Brook scoffs. “No way. Clive’s my second-cousin, he’s a real douche. But I gave him some free legal advice last year so he owes me. Thus, we get the pink palace for our meet-ups.”
“It’s a lovely place to meet,” Carly says.
Brook shakes her head, “I’m waiting on the penthouse invite, Carly.”
Carly smiles. “Night, ladies. Ta.”
“That means thanks,” whispers Hannah.
Then Carly pulls out of her purse a wig, a hat, and large sunglasses. I gasp. “You’re the wig lady. From the waiting room.”
Carly lifts an eyebrow. “And you’re the bathroom girl.”
I blush. Right…
“Bad wigs and ugly hats. The trials of the semi-famous,” Brook says. “Goodnight everybody.” She lights a cigarette and then starts to walk away.
“You’re supposed to be quitting,” Hannah calls.
“Tomorrow,” Brook yells back. “Night.”
“Bye,” I call.
“G’night,” Hannah says.
I take my time getting home. When I’m finally there, I change into my fuzzy flannel PJs, brush my teeth, wash my face of the subway and city grime and then climb into bed. After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, thinking about contracts and babies and fertility, I turn on my phone and type a search into the browser.
Then—
Brook was right.
Naked Carly is hot.
I quickly shut the browser and slam my phone down on the dresser. I can’t believe I just looked up a nude photo of Carly.
Jeez.
I force myself to go to sleep. When I finally drift off, I dream of sending naked photos to Josh and sperm trapped in tighty-whities running away from my eggs.
14
It’s Friday night and I’m in my sister’s kitchen popping popcorn for the kids. It’s my weekly babysitting night, where I get to spoil my nieces and nephew for four hours straight. Josh texted an hour ago to say he was running late. I’ve already played nine rounds of snakes and ladders, three games of Chinese checkers, and a half-hour game of hide and seek. By unanimous vote, we’ve decided to have homemade kettle corn while we watch one of those adorable talking dog movies.
The kitchen is at the back of the house, well-lit, and wallpapered in an amazing pattern of chickens and daisies. It was on the walls when Leah moved in and she thought it was so hilarious she swore she’d never take it down. Twelve years later, the kitchen is still plastered in clucking chickens. While the rest of the house is modern, the kitchen is all farmhouse.
I have to admit, I like it. The kids have even named some of the chickens. For instance, the one over the oven is called Sir Clucks-a-lot.
“Auntie Gemma,” Sasha calls from the living room. “Josh is here.”
I quickly look up from the stove, like I can see the front door, which I can’t.
I hear a bunch of shrieking and tumbling and I shout, “Let him in.”
I’m currently stuck at the burner shaking a steaming pot of melting sugar and popcorn kernels, so I can’t get the door.
“Josh, yay,” the twins, Mary and Maemie yell. “Come play Go Fish with us.”
“No, play Chinese checkers with me.” That’s Sasha, she’s in a Chinese checkers phase.
“But I want to play chess. No one ever wants to play chess.” Poor Colin. He’s right.
“Hey guys, where’s Gemma?” I hear Josh ask, and then I hear the closing of the front door behind him.
I smile and picture the mass of kids surrounding Josh demanding that he play with them. They can be pretty overwhelming if you’re not used to them.
“Hey. I’m in the kitchen,” I call.
The kettle corn has started to pop in earnest, the kernels are jumping up against the lid, bright white and covered in glossy caramelized sugar. The scent of warm, browned sugar rises to me.
Josh steps into the kitchen and gives me an amused smile.
All day at work I kept having thoughts of Josh having a “fertility fetish” or some weird motive for agreeing to be my donor. I search his expression, but there’s nothing different in the way he’s looking at me. It’s the same look he’s been giving me for years. It’s the same Josh. The same nonchalance and irreverence.
“Question,” I say.
“What’s up?” He leans against the entry and puts his hands in his pockets.
“Err. Well. Have you ever donated sperm before, do you have any children, and/or do you have a fetishized fantasy of producing hundreds of children with your sperm?”
For a second, he just looks at me, then he lets out a sharp, choking sound and I realize it’s a horrified laugh.
Alright, so there’s my answer. I knew Brook and Carly were full of it.
Josh finally gets himself under control. “Gemma, what the heck? What the heck?”
I shrug. Then, I think, oh well, may as well get it all out of the way. “Okay fine. One more question. Were you planning on blackmailing me anytime in the future?”
His chin tilts down and he gives me a look. Then he says in a low voice, “And what would I blackmail you about?”
My heart skips a beat and I give the popcorn pot a hard shake. “Well, hmm. Never mind.”
I squirm under his direct stare and say, “So, hey. Nice to see you. Feel free to forget everything I just said.” I keep shaking the pot full of corn. Then, to break the tension I say, “Thanks for not freaking out. Like they say, life is full of surprises, accept them for the gift they are. And hey, at least I didn’t ask you if you burned ants with a magnifying glass as a kid.”
He looks at me for a moment and then shakes his head. “So random, Gemma. So weird.” He peers over the counter at the popping corn.
“Do I get some of that?” He nods at the pot. It’s full now, the lid is starting to come off from the excess amount.
I sigh in relief. He’s changing the topic. That’s another point to add in his favor—he doesn’t judge and he lets things go.
I give him a bright smile.
“Well, it depends.”
I flip off the burner, open the lid and dump the corn into a big bowl. Little strings of sugar swing through the air and the smell of kettle corn fills the kitchen.
“On what?” he asks.