4. Sloane
Sloane
God, I am exhausted. The weekend has been non-stop chaos, and now I have a full week at work. Thankfully I’m the boss, therefore I can give myself a little grace this fine Monday morning, but still. I have clients to see and schedules to make.
My once-solo company is now ten strong. I couldn’t be prouder of my team and of myself.
We are now the highest-recommended sports physio company in Colorado for the fifth year in a row.
We have a client list as long as my arm and have ties to nearly every major sports league in the state.
I could expand, but I’m happy as is so far. Maybe in the future.
The future. Those two words fill me with guilt, even more so after this weekend. I’ve been keeping something from Eden that I’m honestly scared to share. I can’t be the reason our beautiful life blows up again, and that’s a real possibility if I voice certain feelings I’ve been having.
It all started when Meena was born. Something cracked in me the second I saw her little face, all scrunched up, looking like the world was already pissing her off.
A warm ball of maternal need started to heat my chest, but I pushed it aside, figuring it was just a natural reaction to something so cute.
But then Arin came along three years ago, and that warm ball started getting hotter. Eden has never outright said she doesn’t want children, but it’s been heavily implied over the years. How can I tell her that having a baby with her is all I can think about at the moment?
Sometimes I talk myself down by pointing out the obvious, like the fact that I hardly have time to use the bathroom most days, so how could I raise a child when I have no time for anything? Or that I can barely keep the plants alive in the office, let alone an actual human.
But then I remember the way Eden is with Meena and Arin—so gentle and silly, zero self-consciousness—and my heart does this little gymnastic routine I can’t control. I want to have a baby with her so badly that it makes my teeth ache.
Except, Eden’s not into it. Or at least that’s what I think, but I don’t know for sure because I haven’t asked, and I haven’t asked because I am a coward.
I can ace a conference call with a dozen Olympic trainers, but cannot, for the life of me, broach the subject of a tiny human with the love of my life.
I stare at my computer screen. My inbox is a digital battlefield. Ninety-seven unread emails, and at least six are marked “URGENT” in all caps, which is code for “not urgent, I just want you to feel my anxiety through your monitor.”
I click through, responding to the easy ones, delegating what I can, and then spend a good thirty seconds just staring at a blank Word document.
If I concentrate, I can almost hear the faint click of the office clock and, beyond that, the sound of my own biological clock, ticking so loud it might shatter glass.
A notification pops up on the bottom of my screen.
Weekly Team Meet-Up, 9:30 a.m. That’s now.
I finish the dregs of my coffee and head out to the conference area, where my entire staff is already gathered, some sitting on yoga balls, others cross-legged on the carpet, all in various states of caffeination.
“Morning, everyone,” I say, and am met with a ragtag chorus of “hey, boss,” and “sup, Sloane,” and, from the intern, a nervous “good morning, Dr. Bishop.” I suppress a laugh.
I have to say, it feels pretty great being called Doctor. Eden convinced me to go back to college, and after a mini-anxiety attack and several emergency therapy appointments with Dr. Chen, I agreed. I finished my doctorate last year.
“You don’t have to call me doctor. Sloane is fine.”
The intern, whose name is Harper but whom I’ve mentally dubbed Kid Panic due to the way her eyes always look like she’s seconds from a jump scare, nods with force.
I might advise her to take up meditation or something.
I see myself in her panic-ridden face, and I know where that can lead if not dealt with.
I do my standard check in. Ask if there are any issues with clients, any scheduling conflicts, anyone needing coverage—but my mind is elsewhere.
I keep circling back to this idea of the future, of expansion, both business and otherwise.
I imagine a parallel universe where Eden and I have a baby and I bring it to these meetings, swaddled and snoozing, and everyone treats it like the team mascot.
Eden would be fiercely protective, but also teach it to rebel at meetings, so it would grow up with the same irreverence that makes me love her.
The meeting wraps and I finalize a few last things before heading out to lunch. I’m halfway to the parking lot when my phone rings. It’s Eden. My thumb hovers for a second before I answer.
