Chapter 15
IT GETS EVEN WORSE
SIMONE
It’s fully dark by the time I let myself into Liam’s house.
He gave me a key weeks ago, casual as a tip left on a diner table.
I touch it to my chin first—dumb, nervous habit—then slot it into the lock, shivering as the tumblers roll under my fingers.
The deadbolt’s so smooth it feels greased.
The door opens with a hush, not even a click, like the house is expecting me.
Inside, the world is a different density.
The furnace hums somewhere beneath the floor, all else is silent.
There’s a single lamp burning in the living room, casting amber over the books and the clean lines of the couch.
It’s a good silence, almost, if I let myself believe in it. If I ignore what I came here to do.
He’s on campus tonight—office hours, then evening lecture.
I triple-checked the schedule. I have two hours, maybe less, before his headlights rake the windows and his voice fills this space again.
My heart is running fast and high, a feeling I used to crave but tonight only makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I take off my shoes, leave them by the door like a kid at a sleepover, and pad across the wood floors in thick winter socks. My hands are shaking; I can feel it in the way my phone wobbles as I check the time, in the way I have to brace myself against the kitchen island to steady my breath.
The house is cleaner than I’ve ever seen it.
There’s a bowl of oranges on the table, knife block neatly squared to the wall, not a single crumb or ring on the black granite.
It’s so neat it feels like a dare. I run a fingertip over the countertop, half-expecting to find it sticky, but there’s nothing—just the chill of the stone, the faint chemical scent of lemon cleaner.
For a second, I consider stopping. Pretend this is just a normal night, pop a La Croix and binge Netflix until he gets home, let him fuck me on the kitchen table until I forget the weight in my gut.
But I can’t. Not after what I saw in his office last week, the flash of a letterhead in his bottom drawer, the unmistakable blue-and-gold logo of the donor egg agency.
I walk the hallway with the caution of a thief, even though no one’s home to catch me. The office door is closed, as always, and when I turn the handle there’s a soft metallic groan, like it’s not used to being opened by anyone but him.
The air inside is different: drier, dustier, edged with the sharp scent of ink and old paper.
There are three framed diplomas on the wall, all the same dark walnut, all perfectly level.
His desk is a slab of some ancient wood, covered in a scatter of notepads, a stapler, a green glass paperweight that looks like it could break a skull.
The bookshelf is so tightly packed I half-expect the volumes to scream when I pull one out.
But I’m not here for books.
The letterhead is gone from the desktop, but I know him too well.
The desk drawers are locked, but the file cabinet isn’t.
I pull open the top drawer, braced for anything.
There’s nothing on top but manila folders, neat as ribs.
I start at the front, pulse thrumming so hard I almost miss the names—“CryoOptions,” “Surrogate Packet,” “Legal-Retain (Goldman),” “Semen Analysis.”
My heart falls.
I literally feel nauseous as bile rises in my throat.
But I force myself to go on.
My hands are so cold I have to rub them against my thighs to keep moving. I go folder by folder, trying not to shake too much. Each packet is thicker than the last, and I try to ignore the color printouts of smiling, heavily pregnant women, the margins filled with Liam’s precise, pointed notes.
He’s highlighted the word “gestational carrier” in at least three brochures.
There’s a sheet comparing the costs: $42,000 to $78,000 per child, depending on the agency, not including “donor egg premium.” There are spreadsheets—so many spreadsheets—breaking down dates and blood types and what looks like dozens of donor profiles, each tagged with a sticky note in a shade I didn’t know existed.
My stomach flips when I find the next folder: “Simone – Health History.”
It’s labeled in his handwriting, which is cleaner than mine, almost pretty.
I open it with the care I usually reserve for rare library books.
Inside: a printout of my university medical records (how did he get those?), a summary of the last three years’ worth of prescriptions, and a Post-It stuck to the top that says “re: fibroids – candidate for GC only? Confirm w/ Dr. Norris.”
