10. TRUTH #3
Fourteen possibilities.
I nodded slowly.
“The embryologist will fertilize them tonight,” the nurse continued. “Dr. Beaumont will call you in a few days with an update on how many fertilized and how they’re developing. For now, you just need to rest.”
“Okay.”
She adjusted the IV and checked my blood pressure one more time.
“I’ll be back in about twenty minutes to see if you’re ready to go home. Do you have someone here to pick you up?”
I hesitated.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “I do.”
She smiled again. “Good. Just rest for now.”
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And I was alone.
The machines beeped.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
The ache in my abdomen pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
And suddenly—without warning—I started crying.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet tears sliding down my temples into my hair.
I wasn’t sad.
I wasn’t scared.
I was just?—
Overwhelmed.
By the weight of what had just happened.
By the reality of it.
Fourteen eggs.
Fourteen pieces of me that weren’t mine anymore.
That would become something I’d carry for nine months and then hand over to a man I barely knew.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
Took a shaky breath.
Told myself to get it together.
This was what I’d signed up for.
This was the deal.
But the tears kept coming anyway.
I don’t know how long I lay there.
Maybe five minutes.
Maybe ten.
But eventually, I heard the door open again.
I turned my head, expecting the nurse.
But it wasn’t the nurse.
It was Amai.
He stood in the doorway. His tie was loosened slightly. His hands were in his pockets.
And his eyes?—
His eyes were on me.
Not cold.
Not detached.
Just… there.
Seeing me.
I tried to sit up.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Stay down.”
I stayed down.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
The smell of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy—cut through the sterile hospital air.
He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat.
We didn’t speak for a long moment.
He just looked at me.
And I looked back.
“How are you feeling?” he asked finally.
I laughed.
It came out wet and broken.
“Like I just sold fourteen pieces of myself.”
His jaw tightened.
“You didn’t sell anything.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re giving me something I can’t get any other way. That’s not selling. That’s?—”
He stopped.
Looked away.
“That’s what?” I pressed.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just sat there, his hands folded in his lap, his shoulders tense.
“That’s more than I deserve,” he said finally.
I stared at him.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He looked at me again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” I gestured vaguely at the room. “Why are you here? You didn’t have to come. The contract doesn’t say you have to sit in waiting rooms or show up in recovery rooms or?—”
“Because it’s my responsibility,” he said.
His voice was steady.
But his eyes?—
His eyes said something else.
“Your responsibility,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
He held my gaze.
“That’s it.”
But I didn’t believe him.
Because I’d seen the way he’d looked at me in the hallway before the procedure.
The way he’d nodded when I walked past.
The way he was looking at me now—like he’d been worried.
Like he cared.
And he wasn’t supposed to care.
But nothing about the way he was sitting in this chair felt clinical.
“They got fourteen,” I said quietly.
“I know. The nurse told me.”
“That’s good, right?”
“That’s excellent.”
I nodded.
Looked down at my hands.
The IV line tugged slightly when I moved.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now they fertilize them. In a few days, Dr. Beaumont will call with an update. We’ll know how many embryos we have. And then…” He paused. “Then we wait.”
“For what?”
“For them to develop. For the transfer.”
I nodded again.
The ache in my abdomen pulsed.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“A little. It’s not bad.”
“You need anything?”
“No. I’m okay.”
Silence.
The machines beeped.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
And Amai sat there.
Just sat there.
Not checking his phone.
Not looking at the door.
Just… there.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said finally.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
And then he said, very quietly, “Because I want to.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Didn’t know how to respond.
So, I just nodded.
And he stayed.
We sat there in that sterile recovery room—him in the chair, me on the bed, the IV dripping slowly into my arm—and neither of us said anything.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Full of things we couldn’t name yet.
Things the contract didn’t account for.
Things that were already changing everything.
The nurse came back twenty minutes later and cleared me to leave.
My vitals were stable, the cramping was manageable, and Dr. Beaumont had already left instructions for follow-up care.
I signed the discharge papers with a hand that still felt disconnected from my body, like I was watching someone else move through the motions.
Amai stood when I did, his presence solid and grounding in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“I’ll bring the car around,” he said.
I nodded, still groggy, still processing the fact that fourteen eggs had been pulled from my body while I was unconscious and now existed somewhere in this building without me.
By the time I made it to the clinic entrance—moving slow, one hand pressed against my lower abdomen—Amai was already there, driver’s side door open, waiting.
I stopped on the curb.
“Where’s your driver?” I asked.
“Sent him home.”
“Why?”
He looked at me like the answer should be obvious. “Because I’m taking you.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do that, that I could manage, that this wasn’t part of the contract. But my body was heavy and my mind was fogged, and the cramping made it hard to think past the next breath.
So, I just nodded and let him open the passenger door for me.
The leather seat was cool against my legs. I sank into it, grateful for something solid beneath me, and closed my eyes as Amai shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
The engine purred to life.
We pulled out of the clinic parking lot, the city unfolding around us in late afternoon light. The streetcar rattled past on the neutral ground. Tourists with cameras. Locals on bikes. The rhythm of New Orleans moving like it always did—unbothered, unhurried, alive.
I watched it all through the window, my reflection ghosting over the buildings and trees.
“You need anything?” Amai asked.
His voice was quiet. Careful.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
A beat of silence.
Then, “You keep saying that.”