“Hey, babe,” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Hey, yourself,” Eden replies. She sounds breathless, which means she’s probably walking somewhere fast. “Did I interrupt world domination?”
I smile because she’s ridiculous. “Just putting out some fires. What’s up?”
There’s a pause. “Wondered if you wanted a pizza party with Meena and me tonight? Pia’s taking Arin over to my parents. I think she needs a mum right now.”
I smile so hard my face hurts. “I am so down. Dress code?”
“Comfies. Anything soft and squishy…and Meena eating tomato-based-food-proof, but I’m not sure that garment exists yet.”
“Noted.” I chuckle.
There’s another pause, heavier this time. “You good, babe?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You sound weird,” Eden says.
I debate in that moment whether to just come out with it. But I chicken out and change the subject, something about a crazy client with a torn rotator cuff and a phobia of touching doorknobs.
When we hang up, I sit in my car and let my head fall back against the seat.
Maybe I’ll never say it out loud, maybe I’ll never get the guts, but the wanting is there, and it’s real.
It doesn’t feel like a phase, or a fleeting reaction to cute babies.
It feels like a new part of me, one I’m scared to show but can’t ignore.
I start the engine, feeling a little less exhausted.
I decide to swing by Becca and Bella’s before heading home.
First to let them know about Pia and Todd.
I’ve been given permission to share it with them.
I don’t think Pia can face telling everyone in person.
Second, because I need to spill the beans about my baby fever to someone.
Both cars are in the drive when I pull up. Bella and Becca’s house is a gorgeous three-bedroom with a pool and a pretty decent view of the mountains. They have a dog called Pork and a cat called Squish. Classic Bella right there.
Pork goes nuts as soon as I knock on the door. There’s no need to wait for either of them to answer; it’s just a courtesy to announce I will be entering their house and they have five seconds to stop humping.
I learned my lesson years ago to never walk straight into their house.
“Hey!” I call.
“In here,” Becca calls from the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread makes my mouth water.
I follow the smell of carbs and find Becca elbow-deep in dough, flour painting her cheeks. Bella’s already at the table, feet up, sipping lemon seltzer and scrolling on her phone. Both look up as I enter, and Becca wipes her hands on her apron before giving me a bear hug.
“You look like shit, Sloane,” she says, and I realize I didn’t even brush my hair before driving over.
“Thanks,” I scoff, flopping into a chair. “Is it that obvious?”
Bella arches a brow. “You have the posture of a gremlin who lost her cave.”
“Long weekend,” I reply. “And then this morning my intern nearly passed out during a team meeting, so, y’know, morale is at an all-time high.”
Becca moves around the island, plopping a bowl of rising dough next to my elbow and setting a coffee down in front of me. “We heard. Pia’s staying at your place, huh?”
“Yeah.” I glance at the window, squinting at a crow picking at the compost bin. “She’s not okay, but she’s safe.”
Bella sets her phone down, all business now. “What happened? She just texted ‘there’s drama and I’m at Eden’s for the foreseeable.’”
I give them the blow-by-blow, the way Todd sat there silent while Pia’s parents planned to ship Arin off to India like he’s a box of last year’s returns. The financial threats, the fight, the aftermath.
Becca shakes her head. “I never liked her parents,” she says. “Bunch of entitled pricks.”
“Same,” Bella adds, “but Todd going along with it? That’s new.”
I nod. “I think he’s scared. Or just too used to being told what to do.” I rub my eyes. “It’s all so fucking messy. Pia’s a mess. Meena’s confused but acting like it’s fine. Arin’s fine because he’s three and hasn’t realized anything yet.”
Becca looks at me with her head cocked to the side. “You’re not just here for the gossip, are you, S?”
I huff because even though I came over here to talk to them, I don’t like how easily Becca reads me. “Maybe eighty percent for the gossip. But I also need to tell you something, and I need you to not laugh.”
Bella’s already smiling, which is not encouraging. “Promise,” she says, holding out her pinky finger. We hook and shake.
I look at Becca, then back to Bella, and take a deep, stupid breath.
“I want a baby.”
