Page 29 of A Really Bad Idea

Christian doesn’t seem to like this idea. “That won’t work. The plan was to freeze her eggs, so she could have a child with her future husband.”

“She can freeze many eggs, which might result in an embryo, but freezing an embryo gives you the security of knowing how many are healthy enough to implant and begin development.”

I take a deep breath as I glance over the photos on the shelf. There’s one in particular that catches my eye. It’s of Dr. Abbot surrounded by eight faces, all ranging from toddler years to preteens.

He catches my stare and follows it in the direction toward the picture.

“My grandchildren—Tammy, Sarah, Mila, Joey, Connor, Harper, Jude, and Noah. I know I’m not going senile when I can say all their names in order,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “This one”—he points to one of the younger ones—“she is a hell-raiser. Gives her parents a run for their money. Won’t listen for anything. She will rule the world someday.”

I smile. “I look forward to her being my president.”

Dr. Abbot swings back around. His balding head shows age spots. Many people are afraid to use an older doctor. They want someone young and innovative, like Christian. Me? I like a doctor who’s been around for a few decades. He knows what works and what doesn’t. That’s why I know that what he’s about to say is going to be monumental.

“We’re gonna start slow. We’ll run blood work and go from there. Whatever you decide, I promise you this: you will be a mother. It’s just a matter of when and how.”

There were two system failures at egg storage facilities in Cleveland and San Francisco, leaving hundreds of people to lose their frozen eggs and embryos. Not today, but in the past. Thank you, internet, for the information.

It’s ten o’clock at night, and my brain is riddled with thoughts of everything that could go wrong with freezing my eggs. This is why people need to stay off Google … and away from wine.

My cell phone rings, and Christian, in his wet white T-shirt, appears on my phone. My pulse wrestles in my throat.

“What are you doing up?” I ask as a hello.

“I can’t sleep. What are you doing?”

“Oh, me? I’m just reading about the demise of my future egg children and drinking my sorrows away in chardonnay,” I say with the glass to my lips. “And then there’s always the fun of researching potential sperm donors. These profiles are more intense than online dating. Except, if I swipe right, it’s a lifelong partnership with someone I’ll never meet. If I’m gonna pick some random to be the father of my child, I might as well just walk into a bar, get knocked up, and save ten grand.”

“I’m coming over,” he states quickly.

I nearly drop my glass. “Really? Okay.”

We hang up, and I look down at my outfit—hot-pink bed shorts and a T-shirt with Justin Timberlake with cornrows, circa his NSYNC days, on the front. I hop into my room and throw on a bra because I’m not a savage.

There’s a knock at my door sooner than I thought. I open it to a sight I rarely get to see. Christian wearing gray sweatpants and a red Cornell sweatshirt. He’s always dressed in suits or, at the least, jeans and a button-down. Getting to see laid-back Dr. Gallagher is a rare occurrence.

“How did you get past the doorman?”

He walks in with a bottle of scotch whiskey in hand and heads straight to the kitchen. “Sal loves me.”

“I need to talk to him about letting just anyone up.” I close the door and set the lock and chain.

For someone who came over here in a hurry, he seems quite focused in his task.

Christian grabs two highball glasses from the cabinet and places them on the counter. He twists off the cap on the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. “I’m not just anyone. I’m here to help you commiserate properly.” He pours two glasses and hands me one. “Chardonnay, really?”

“Desperate times called for desperate measures.”

I settle back on the couch and pull my knees up to my chest. He walks into the living room and puts his glass on the table, so he has two free hands to pull his sweatshirt over his head. The white T-shirt he has on beneath creeps up, as it’s being pulled by the sweatshirt, and I get a peek at his incredible body—a taut stomach with a deep six-pack from his dedicated workout routine, a sprinkling of hair disappearing beneath the band of his sweatpants, and the clear indentation of thick masculinity.

I pop my eyes up from where they inadvertently drifted south. His T-shirt falls back into place as he tosses his sweatshirt on the couch and takes a seat next to me.

I put my glass on the table, stand up, and open a window.

“Hot?” he asks, and my eyes widen.

“Chardonnay,” I say as an answer and then settle back on the chenille couch.

Christian has been over at my apartment many times, but this is an out-of-the-ordinary occasion, especially on a weeknight. I think back on what I said earlier on the phone and wonder if I said anything worrisome.