Cowboy Husband

The nurse frowns and glances from the woman's face to the stack of papers in front of her. With a shuffle, I see her move my file aside and open the one beneath it. "Mrs. Henry?"

"Yes, yes."

"I'm sorry, I had you down for half an hour later," the nurse is saying. This must be the woman she confused me with. "Can you wait a moment while I—"

"There's a man," the woman, Mrs. Henry, interrupts, "in the parking lot. My husband is still out there arguing with him. He tried to grab me, I..."

The nurse is back on her feet in an instant. "Please, Mrs. Henry, have a seat, I'll call our security team."

My eyes go wide as the nurse reaches for the phone. Just moments later, a full team of security guards burst through the clinic doors and out into the parking lot. Through the exterior door, when it swings open, I spy two men standing outside. One is restraining the other, with both of his arms pulled behind his back. The man being held back looks wild, his hair a mess, clothes askew, as he screams toward the open door.

"That's my child! I don't want her to have my child!"

The doors slam shut after him, but not before Mrs. Henry and I both get an earful of what he just yelled. She collapses in tears, and I stand aside as the nurse rushes to embrace her.

"It's all right," the nurse coos, rubbing Mrs. Henry's back as she continues to sob. "It's going to be okay. We'll take care of this."

"It's the donor, isn't it?" Mrs. Henry wails. "I recognize him. From the brochure."

"It's just a misunderstanding. We'll sort everything out."

Mrs. Henry hiccups. "We... we just picked the sample that seemed best. He..." She hiccups again. "He reminded me of my husband. And John can't have children, so we thought... This seemed best..."

"And it will be, Mrs. Henry, I promise you. Everything will work out."

"But that man." She glances over her shoulder at the now firmly-shut clinic door. "He said he didn't want me to carry his child. He said he changed his mind. He doesn't want his son or daughter out in the world without him knowing them, without him having any contact at all..."

My stomach churns. I clutch the counter beside me to steady myself. But my mind is already racing back to last night, when I sat at home with a stack of donor files and carefully selected my candidate. A handsome blond man with piercing green eyes and an excellent school record. He donated his sperm to help pay his way through grad school. He's smart, seems funny, at least from the way he worded his answers on the clinic questionnaire. I don't mind having kids out in the world, he wrote on the paper, as long as I'm not on the hook for child support, someone might as well take advantage of these good genes!

He wrote that when he agreed to be a donor, but what if he changes his mind? What if years later he comes looking for me, tries to get custody, or something worse? What if he goes mad like that man outside in the parking lot screaming his head off right now?

The doors swing open again and Mrs. Henry gasps and startles. But it's just her husband now, the man who was holding the other one's arms. John I guess. He rushes to her side and cradles her in his arms, taking over from the nurse. "It's okay, sweetie, the security team have him now. They're taking him to the hospital, to get him help."

Watching him hold her, comfort her, makes my heart constrict. Maybe, if I were with a guy like that, then this whole thing wouldn’t seem so difficult or frightening…

Then I shake myself out of it. John Henry seems nice right now, but I’m sure eventually he’ll turn out just like my ex did. I’ll stick with the safe bet. No Mr. Husband for me, thank you very much.

"That's our child's father," Mrs. Henry is wailing, meanwhile. "What if our child turns out like him, what if he comes back looking for me, what if..." She trails off into another mess of hiccups.

Just then, the doors to the back of the clinic swing open again. My doctor, Dr. Morgan, pokes her head through, completely oblivious to the disaster that's taking place in her waiting room. "Rina?" she calls. Her eyes dart to me immediately, her usual calm, reassuring smile on her face. "Are you ready? We've been waiting for you."

I glance from her broad smile to the nurse, who's offering me an apologetic grimace as she stands, on her way back to the desk. Then I look to Mr. and Mrs. Henry, tightly embracing, both of their faces a mask of fear and concern.

"Rina?" Dr. Morgan prompts.

I look back up at her, the waves of nausea in my stomach turning into a full-blown ocean of worry. "Actually, I'm going to have to come back," I say.

Dr. Morgan steps fully into the waiting room now, letting the doors to the clinic swing shut behind her. "But Rina, we've timed your cycle exactly. If you don't come in today, we'll have to wait a whole month, restart the cycle all over again."

"I know, I know," I babble. What's my problem? I know what I want. I've been planning for this for months. I've scheduled everything down to a T—I took time off work for the next couple of days to rest, I've planned out when I'll tell my mom if the cycle works, I've got a list of new apartments that I'm looking at so I move once there's a baby on the way. I've even spoken to my mentor about my maternity leave options at work, and they're pretty decent.

I have everything planned, covered all my bases. It's now or never. This is what I want—a baby. This is what I need to do to get what I want.

