand and read carefully. “Honeysuckle Farm… for humans and exo-humans… a matching program… contraception optional… thorough vetting and consent…”
“Click that, click that!”
“Click what?”
“The button that says ‘See our studs’!”
“Uh, okay…” The screen is suddenly overtaken by a massive grey minotaur with thick, curved horns and soulful eyes.
His dense fur is thicker over his chest, but that does little to hide his rippling muscles.
He leans against a fence, looking vaguely shy, as if he doesn’t usually do this sort of thing.
Rachel leans into me, eyes glued to the screen. “If that’s his sheath, his dick has to be massive.”
“Are we even biologically compatible?”
Rachel laughs. “Only one way to find out!”
“Rachel!” I elbow her, but she giggles harder.
“Scroll, scroll, see if there’s a description!”
I flick the screen, but the image is taller than I thought—and there in the middle of my screen rests a pair of gigantic minotaur balls.
Rachel snorts.
“I can’t do this—” I go to exit the tab.
Rachel snatches her phone back. “No, no, c’mon!
You’ve gotta at least give him a shot. Okay, okay.
This says he’s their newest bull.” Rachel’s tone shifts as she reads aloud.
“Brutus is a big guy, but don’t let his size fool you.
He’s the sweetest bull you’ll ever meet.
Fond of ice cream and spreadsheets, this brain-and-brawn stud is the best of both worlds.
” She wiggles on her couch cushion. “Aw, that’s so cute! ”
“His dick has to be the size of my arm!”
Stars shine in Rachel’s eyes. “Bigger, probably. Ooooh!”
“I don’t like that look. Why are you giving me that look?” I clutch a throw pillow to my chest, as if it can defend me from Rachel’s schemes.
“You have to go.”
“What?!” I throw the pillow at her head. “No!”
“Why not?!”
“Because… because… what?!”
Rachel laughs. “C’mon! It’ll be fun!”
“No! I’m just… trying to get pregnant, not have sex.”
Rachel grabs my arms. “Cassie. Hun. Sweetie. Girl. I think that might be part of the problem. You need to loosen up! Have some fun! Meet some guys! Break some hearts!”
“But…”
“You are young and you are hot and I guarantee you can get some fresh jizz from a sweet guy who will tell you his whole medical history.”
“I don’t need some guy to get off—”
“When was the last time you used your vibrator? Hm?”
“Rachel!”
“Hm?”
My cheeks burn. I grumble, “It’s been a while…”
“See?! You need to get laid.”
“I’m not going to conceive—”
“Oh my god, Cassie, use a condom, I don’t care! Just get some good dick! You need it. Remember college? Remember how much fun we had?!”
Guilt twinges in my chest. “I remember how it ended.”
“Okay, don’t remember that part. Think of this as… a morale boost. To remind you how you can still be totally hot and totally responsible.”
I pout. “Are you sure about this place? What kind of place has a breeding program?”
“Oh, it’s totally legit. I read an article about them last year. They’re, like, super sex-positive. The founder is this adorable satyr, I forget her name, but she is so cute and—here, let me show you.”
Rachel pulls up a video of a petite sheep satyr with curly white-blonde hair and matching wool. She strides purposefully across a stage lit by a spotlight, ahead of a banner that reads TOD-X in bold red text.
I’m not entirely following because I’m pretty drunk, but I can tell how sincere she is.
She says something like how sex is about community and connection, but that doesn’t mean every encounter has to be part of a monogamous relationship to be meaningful.
Something about physical touch being sacred…
trust and compassion being the foundation… the importance of humor and play…
Mostly, she seems so friendly, like someone this sweet could only make good and wonderful things.
“She’s in charge of this breeding program?”
“Yeah.” Rachel nods eagerly. “See? Totally legit! The ‘breeding’ thing is just supposed to be, like, cute. Like she said. Isn’t that more fun than going to a clinic? I’d rather get railed than get a syringe of jizz squirted up my pussy…”
“Rachel!”
“What! That’s how you described it!”
I dissolve into semi-hysterical laughter. “I did say that… Oh, I feel crazy…”
“Crazy enough to fuck a minotaur?”
I snort and throw another pillow at her. “Yeah, crazy enough to fuck a minotaur.”