“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, grateful that we are spending it together, no matter what our results turn out to be.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says, eyeing the box of First Response tests in my hand.
“Should we do this now?” I say, holding it up and giving it a little shake. “Or wait until later?”
He shrugs, selecting an unlikely green rugby shirt that he’s had since college. “Your call,” he says. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Maybe we should do it later,” I say, waffling. “So we don’t ruin Thanksgiving if it’s negative?”
“Would that really ruin Thanksgiving?” Gabe asks in such a way that I think, not for the first time, that he secretly hopes the test is negative. “I mean—we’re just sitting around with my parents and your mom. And we’re not going to tell anyone today either way….Isn’t that what we decided?”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s what we decided…but I’ll definitely be disappointed. Won’t you?” I say, scrutinizing his face.
“A little,” he says. “But honestly, I’ll be more surprised if you are pregnant. What did Dr. Lazarus say we have? A twenty percent chance?”
“Yeah. At best.”
“Right,” he says. “So if you’re not—and you’re probably not—we just try again. And maybe she gives you some fertility drugs this time.”
Rationally, I know he’s completely right. It’s just one month, one try, albeit a fairly expensive first attempt. I think of all the couples who try for years before they get a positive test, going through round after round of IVF, and know that I haven’t earned the right to feel anything close to a sense of hopelessness. And yet I still have the feeling that this might be it for me. My one and only chance. And that if it doesn’t happen this way, right now with Gabe, then it might never happen at all.
When I try to articulate this, I expect Gabe to reassure me—or tell me I’m being melodramatic. But instead he nods, and says, “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“So you feel that way, too?” I ask, my heart sinking.
“A little,” he says, sitting next to me on the edge of his bed. “I mean—I think you’ll have a baby eventually…I just don’t know that it will be with me.”
My stomach flutters with disappointment.
“Because of Leslie?” I say. Not because she’s been at all difficult or jealous through this whole uncharted, unnatural process. To the contrary, she has handled everything with grace and generosity—which has only made Gabe like and respect her more.
But he shakes his head and says no, it has nothing to do with Leslie.
“Then why?” I ask him as I sit on his bed.
He gives me a frank look and says, “Well. Because of Pete.”
I shake my head. “No. Pete’s cool with it, too. He’s really rooting for us,” I say, thinking of how supportive he’s been over the past few weeks, calling to check on me and even wishing me good luck before my insemination appointment.
Gabe smirks and says, “Give it up, Josie. He likes you. A lot.”
“I know he does,” I say. “And I like him. But he agrees that we need to keep things…compartmentalized.”
“All right,” he says. “So what are we waiting for, then?”
“I guess nothing,” I say, staring at the box in my lap before slowly removing the cellophane wrapping, pulling out one fortune-telling stick, then squinting down to read the fine-print instructions on the back of the box.
He laughs, slapping the box out of my hands and giving me a little shove off the bed. “C’mon. Like you haven’t done this before,” he says. “Quit stalling and go find out if you’re knocked up.”
—
LESS THAN FIVE minutes later, after I’ve peed on a stick, carefully capped it, and left it on Gabe’s bathroom counter, I walk back into his room and give him a blank stare. He stares back at me, equally expressionless, and takes a guess. “Negative?”
I shake my head.
“Positive?” he says, his voice rising with disbelief.
I shake my head again, then tell him I don’t know. “I didn’t look….Would you please go check it for me?”
He nods and stands, looking pale, a tough feat with olive skin.
“Wait,” I say, reaching out and grabbing his arm. “What do you want it to be?”
Gabe swallows, hesitates, and cleverly avoids answering the question. “I want you to have the baby you’re meant to have….”
“C’mon. That’s a cop-out,” I say. “Do you hope it’s negative? Or positive?”
He takes a deep breath and says, “Okay…I want it to be positive.”
“Why?” I ask, my heart racing.
“Why?” he says. “What do you mean why? Why would we have done all this if we didn’t want it to be positive?”
“So you don’t have cold feet?” I ask. “Not even a little bit?”
Gabe shakes his head and says, “I’m nervous, yeah. And it’s a little crazy what we’re doing here…a lot crazy….But fuck it…at this point, I’m all in.” He shrugs and gives me one of his rebellious looks.
“Fuck it?” I say, feeling queasy. “Fuck it?”