Yes, it’s true, it would be ideal if my child had a present father. But that doesn’t mean a baby born to me alone would have a less-than-awesome life. Men could mentor him or her. I’m a big fan of the idea that women can mentor—in a sense, “mother”—children, even if they don’t give birth to any. Why couldn’t male friends and relatives do the same for my baby?
I did some soul searching, and I still felt good about it. So I found a good sperm bank, vetted some donors, and never looked back until I lost my angel at thirteen weeks.
Mom has no idea. She’s not someone I trust with my emotions, so I didn’t tell her any of the trying-to-conceive bit. I didn’t even tell Zach. Kat and Lainey knew, and several of my girlfriends from Chicago. But that’s it.
I’m going to keep it that way until I’m past twelve weeks again. That’s what I focus on as I pedal past the Fate Hotel and take a right, toward the grocery store. Just a few more months. I can hang in here a few more months, right?
Right.
By the time I lock my bike to a lamp post near the store’s front doors, I’ve put my mother’s desire for a grandchild out of my mind. I stand beside the Coke machines and pull out my phone, to go over my list.
A quick glance at the screen reveals I’ve gotten four lunch invites. One is from my Grandma Ellis—my late Dad’s mom—asking if I want to go to Meg’s Soup Saucer. I do, of course, but I already have plans: Kat and Lainey are taking me for tacos. Kat’s text says, ‘Is noon okay? Can’t believe you live here now!! Cartwheels!’ The third text is from my brother, Zach. ‘Do you need me to help you unload the truck, or take it to the return spot? Want to grab lunch?’ And then there’s the one from my landlady, Miss Shorter: ‘I’ve got some fresh bread for you, honey. Come by when you can, and I’ll make you some chicken salad, too.’
Well, then. If that’s not a hearty hometown welcome, I don’t know what is. I text everyone back, then glance down at myself. I’m wearing black Nike running shorts, pink sneakers, and a blue Cubs sweatshirt: perfect for a grocery run in my old Chicago neighborhood, less ideal for an outing in a town where everybody knows me.
Oh well. I adjust my ponytail and stroll into the store.
As I recall, there’s not much in the way of organics: basically just fruit, veggies, and milk. A quick trip around the perimeter confirms I’m right. I stock my cart with all my faves, and then strike off down the middle aisles for starchy things like cereal, granola bars, and crackers. Not to mention light bulbs, detergent, and trash bags.
My mind wanders while my feet do: right to where it shouldn’t. Gabe. And what to do about him. Stay or go… And what about what Mom said?
I make a mental note to ask Kat at lunch. Of course, that means I’ll have to tell her and Lainey what’s the what. Who am I kidding, though? I’ll need to tell them anyway. So they can know that when they visit me, they’re near the enemy.
I replay our encounter for the dozenth time as I browse the popcorn and peanuts aisle. He was outside when I got out of the truck, and retrospectively, he seemed righteously outraged—probably shocked. Did Miss Shorter really fail to tell him I would be his neighbor? She’s in her nineties, now, though; maybe she forgot. The information wouldn’t stand out to her… Almost no one here in Fate knows Gabe and I were together for two years right after high school. Our marriage and divorce were both expunged from public record shortly after he found fame.
I decide the trick—for now, at least—is just avoiding him. Which should include avoiding thoughts of him. I refocus, filling my buggy near to overflowing. Then, as I head toward check-out, I remember Mom’s pork chops.
Dammit.
As I wheel back toward the deli freezers, I notice my least favorite high school English teacher—or rather, her hair. Those are definitely Mrs. Parton’s blue-gray curls, poking up from behind a People magazine.
Uh-oh! I duck down the pasta aisle and scurry toward the rear of the store. I can see the pork chops from this aisle, right between the chicken and the ground beef.
With one last glance over my shoulder, I stroll to the pork chops, reach for a pack that says “extra thick,” and freeze as a large arm snakes in front of me, the hand closing around it.
I let out a little “ooh,” turning my head so I can—what the—
“Are you serious with this?”
Gabe blinks down at me, my pork chops cradled near his chest, enclosed in his big hand. He, in fact, looks owl-eyed serious. Or maybe eagle-eyed. He looks staunch and slightly fierce, like a bird of prey who just stole a smaller bird’s rabbit. On second thought, make that smug. What he looks is smug, the motherfucker.
I hold my hand out. “Give that back!”
“Well, hello to you, too, Marley.”
I glare, and he shakes his head, a little for shame shake that makes me want to claw his eyeballs out.
“I think what you meant to say is ‘give that to me,’” he says smoothly. “No ‘back’ about it.”
“Yes, I do mean back.” My voice shakes with the effort I’m making to keep it steady. “I was reaching for it first.”
He holds it up, his face and his demeanor calm. “I think that’s obviously untrue. Regardless, all you have to do is grab another one,” he says, all reasonable-like, nodding at the freezer shelves behind me.
I turn back around to them, but there are no more extra thick pork chops.
“I don’t need those thin ones, or pork tenderloin, or any of that other stuff,” I explain in forced-patient tones. “I need extra thick pork chops.” I fold my arms and angle my body toward Gabe. “That’s what my mom prefers,” I say, shooting my own for shame look at him.
I glance at his buggy. It’s nearly empty. I note a head of living lettuce, a rotisserie chicken, and a loaf of gluten-free bread before I swing my gaze back up to his.
He shakes his head, his infuriating smirk getting even smirkier. “Tell Dephina to try the teriyaki tenderloin. It’s better than pork chops.”
“Delphina” my ass. He never called her that!
“If that’s the case,” I tell him, “why don’t you just get the tenderloin? Dephina asked for pork chops. She has a recipe for pork chops. She’s not in good health, Gabe. She wants a damn pork chop. Give me that pork chop.”
He lifts his head a little, like a giraffe going for a leaf, and pointedly examines my buggy. “What will I get?”
“Are you kidding me?”
He makes an “o” of his lips, giving a slight shake of his head—impersonating someone reasonable. “I was going to eat this tonight.”
“You don’t even like pork chops!”
His blue eyes meet mine. He blinks. “I do now.”
“This is totally ridiculous.”
“Maybe you should try the Piggly Wiggly,” he says lightly. “I’m sure they have more.”
I used to work there in high school, before I worked at Robards’ Drugs. Gabe knows how much I hate that place.
And anyway— “I can’t. I only have a bike in town! My car is still in transit from Chicago. I can’t ride that far. So maybe you should.” My face is blazing red now. I can feel it.
“Would Brenda really mind if you cook something else for her?”
Now purple. I inhale deeply, struggling to find my equilibrium. “I’m not cooking,” I grit. “She is.”