For a second, the world goes thin around the edges.
I’m seeing everything in double exposure: the office in front of me and the hospital corridor from when I was thirteen, cold tile under my feet and a nurse with big hands drawing blood from my arm.
My hands start shaking so hard I almost drop the file, but I force them still, flattening the pages with my palm.
He’s underlined every mention of “unlikely to conceive” and “reduced uterine function.” There are cross-references to other folders, numbers circled in red.
There’s even a page titled “Future Prospects,” with bullet points underneath.
The first is “marry young, consider gestational carrier early.” The second is just “find willing candidate?”
My name is in the margin, twice. The second time, it’s in all caps.
I read and reread, mind sprinting ahead of my body. This is more than curiosity. Liam’s been researching surrogacy for months, maybe years. Obviously since before he even met me.
I search deeper, until the bottom drawer sticks. I tug harder. There’s a thick envelope inside, sealed, addressed in his hand: “Simone.” I hesitate, but the urge to see is bigger than the urge to leave.
Inside: a draft contract. The first line reads, “This agreement confirms the intentions of the parties, Liam Thomas (hereafter ‘Father’) and Simone McCall (hereafter ‘Gestational Carrier’).” The language is clinical, but the words burn.
I flip to the signature page. There’s a blank line for my name, a second one for his.
Below that, there’s a sticky note, barely attached: “Could we just do it naturally? Would that be so bad?”
My head is ringing. I put the papers back the way I found them, but the draft contract is still in my hand, trembling. I sit in his chair, breathing shallow. I look at my phone, at the time, at the nothing new in my notifications. I try to think, but the air feels thin, the walls pressing in.
He never once asked if I wanted this.
He never once mentioned that every word of our relationship, every fuck, every breakfast and inside joke, might have been building toward this.
I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead, I hold the contract to my chest, pressing it so hard it creases, and close my eyes, waiting for the sound of his car in the driveway, the next shoe dropping, the future I didn’t even know I’d signed up for.
I lose track of time in that chair. The heat in the office goes from too much to not enough.
My phone’s battery crawls to single digits.
I keep thinking he’ll text, but nothing comes.
The house is so quiet I start to believe I’ve made the whole thing up, that he’s not real, or I’m not, or the contract I found is just a prop in someone else’s fucked-up dream.
But then I hear the soft rumble of the garage door, the catch and release of the lock, the familiar way he flicks the entry light on and off even though he knows exactly where everything is. I sit up, my whole body prickling.
There’s a second of silence as he closes the door and tows his bag into the kitchen.
He sets it down with a thunk, then stands for a minute, listening to the furnace hum.
I hear the whir of the fridge, the metallic clink of a glass pulled from the shelf.
He doesn’t call my name. I don’t even think he knows I’m here.
When he comes down the hall, the sound of his footsteps makes the hair stand up on my arms. The door swings open and he sees me, lit by the desk lamp and the blue-white screen of my phone.
His face shifts—first surprise, then a flicker of something like embarrassment, then nothing.
Just a blank, professor-face, the one he uses when a student asks him something personal in front of the whole seminar.
He glances from me to the desk, to the stack of folders, to the contract in my lap.
We look at each other for a long time. I want to scream or cry, but all I can do is stare, waiting for him to say something human.
Instead, he says, “You shouldn’t be in here.”
His voice is neutral, soft, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. I stand up, contract clenched in my fist so tight it makes the paper curl. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not, even though that’s not what I came to say at all.
He doesn’t move. He just looks at me, then at the contract, and sighs. “You went through my things.”
I want to throw the contract at him, force him to take it, but I can’t let go. “You left it in a folder with my name on it.”
He doesn’t answer. The silence grows bigger, heavier, until I can feel it pressing on my ribs.
I say, “You were going to ask me to be your surrogate? Or you were just hoping I’d find this and offer?” My voice cracks, and I hate it.