There’s a silence, not awkward but definitive, as if the house itself heard me and needs a moment to recalibrate. Pork, sensing a seismic event, wanders in and puts his head on my knee. I stroke his ears using them as a therapy tool to calm myself down.
Becca’s eyes go soft, and she grins. “Oh, Sloane! That’s amazing!”
“It’s not, though,” I interrupt before she goes into celebratory mode and busts out the wine.
“Because Eden…I don’t think she wants kids.
Not really. She likes being the fun aunt.
I think she’s happy as we are, and if I bring this up, I’m scared she’ll see it as me putting an expiration date on us.
” I say it in a rush, like vomiting words will make them less stupid.
Bella leans forward, face serious now. “How do you know she doesn’t want kids?”
I blink. “She’s never said she did. And every time we’re around someone else’s baby, she makes a joke or changes the subject. I don’t need a focus group study here—my wife has zero baby fever.”
“Did you ever talk to her about it?” Becca asks, folding her arms. “Like, as adults?”
I stare at the countertop, tracing a line in spilled flour. “No.”
“Then do,” she states like it’s obvious, which it is. “Eden’s the most direct person I know. She tells you when she’s mad. She tells you when she’s happy. She’ll tell you if she wants a baby or not.”
Becca’s right, but that doesn’t mean it’s as easy as she thinks.
“But what if she doesn’t?” I blurt. “What if I can’t get rid of the want, and it just sits in me and makes me…sad? What if she gets mad that I waited so long to say anything?”
Bella smiles, weirdly gentle. “What if she’s just as scared as you are, and she’s waiting for you to say something?”
I sip the coffee. It’s too hot, so I burn my tongue, which is fair penance for being a coward.
Becca presses her hand over mine, warm and floury. “You should tell her, Sloane. If you don’t, it’ll eat you up.”
I nod, but my stomach feels hollow. “It’s just…Eden and I are so good right now. I don’t want to break it.”
Bella grins. “You won’t. Your whole thing is fixing broken shit—if there’s a problem, you’ll work it out.”
I snort. “That’s not how feelings work, Bella.”
But they both just look at me, and I know they’re right. I finish my coffee, accept a slice of fresh bread, and promise to let them know how it goes. By the time I leave I’m more determined and also, somehow, more nervous.
Eden’s parked on the couch when I get home, Meena nestled beside her under a crocheted blanket, both utterly transfixed by a baking competition on Netflix.
Meena’s trophy is propped up on the coffee table, and there are exactly four empty juice boxes on the carpet.
Eden’s hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s traded her usual black for a tie-dye hoodie that I’m pretty sure she stole from my side of the closet.
She looks up as I enter, eyes warm and soft.
“Hey, Doc,” she says, patting the spot beside her. “Meena and I are deciding whether the lemon tart or the chocolate soufflé is going to win. I say lemon. Meena says chocolate. Cast your vote.”
Meena turns solemn. “If you pick the wrong one, you have to eat a raw lemon slice.”
“High stakes.” I laugh, settling in and nudging her with my knee. “I’m with Eden. Lemon all the way.”
Meena grins and fist-bumps me, then snuggles deeper into the blanket. I let myself relax, just for a minute. The house smells like pizza and cinnamon, warmth and family. Eden’s arm finds its way around my shoulders, and I lean into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart.
“How was work?” she murmurs, lips brushing my ear.
“Fine,” I say, “though the team nearly staged a mutiny over the new scheduling software.”
She laughs. “Told you they’d hate it.”
We watch TV for a bit, and then Meena decides it’s time to eat. She’s got this weird thing about eating pizza cold, which is why the box is sitting on the kitchen table unopened.
We watch her bounce over and rip the lid off, grinning at the cheese like a maniac. I love that kid. As Meena grabs plates and starts dishing up, Eden turns to me, eyebrow raised. “Okay, spit it out, Bishop.”
I’m totally saved by Meena shouting, “Shoot, I dropped my pizza.”
Eden eyes me but doesn’t say anything as she leaps from the couch to aid her little bestie.
I need to talk to her; I really do. Oh god.