Today is a great day. Every day is a great day.
I’ve spent most of the past six hours going over web traffic and lead generation, mixed with covert glances at Ian’s office. I have a hunch that Lavinia knows something is going on. She’s been sending me the stink eye more than usual. And the last time I came back to my desk with a coffee, exactly two minutes after Ian came back inside, she sniffed at me then sniped that I ought to water the drooping plants.
When my vision starts to go fuzzy from looking at my computer screen for too long, I log off. I grab my purse from under my desk, slip on my wool coat and wrap my scarf around my neck. Lavinia looks over and purses her lips.
“I’m going to pop down to the coffee stand in case anyone swings by asking for me.” Then, because it’s a great day, “Need anything?”
Lavinia looks past me to Ian’s glass-walled office then back to me. “No. But dump the shredder on the way out. You’ve filled it up again.”
I haven’t. I don’t print paper. Lavinia, middle-aged tree killer, has filled it up.
“Sure, no problem,” I say.
Not even Lavinia’s mood or dumping five pounds of shredder paper in the recycling room can dim my happy mood. I ride the elevator down twelve floors and walk through the marble-floored lobby toward the wall of glass doors.
Then I step out of the heated office building onto the slush-covered sidewalk. To be honest, Midtown New York during winter is one of the uglier sites in the world. The ground is covered in black and brown slush and melting snow, crunchy salt pellets, trash bags piled high, and random splotches of yellow snow from dogs peeing on the curb. But today, I don’t notice the dirt or the exhaust-perfumed air, I just see the sliver of bright blue sky and the little glitter of tiny snowflakes floating in the air.
The shiny metal siding of the coffee cart attracts me like a bee to a fat-headed flower. I walk across the salt-strewn sidewalk, through the slush to the metal cart.
“Milk and sugar?” asks Zamir. His breath puffs out in front of him. He’s in a fluffy coat, a fuzzy hat, and fingerless gloves. Zamir is one of two brothers that runs the cart. He and his brother are from Iraq and they each take a twelve-hour shift serving up buttery egg sandwiches and milk-and-sugar-loaded coffee.
“Thanks. You know me.”
When he hands over the blue and white coffee cup, I take a long, happy sip of the overly sweet, creamy coffee. Then I take a moment to just stand and watch the taxi cabs, the cars, the delivery bikes and the people rush by. Sometimes, if you stand still, it’s like you’re in the middle of a tornado with all of New York swirling by. You can stand like that for hours.
The beauty of it is that no one notices you, the tragedy of it is that no one notices you.
I sigh and start to turn back to the office when I feel a hand press into my back.
“I thought I’d see you down here. Ah, coffee, the drug of lesser mortals.”
I turn and smile coyly at Ian.
“Are you calling me a lesser mortal?”
“Never,” he says, and he puts a hand to his heart. “I’m the lesser mortal. How about throwing pity my way and getting a few drinks with me tonight?”
A little flame of happiness glows in my chest and warms me against the winter cold. I look down at the coffee in my hands. This thing, this…whatever it is…between Ian and me is becoming more serious. At least to me it is.
And tomorrow I have my second appointment with Dr. Ingraham.
I look back up at Ian. He’s cool and confident in his suit coat, aviator sunglasses, and artfully styled glossy black hair. The mass of people flows around us, like a river around a stone. No one pays us any mind.
“Before I say yes,” I start, then I stop and bite my lip.
“Gemma, you should always say yes to life’s opportunities.”
I huff and shake my head at his quote of the week. Then I smile and say, “I’m serious. I have to tell you something.”
He nods and gestures me to walk back toward the building with him. I step over a puddle of slush and then I turn to him and say, “Whatever it is we’re doing, I think you should know, before it goes any further…”
How do I say this?
“I’m going through IVF to have a baby.”
He frowns and his winged eyebrows come down. “With your boyfriend?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m single. I mean…” I glance over at him from the sides of my eyes.
He tilts his head.
“I’m using a donor. I just thought you should know, it may not be just me for long. I might be a package deal. So…um…what do you think?”
I look away from him. I’m not capable of looking him in the face while he decides whether or not he wants to continue pursuing whatever this is.
“I think…” He stops walking.
I take a few steps then stop too.
“Gemma, look at me.”
I do. He flashes me his blindingly white smile.
“I think you are the epitome of a strong, independent woman who doesn’t require a man to get what she wants. Let’s have drinks.”
I smile back at him.
“Okay.”
Ian took me to Daniel, the famous, ultra-classy French restaurant on the Upper East Side, where they served cocktails with large spherical ice cubes suspended in liquor, and other frothy concoctions. I felt incredibly out of place in my black leggings, chunky shoes, and nubby knee-length sweater.
Note to self—must buy cuter clothes for dates at posh, la-di-da restaurants.
Ian asked me about my decision to pursue IVF. When he asked who my donor was, I told him I’d hoped to do it with a family friend but was going to go with an anonymous donor instead.
“You know Josh Lewenthal, don’t you?” he asked. “Your brother is Dylan Jacobs?”
“Yeah. I know him. You do too?” I was surprised that Ian of all people would know Josh, but not really excited to talk about him with Ian, or really, with anyone.
“You don’t think much of him?” asked Ian, picking up on my disinterest.
I shrugged. “We have history,” I said and left it at that.
Ian winced sympathetically. “Sorry. But I can’t say I’m surprised.”