He blinks, slow. “I was just exploring options,” he says, as if we’re discussing a home equity line of credit. “You know it’s not possible for you, with the fibroids.”
I feel my insides snap. “You’re missing the point,” I say. “You never told me you were doing this. You never even asked if I wanted—”
He cuts me off. “Why would I ask? It’s not like you can help. I’m just being realistic, Simone.”
My vision blurs. I swallow so hard it hurts. “You lied to me. Or you hid it. Is there even a difference?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
I want to laugh, but nothing about this is funny. “Why does it have to be now?” I ask, desperate for something I can understand. “Why not just—wait?”
He folds his arms, leans against the doorjamb. “Because I’ve already wasted a lot of time what with my ex-wife and my fucking around. Because this is what I want.”
My hands shake so bad I set the contract on the desk, then snatch it up again. “You told me you didn’t care about having a family,” I say, voice high and weirdly flat.
He snorts, a sharp exhale. “I said that, but I should have been more specific. I should have said I didn’t care about having one with you. I can still have a family.”
The words wear through my heart, the pain so immense that my brain can’t compute.
I feel everything and nothing, all at once. I stare at the contract, at the blank signature line.
He says, “You have to admit, it wouldn’t work. Not long-term. Your health—my plans—”
“My health?” I spit. “You mean my broken fucking uterus? Yet you have a contract here, with me as a surrogate!”
He shrugs.
“I did some research on fibroids. It’s still possible to carry a child, so long as you get the fibroids taken care of.”
“But I hate the hospital!” I whisper-scream. “I told you about my dad’s death!”
He says nothing.
“You could have told me,” I whisper, hating how small I sound.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says, and there’s the barest tremor in his voice, almost enough to make me doubt my own anger. “You seemed so happy. I didn’t want to ruin that.”
I want to ask if anything about us was real, but I already know the answer.
He pushes off the door, walks to the window, draws the blind as if the neighbors might be watching. “This isn’t personal, Simone,” he says, voice clipped. “It’s just what I need to do. It has nothing to do with you.”
I stare at the contract. “You want me to just—what? Stay here and pretend it’s normal?”
He shakes his head. “No. I want you to be honest. You’re smart. You always knew this couldn’t last.”
I feel my heart thudding, the blood in my ears louder than his voice. “You’re such a coward,” I say. “You’re hiding behind contracts and folders and whatever the fuck this is—” I slap the contract on the desk, so hard it almost rips—“instead of just saying what you want.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands at the window, hands in his pockets, like he’s waiting for the scene to end.
I look around, at the neatness of the room, at the way my name sits on every page, as if I’m a variable in an equation he’s already solved. I feel so stupid for thinking I ever meant more than that.
He turns. “You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he says. “Nobody’s the villain here. Except for maybe your fibroids.”
I laugh, and it comes out raw. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
I gather up the contract, gather the folders, press them to my chest. I want to say something cutting, something final, but all the words are used up.
I push past him, my shoulder hitting his chest. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t even flinch.
In the hallway, I pause. For a second, I think I’ll turn around, throw the contract at his head, scream until the windows shatter. But I don’t. I just walk out, the winter air outside biting at my skin, the furnace hum following me down the steps, the smell of lemon cleaner stuck in my lungs.
I walk to my car, the night so cold it burns. I sit in the driver’s seat, papers shaking in my hands, and for the first time in years I don’t know where to go.
There’s a message from Andie on my phone. I don’t read it.
I sit there a long time, watching the darkness pool in the corners of the street, the houses buttoned tight against the cold. I look at my name on the contract, the neat print of his handwriting.
I picture the future he planned—the neatness of it, the absence of mess—and I wonder if he’ll ever find anyone to sign.
I hope he never does.
I start the car, and as the engine ticks to life, I let myself cry, just once, hard and hot and ugly, until the windshield blurs and the world on the other side goes out of focus.
Then I put the car in gear, and drive, and drive, and drive.