I turned my head to look at him. He was watching the road, hands steady on the wheel, jaw tight.
“Because it’s true,” I said.
“Is it?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
I looked back out the window. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
I almost laughed. “I just had fourteen eggs pulled out of my body while I was knocked out. I’m cramping. I’m tired. And I don’t know what happens next. But I signed up for this, so yeah—I’m fine.”
Amai didn’t respond right away. Just drove, the city sliding past us in shades of green and gold and fading sunlight.
Then he said, “I know things been weird.”
My stomach tightened.
“I didn’t ghost you,” he continued, his voice measured, like he’d been thinking about this for a while. “I’m trying to keep this professional. For both our sakes.”
I didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“I don’t want this to get messy,” he said. “Or for you to get confused about what this is when it’s over. Once you give birth, it’s my baby. Not yours. Not ours.”
The words hit exactly where they were supposed to.
I swallowed hard. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I know what I signed up for. I know what this is.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
Then I heard myself say, “I was scared I messed something up.”
Amai glanced at me. “What?”
“When you didn’t text back.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “After the injection site thing. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. Scared you off. Ruined this before it even started.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Just kept driving, his hands flexing slightly on the wheel.
Then he pulled over.
We were on a side street in Treme—narrow, tree-lined, the kind of block where people sat on their porches and knew each other’s business. He put the car in park and turned to face me fully.
“You didn’t mess anything up,” he said.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. His eyes were dark and serious, and something in them made my chest ache.
“And even if you had,” he continued, “that’s not on you. This process is hard. You’re allowed to be scared.”
My eyes burned. I blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling over.
“I can’t afford to be scared,” I said quietly. “I need this to work.”
“So do I.”
The admission hung in the air between us—raw and honest and more vulnerable than anything either of us had said before.
We sat there on that side street in Treme, the engine idling, the afternoon light filtering through the oak trees overhead, and for the first time since I signed that contract, I felt like maybe we were in this together.
Not as employer and employee.
Not as man with money and woman who needed it.
Just… together.
Amai put the car back in drive and pulled onto the street. We didn’t talk the rest of the way to Mama’s house. But the silence was different now.
When we turned onto my block, I saw Mama on the porch in her usual chair, a glass of something amber in her hand, watching the street like she’d been waiting.
Amai pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.
Mama’s eyes tracked him as he got out, walked around the front of the car, and opened my door.
I moved slowly, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other pressed to my abdomen where the cramping still pulsed dull and insistent. Amai offered his hand, and I took it, letting him help me out onto the sidewalk.
“You back again, huh?” Mama called from the porch.
Amai looked up at her, his expression respectful but unbothered. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mama took a sip of her drink, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought surrogates just put up the money and show up when it’s time to take the baby.”
“Normally they do,” Amai said evenly. “But Truth deserves more than normal. So, that’s what she’s getting.” He paused, his gaze steady on Mama. “And after this, she won’t want for anything.”
Mama studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, slow and deliberate, like she’d just made a decision about him she wasn’t ready to share yet.
Amai turned to me. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then he got back in the car, closed the door, and drove away.
I stood on the sidewalk watching the taillights disappear around the corner, my body heavy and aching and somehow lighter than it had been all day.
“You okay, baby?” Mama asked.
I turned and walked slowly up the porch steps. “Yeah, Mama. Just tired.”
She nodded, her eyes still tracking the empty street where Amai’s car had been. “Mm-hmm.”
We went inside.
And stopped.
Because all three of my sisters were there.
Saroya was in the kitchen pulling something out of the oven. Honor was on the couch folding a blanket. And Raven—mean-ass Raven—was setting up pillows on the armchair like she was preparing a throne.
They all turned when I walked in.
“There she is,” Saroya said, smiling. “Come sit down, Truth. We got you.”
“Y’all didn’t have to?—”
“Sit,” Honor said, pointing to the armchair. “Don’t argue.”
I sat.
Raven immediately shoved a pillow behind my back and another under my feet. Saroya brought me a glass of water and a plate of food I didn’t ask for but suddenly wanted desperately. Honor draped a blanket over my legs even though it wasn’t cold.
“How you feeling?” Saroya asked, sitting on the arm of the chair.
“Tired. Sore. But okay.”
“They get the eggs?” Honor asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Damn,” Raven said, sitting on the couch. “That’s a lot.”
“That’s good,” Saroya corrected. “That’s real good, Truth.”
I nodded, my throat suddenly tight.
Because they were here.
All of them.
Waiting for me. Taking care of me. Loving me in the loud, chaotic, overbearing way only sisters could.
And I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until right now.
The tears came before I could stop them—quiet at first, then harder, my shoulders shaking as everything I’d been holding in all day finally broke loose.
“Oh, baby,” Saroya said softly, rubbing my back.
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I’m just?—”
“You don’t gotta explain,” Honor said. “Just let it out.”
So, I did.
I cried in that armchair surrounded by my sisters while Mama watched from the kitchen doorway with her drink in her hand and something soft in her eyes.
And then Raven, because she couldn’t help herself, said, “That man fine as fuck, though, for real for real. You did good picking him.”
I laughed through the tears. Saroya laughed. Honor shook her head but smiled.
And just like that, the weight lifted.
Not gone.
Just… lighter.
Because I wasn’t alone.
I had them.
And for now, that was enough.