Page 8 of First Comes Forever

“Look, Amani, I think you have the wrong impression of me.”

But does she? Thisismy life. Anything pertaining to Chase is my job, my problem, or my privilege…and yeah, it involves a lot of parties, a lot of schmoozing, and very temporary relationships with women.

She turns the silver handle and steps halfway through the door before she says over her shoulder, “I’ll DM you if my life changes. How about that?” After flashing me a quick smile laced with mischief, she closes the door softly behind her, leaving the scene smooth-as-fuck. James Bond couldn’t have pulled off a better exit.

I let out a low whistle. I’m standing alone in the bathroom, head still spinning after an encounter with the infamous Amani Rhodes.

Dateless…but feeling even more intrigued at this point. I breathe in her lingering perfume one more time before it dissipates.

Honeysuckle.Dammit.That’s it, isn’t it?

Same perfume. Definitely Honeysuckle by Rainelle.

The irony. Of course the first woman I’ve offered to take on a date in years wears the same perfume as my ex-wife.

two

It’s unclear why I need to be dressed in a heinous, paper-thin hospital robe simply to pee in a cup, but lo and behold, here we are. Today’s doctor’s appointment is a little more exciting than usual.

Wait, that’s an understatement.

A lot more exciting.

It took seven rounds of artificial insemination, but my sheer determination and stubbornness finally overcame. One of those little swimmers finally stuck, goddammit, and in eight-ish more months—I think, I’m still not clear on pregnancy math—I’m going to have a baby.

I almost told my best friend Noa while she was in town for her fake boyfriend’s birthday party. Her new Hollywood hunk must be wildly distracting because she didn’t even notice I was sipping Sprite and Ginger Ale all week in lieu of my usual boozy choices. I swear, squeeze a lime in any drink and people automatically assume it’s a cocktail.Noa only once questioned my sudden nausea, but it was easy to blame that on an oncoming migraine. I felt a little guilty when she immediately brewed me a cup of my favorite passion fruit tea, sat my butt on the couch with a blanket, and started making preemptive cold presses for my forehead. She’s been my best friend since before I could spellfriend. She knows the drill by now. I’ve had these migraines forever, my mother too…

Oh damn.I trill my fingers over my stomach.I’m sorry, lil peanut.Apparently, chronic migraines are usually genetic, and in that aspect, I sincerely hope my baby takes after its dad…or donor more accurately.

That’s going to be a hard one to explain one day.

Donor 00429310 has a graduate degree, a higher than average IQ, is over six feet tall, has jet-black hair and light-colored eyes. The profile wouldn’t even indicate the specific color of his eyes—just light. And to be honest, I don’t care. I could’ve paid an extra four hundred dollars to see a composite illustration based off of his facial features and his biological father’s, but a caricature is not going to absolve the fact that one day, I’ll have to explain to my kid why I decided to do this alone.

And you’re not really alone, lil peanut.You have a grandmother who will smother you to death with snuggles if I don’t run interference and four amazing aunties who will love you like their own. I’m sure of it. I just have to finally tell them what’s going on. Actually, I have to explain a lot of things to them: first, why the sky seemingly turned gray overnight and I ran off to California to be alone, andthenwhy I decided to tell no one that I’m going to have a baby by myself.

The rapid chime of notifications echoes off the walls of the exam room and summons me to my phone. I hop off the exam table and shuffle awkwardly to my purse sitting on a nearby chair as if I’m not alone in this room and someone could see my ass hanging out of this robe that refuses to close.

Checking the caller ID, I don’t recognize the number…but it’s local.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hello, I’m Anne Raston, with Ottman Psychology Partners. I’m looking for Ms. Amani Rhodes.”

“Um, yes, that’s me.” I pull the phone from my ear and can’t help but notice the hundreds of notifications. One of my reels must have some traction…which is good.God, I hope it’s for Sylvester Swim.They’ve paid me a small fortune, and I have yet to help them break even on their investment in me. They are good swimsuits…severely overpriced, sure…but bottom line is I need some users to get a little click happy because I’m starting to feel guilty—

“So does two o’clock next Tuesday work?” Anne’s voice rings through the phone and I realize I’ve completely tuned out from our conversation. This keeps happening to me…losing moments of time whenever I’m near a screen.

“I’m sorry, wait. What is this for and who is this again?”

“I’m Anne Raston,” she says politely, even though I’m forcing her to repeat herself and just owned up to ignoring her. This woman has more patience than I deserve. “I’m a counselor with Ottman Psychology Partners. You filled out an inquiry form at the end of February, wanting to get on the waitlist. I have a spot available for you.”

“Oh.” I vaguely remember months ago, during a tear-induced, insomnia-ridden night, googling a couple of local counselors and filling out some online forms. “I’m actually okay now. You can give the spot to someone else on the waitlist.”

“Did you find another counselor?” she presses.

“No…I’m just okay.” I’m pregnant now. Ergo, I’m not stressed aboutnotbeing pregnant anymore. “A lot of my anxiety has calmed down.” If I were hooked up to a lie detector test at the moment, it would be furiously scribbling sharp peaks.

“Did you have a change in employment?”

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