Page 43 of The Surrogate Mother
“And how about when it’s cyclic?”
He nods eagerly. “Yes! That too.”
“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” she says. “I wouldloveto hear more about it.”
Sam glances at me again. I can tell he’s dying to talk to her more about this, but he doesn’t want to upset me. “Abby,” he says, “are you sure you don’t have time for a quick coffee?”
That lump in my throat returns. “No, I don’t. But if you really want to go, Sam, it’s up to you.”
“Oh.” He looks between the two of us, unsure of what to do. Except isn’t it obvious what he’s supposed to do? He’s supposed to say “no” to the attractive twenty-three-year-old woman asking him to coffee! Any idiot would know that! I’d like to tell him as much, but I don’t want Monica to see me forcing him to turn down what would probably be an entirely innocent coffee.
Probably.
“Maybe just like twenty minutes,” Sam says. “Then I really need to get back to work.”
“Wonderful!” Monica beams at him. “I know the perfect place.”
We walk out together to the lobby, then Sam and Monica go together to the coffee shop while I hail a cab. I watch them walk down the street together, getting farther and farther away from me. They seem to be standing awfully close to one another. Isn’t there some rule that you’re supposed to stand at least one foot away from someone you’re walking with? Or did I just entirely make that up?
All right, I need to stop driving myself out of my mind. I trust Sam. And that’s all there is to it.
17
If I didn’t need to go back to work after this lunch, I’d definitely be getting drunk right now.
Even so, I’m sorely tempted. Shelley and I managed to sneak away to the Mexican place down the block for lunch, and this place has thebestmargaritas. But I’m already skating on thin ice with Denise—I can’t afford to be performing at any less than my best. Also, if she smells alcohol on my breath, it won’t be good.
“You don’t look so good, Abby,” Shelley says. “No offense.”
Shelley is the queen of the “no offense” remarks. The game is you say something super offensive, then mitigate by adding “no offense” (but not really). For example, “No offense, but that dress makes you look like you should be jumping for fish at SeaWorld.” Or, “No offense, but you look like you’re old enough to be Monica’s mother.” But this time, it’s hard to take offense.
“I don’t feel so good,” I mumble. I stare down at my Diet Coke, wishing it would magically morph into a margarita.
“But I thought things were going well.” Shelley takes achip from our communal bowl. “Monica got pregnant on her first shot, and you said that ultrasound was normal. So… good?”
I chew on my lip. I haven’t voiced any of my anxieties to Shelley, partially because I haven’t had a free moment to talk to her in person and this was a little too heavy for text message, but also because I know she’s going to say, “I told you so.” And I don’t need an “I told you so” right now.
But on the other hand, I need to talk to someone about this.
“Things have been weird lately,” I admit.
“Weird in what way?”
“Like…” I run a chip through the salsa, even though I’m not terribly hungry. “Sam and Monica have gotten to be… friendly.”
Shelley raises an eyebrow. “Friendly?”
And just like that, the whole story comes pouring out. The night we gave Monica a ride and she stole the shotgun seat. The dinner I was late for, where Monica and Sam bonded big time over math jokes. The way she calls him “Sammy.” The ultrasound I missed, followed by the two of them getting coffee after.
“He said he was just going for twenty minutes,” I say, “but I texted him and he didn’t get back to me for two hours. So.”
“Wow,” Shelley breathes. “That’s intense.”
“And haven’t you noticed how she’s been wearing more makeup lately and dressing more seductively?” I add. “She always used to dress like she was in church, but now she looks… you know,hot.”
“Monica’s really attractive,” she agrees. “I always thought so. And she’s Sam’s type.”
I frown. “Histype?”