Yet now, staring down at my fate—and at Mrs. Henry's fate—I feel my feet moving of their own volition. Not toward the clinic doors, but away, toward the exit, one slow step at a time.

"Rina, what's wrong? If you have any concerns, please, let's discuss them."

"I'm just..." I glance from Dr. Morgan to Mrs. Henry and back again. Mrs. Henry seems to finally notice that there's someone else in the room. She lifts her tear-stained face to mine and frowns at me.

"I'm just not sure I've pursued all my options," I hear myself saying to the doctor.

"Don't do this yet then," Mrs. Henry speaks up, shaking.

"Sweetie, shh," her husband whispers.

She shakes him off and pushes to her feet. "I mean it. If you have no other options, I understand, but if there's another way for you..." Mrs. Henry gazes into my eyes, desperate, suddenly, as though to save me from her own fate. "Don't do this unless it's your last resort."

That does it.

"Rina, let's discuss this in private," Dr. Morgan is saying.

"That's all right. I'm sorry, Dr. Morgan. I have to go." I'm babbling, but I don't care. I need to get out of here, now.

I bolt through the doors, my mind at war with itself. What am I doing? I thought I wanted this.

In the parking lot, I nearly run straight into the mess that Mrs. Henry left behind. The man, her donor, is still shouting and screaming, even as the security guards wrestle him toward the ambulance that's pulled up. "Please!" he shouts. "Please, I just want to talk to her. She's carrying my child! My child!"

The last thing I see are his wild eyes as a uniformed ambulance driver slams the doors to the back of the ambulance in his face, while another tries to wrestle him onto a stretcher inside.

I hurry across the parking lot to my car. Once inside, I suck in a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself. Still, my hands are shaking so hard that it takes me several fumbling tries to start the ignition and put the car into gear. I pull out of there in a rush and make a beeline for home, my heart heavy and my stomach a riot of nerves.

I speed through the drive home, probably faster than recommended. Once at my apartment complex, I leave my keys with the valet downstairs and head straight up to the penthouse loft I share with Cannon—my roommate, my coworker, my close friend since law school. Yes, on our salaries we could have both afforded our own places years ago. But not one quite as lux as this apartment, right downtown, a five minute walk to our office, central to all the restaurants and bars that we love —and the penthouse suite in a luxury building, complete with valets, maids, butlers, the whole nine yards.

Yes, we're spoiled. But we also just like having roommates. At least this way, we joke, if one

of us chokes while we’re eating, we have a chance at getting rescued. Or if we slip and fall in the bathtub, someone may find us before our bodies get too gross.

We might have a slightly morbid sense of humor about our roommate situation.

But today I'm not in the mood for Cannon's usual jokes. By the time the elevator dings open straight onto our floor, I'm barely keeping it together. My eyes burn and my throat is tight, and all I want to do is retreat to my bedroom and cry my eyes out, preferably with an enormous container of Ben and Jerry's. But when I step out of the elevator onto our floor, I see Cannon has taken the pint I bought out of the fridge and helped himself to it on the couch. He's more than halfway through the container already, and he's watching that stupid cowboy show I hate.

It's the lightweight straw that broke the camel's back.

Without explanation, without being able to say why I'm so emotional (because as close as we are, I didn't tell Cannon about any of these fertility plans I've been pursuing) I burst into tears then and there.

Cannon spins around, his expression comically surprised. He's handsome as hell, but right now he looks like a goof with the Ben and Jerry's spoon hanging out of his mouth, and his dark eyes wide as saucers beneath his artfully messy black shock of hair.

"Are you all right?" he asks through his mouthful of ice cream, so it sounds more like "Ah oo awright?"

Somehow that only makes me cry harder.

He drops the spoon and shoves off the couch, hurrying toward me. In seven years of knowing each another, and four years of living together in this very apartment, I don't think I have ever cried in front of him. Not once. I usually lock myself in my bathroom on the rare occasion when I get emotional, which isn't very often, and usually over some stupid work spat or problem.

Nothing like this.

He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his tight, familiar embrace. Cannon gives the best hugs. I never tell him that because it would only stoke his ego, but he does. He knows just how tightly to squeeze to let you know he's really there, that he really cares about you. I sink against his chest and breathe in his scent. He smells like the lavender detergent we use and the mint body wash he has in his bathroom, the one I always tease him about because he decorated the whole thing in black—black shower curtains, black towels, everything.

He also smells, underneath all that, like him. Like our apartment, like home. Like my familiar, safe, reassuring best friend.

I wrap my arms around his neck and cry harder.

Cannon rubs my back in slow circles, whispering shh over and over until my sobs finally diminish into hiccups, and then deep breaths, and then finally stop enough that I can lean back and wipe my eyes dry, composing myself. I've left a tear-stained patch on his shirt, and the moment I see it I gasp out an apology, which comes out half words half hiccups.

