Lucky that we have two chances to have another baby when we could’ve easily had none.
When we mention surrogacy to one another, we talk about not being able to squander this gift we’ve been given. We talk about how we live our lives taking one fucking risk after the other. This’ll be the same. And I fucking worry about Daisy and Rose—but today, I’ve been reminded of something.
“Whatever happens, Daisy, this—all of this…” Look at my life. Look at how long I’ve lived. Look at the sun right next to me. “It’s fucking priceless.”
She has to sit up, her eyes glassing more. She smiles with a short laugh, but both fade too fast. She rubs the corners of her eyes and tries to give me a smile. It’s weak. I can tell that she wants to share my sentiments, but she struggles to.
In this second at least.
“Hey.” I pull Daisy onto my lap, and she buries her face in the crook of my arm. “I don’t need fucking pompoms and confetti.” I kiss her head. “If you’re sad, you can be fucking sad.”
Daisy rests her chin on my chest, and I toss a strand of hair in her face. The sun has set somewhere between the surrogacy talk with Rose and Connor, our daughter almost getting crushed by a fucking tractor-trailer, and digging through the contents of this Jeep.
I see the I’m sorry on her lips, but she doesn’t utter the words. Instead she says softly, “I’m just as lucky to be growing old with you.” Her smile lasts a fraction longer, and I hang onto every fucking second. When depression leeches onto Dais, she usually tells me, I feel heavy. What I suggest next might not help completely, but it’s enough to shorten the wait.
“Run with me, Calloway?”
She nods, and not a moment later, we’re out of the Jeep—and I throw Daisy across my shoulder. Breath ejects from her lungs, and she swings her head back to me, light bursting in her eyes.
I raise my brows at her.
“This must be that ‘can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff.’” She quotes It Takes Two often.
“No,” I deadpan.
“Just no?”
“Fuck no.”
Her lips pull upward. “Then what is this?”
“It’s so much more than that.”
She gasps. “It’s chocolate.”
I drop her down my back and grab her ankle, stopping Dais before her head meets the floor. She’s safe and out of breath.
When I pick her back up, when she’s upright in my arms, I fucking tell her, “It’s us at one-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour without brakes.”
Daisy says as softly but more tearfully, “I really fucking love you.”
“You going to be saying that after I run your fucking ass, Calloway?”
“Oh yeah. I might even add another fuck.”
“You really fucking fucking love me?”
She smiles, the biggest one so far. “Fucking fucking fucking yes.”
[ 31 ]
March 2023
Hale Co. Offices
Philadelphia
ROSE COBALT
I vaguely concentrate on my work.
Do not fuck this up for your littlest sister. She deserves everything. She deserves the entire world.
Every waking minute, I try to annihilate self-doubt that muddles my thoughts in a pool of you will fail, Rose Calloway Cobalt.
You will fail miserably and excruciatingly.
Shut up.
My eyes narrow at the uncomfortable stabbing insecurity. Pressure mounts on my breastbone. I let out a tight breath and stiffly sip my ice water. I have reason to be concerned. I’m waiting for the results—whether or not the first embryo took.
There are only two chances.
I hone in on that word: chance.
I can’t study harder. I can’t prepare. I was told to just hope for the best—that my body would either accept or reject the embryo. And that will be that.
This is just a semblance of what Daisy must’ve experienced when she first tried to conceive. I never felt the painful uncertainty and lack of control, not until I stepped into this position, side-by-side with her.
I might be older, but in this process, she’s my confidant. My coach. My role model. I want to do right by my sister, and all the risk is on me, the outcome is on me—do not fuck this up.
I pound on the spacebar, completely forgetting what I planned to type out. My phone rings beside the stapler and cup of black pens. I inhale sharply, thinking it’s the doctor. I check the caller ID.
Connor Cobalt
It’s his day to stay home with our six children. I put the cell to my ear, my anxiety never leaving. “Richard.”
No response, but the line isn’t silent. Little children shout shrilly over one another—it is the most deranged, inhuman noise in this world. And I hear it daily. To say it’s been a madhouse would be an understatement.
We have three boys under three, two five-year-olds, and our only daughter is seven.
When Connor takes four seconds longer to respond, I stand from my chair and start hurriedly gathering my things.
“Connor?” I try again.
“Rose…” His voice is level, but I feel an undercurrent beneath my name.
Purse on my arm like extra arsenal, I leave my office, keys in hand. Just before I tell him I’m on my way, he speaks again.
“Rose, I need you.” At first, I think it’s gravely serious, but then he adds, “If you can spare the time, darling.”
“My time is yours,” I tell him, no hesitation. “I’ll be there soon.” I don’t ask what’s happened. I reaffirm that I’ll be home, and we hang up.
On my drive to the gated neighborhood, I sit pin-straight, both hands tightened on the wheel. I honk at four of the slowest drivers who’ve ever graced a fucking highway. The click-click of the blinker barely calms my violent pulse.
After going through security, I enter the neighborhood, and it’s not long before I park by my water fountain, too stressed and high-strung to even reach the garage.
I walk quickly, locking my Escalade, and then head inside the front door. I scan the foyer, regal marble staircase and glittering chandelier. Chatter and footsteps all originate upstairs, so I climb.
“Connor!” I shout.
I reach the hallway, and my head whips towards every empty room. I aim for the ajar door at the end: the children’s playroom.
“That’s not fair!” Beckett screams shrilly.
“We didn’t do anything, Daddy,” Charlie pipes in, less emotional than his twin brother, but his voice only adds to the volume.
I enter the mayhem and barely have time to scan the playroom. I notice Connor knelt in front of Beckett, one-year-old Ben also crying and kicking his feet near a stuffed teddy bear.
Each head-splitting wail slices a knife through my chest. These are our monsters, and while tears are acceptable, I want to eradicate the source of their pain.
If only children didn’t cry over things like one broken crayon with an entire unbroken pack clearly in front of them.
In an even-tempered voice, Connor tells Charlie, “Why did this mess start?” The way he asks, I know Connor already has the answer, but he wants Charlie to use his mind and words.
Charlie stays defiantly quiet.
My husband shifts his eyes for a fraction of a second towards me, and he lets me see his irritations, scratching his deep blues. On any other day, I might take pride in his demise, but I don’t care about outwitting Connor when our children are the source of his rare frustrations.
Connor visibly exhales as he gives Charlie the answer, “This mess started because you didn’t share your book.”
Charlie plants his hands on his hips and declares, “Correlation does not equal causation.” At five, he’s saying things like this. I question whether he actually understands the meaning or if he just overheard Connor using the phrase.
Connor opens his mouth to speak—what he does best, even if his words are rooted in narcissism and conceit.
He’s cut off.
Beckett stomps his foot, tears surging forth. “Eliot pushed Charlie! Why are we in trouble?!”
Connor blinks for a second longer than usual, the noise puncturing his eardrums and mine. “Because you pushed him back. We don’t fight with our hands.”
“Then Charlie shouldn’t be in trouble.”