In response, he simply shakes his head and laughs. "Not a big deal, Rina," he insists, even as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and tugs it off over his head.

Not like I haven't seen him shirtless a million times before. Half the time he lounges around this apartment in his boxers, sometimes even when he has his latest one-night stands over, cooking breakfast in his briefs. But there's something different this time, after I just spent a solid minute in his arms, crying on his shoulder. It makes me look at him with fresh eyes: at his chiseled abs, his strong pecs, and the way his biceps bulge as he tosses his shirt over the back of the couch.

"See? Problem number one solved." He catches my hand and squeezes it lightly, drawing me backward with him toward the living room. "Now, talk to me. What on earth has got you this riled up? I didn't even know you knew how to cry."

I elbow him in the side even as I let him pull me down onto the couch, right beside him, his warm arm grazing my shoulder, his strong fingertips curled through mine. His thumb brushes the back of my hand, gentle and reassuring. It feels good. Better than good. It makes my stomach, already upset from everything I've been through today, tense all over again.

But for completely new reasons.

Cannon? I think to myself. Then I have to shake myself out of that thought. Ridiculous. We've been besties for years. We've lived together for years.

I've seen how he treats women. He hooks up all the time, practically any night we go bar-hopping together, we wind up back here with a new girl tagging along. But he never sees them again. I don't think I've ever seen the same girl in this apartment twice. He is not exactly the serious dating type.

Then again...

Neither am I. I've had all of one long-term boyfriend ever, and that didn't go as planned. Every other relationship I've had has just been a series of casual hookups that go on for a couple weeks or months at most, before we decide to call it quits.

We're similar, Cannon and I. It's why we get along so well, as roomies, as colleagues, as friends.

He wouldn't freak out like that guy in the parking lot, part of my brain comments. He's calm, chill, collected. I've never seen him get ruffled, not once, not ever. Not even when shit explodes at work and he's drowning under stress. He handles everything with his usual casual grin, like the world is one big funny, occasionally frustrating joke that he's in on.

"Hello? Earth to Rina." He nudges me again and I blink, startled back to reality. To our living room, to the couch we've shared for a million and one movie nights since moving in here. To my roommate, who I've walked past every day for the last four years, but who I'm suddenly seeing through whole new eyes.

He's hot, he's smart, he's responsible. And he's uncomplicated, just like me. He doesn't develop feelings for people, same way I don't. He'd be the perfect donor, so to speak.

Maybe I don't need a clinic's help after all.

"Are you going to explain what all that was about?" He waves toward the door in general, then at my face. I wipe my cheeks again, sure that I still look a complete mess. Really attractive. Great way to bring up this topic.

"It's... kind of a long story," I admit, biting my lower lip. Then my eyes snag on something I hadn't noticed before. A bra hooked over the back of the couch. I laugh and lift an eyebrow at him, nodding with my chin. "Another souvenir?"

"Part of the down side of NSA. Girls never come back for their things." He groans and reaches for it. "I'll add it to the donation bin downstairs tomorrow."

"NSA?" I say, frowning.

"No Strings Attached, you know. My MO."

I laugh and roll my eyes. "Didn't know it had an acronym."

"I'm thinking of trademarking it."

"What, in your forthcoming novel, How Not to Get Attached?"

"Hey, pot calling the kettle black, much? You can co-author it with me. Nothing wrong with this lifestyle." He stretches his arms over his head, which draws my attention somewhat confusingly to his abs once more. What's wrong with me? I know what Cannon looks like. I've seen him every day for years. But suddenly the sight of those washboard abs are turning me on in new and confusing ways.

Must be the hormones.

"We like sex," he's saying with a shrug. "We don't do relationships. So no strings attached makes the most sense, to get us what we enjoy without leading anyone on or giving anyone the wrong idea about things potentially getting serious."

I feel myself nodding along, and forcefully drag my gaze from his chest back up to meet his eyes. "Exactly..." I hear myself saying.

A furrow appears between his brow. "Unless you were just crying your heart out on my shoulder over some guy I don't know about. What happened, did someone break your heart? Need me to go rough him up for you?"

I laugh and swat his shoulder. "I cannot imagine you roughing someone up."

"What? I've been in bar brawls before."

"I just mean you're so chill all the time. When have you gotten into fights?"

"When people fuck with my friends," he answers calmly. "I don't let anybody do that. So come on, Rina, spill, why the tears? What's going on?"

I swallow hard and lean my head back on the couch,

eyes on the ceiling. I can't quite make myself meet his eyes when I say this. "It's about a baby."

He's quiet for so long that I have to steal a peek at him. His eyebrows have shot up to his hairline nearly. "You're pregnant?"

"No," I say, and that nearly makes the tears start up all over again. I bite my lower lip. "But I want to be."