Baby Maker (It Takes Two 1)
“Bro code.”
His deep, dark, slow chuckle echoes in the cab of my truck. “You get a wife and then talk to me about a bro code.”
Another reason marriage is never the answer.
“So there’s this woman. A friend. And I may have insulted her…in public.”
“Hmm. Whatdya say?”
“I said she wasn’t my type.”
“I dunno…sounds fine to me. Hold up.” A beat later I hear, “A friend…he said she wasn’t his type in front of other people…okay.” He gets back on the phone. I know because I can hear him breathing. “How many people?”
“Not that many. Just her mother and her good friends.”
“Ooooh. Hold on.” He starts murmuring to Nyla again, “Her mother and her good friends––”
May God save me from marriage if this is what happens to a man after a dozen years of it.
“Dane, you there?”
“Still here.”
“Nyla says it doesn’t matter if she’s only a friend, you hurt her feelings. You gotta throw yourself on the mercy of the court now. Hold on…” I hear more words spoken. “She says don’t give her time to get worked up over it, or it may be impossible to fix.”
Damnit, that’s what I thought. I gave her too much time to stew about it.
“You sure she’s just a friend?”
“She’s more than a friend. I’m just not sure what yet.”
Stella
My phone rings in the middle of the night and I scramble to sit up in bed, fumbling around for the phone on my nightstand. When you have someone you love in the armed forces, every late-night phone call feels like a tragedy waiting to happen. Dane’s name flashes on the screen and my shoulders sag in relief.
“Don’t ever call me in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency.”
“Uhh. Sorry?”
He sounds confused. In his defense, he doesn’t know what it’s like.
“My brother could be on a mission. If he’s injured––”
“Ah shit,” he says interrupting as it sinks in. “I’m sorry, Stella. I didn’t think…my brother-in-law is a Navy pilot.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly as I slide back down under the covers.
“Jesus, I keep screwing up with you.”
“It’s okay, Dane.”
“No, it’s not.”
Silence ensues. One minute passes, two…
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends and family.” His voice is low and soft and filled with remorse.
“It’s fine,” I say even though that’s not entirely true.
“No, it’s not,” he presses. “You still wanna do this with me, right? Because I really wanna do this with you.”
Maybe I’m still half-asleep because I don’t understand whatever subtext he’s trying to communicate.
“Umm. Yeah.”
“It’s that preppy fucker isn’t it? I know I’m not your type that’s why I said that stupid shit at the barbecue I didn’t mean it but Cal kept pushing and I couldn’t say I wasn’t your type––I know your type is that preppy fucker––so I said you weren’t mine,” comes out as one long run-on sentence.
“Uh…what?”
“Did you get any of it?” he murmurs with a touch of humor.
“I got preppy fucker who I assume is Jeff?”
“Hmm.”
“Then I got that you’re not my type because you think Jeff is.”
“Hmm.”
“Then I got that I’m not your type.”
“No––that one’s wrong,” he says a beat later, his voice hoarse, after which another deafening silence rolls on.
“Look, nothing’s ever gonna happen between us––”
I agree. I wholeheartedly agree.
“I don’t date women for longer than three months and you’d end up hating me for the rest of our lives.”
Right. Right. Good point. Face heating, I sink further under the covers until I’m practically hiding.
“I just don’t want you to think…what I mean to say is…you’re beautiful.” My face instantly goes up in flames. One more compliment and I’ll be roasted alive. “Your eyes make me want to go skinny-dippin’ in them––”
A bark of laughter comes up. “Okayyy. Fine. You’re forgiven, Dane.”
“I am?” I can hear a smile in his voice. Which makes me smile too. He has a knack for it.
“Yes. Can I get back to sleep now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m about to hang up when I hear, “Hey, Stel?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He exhales deeply. “For being so cool.”
For being so cool? What does that even mean? What the hell does that mean? And why do I feel it in my chest?
“Night, Dane.”
“Night.”
Chapter Twelve
Stella
Things cooled considerably in the four weeks that followed. Dane turned into a polite stranger overnight. He went with me to every doctor’s visit, and there were many of them. An entire protocol needed to be completed pre IVF, i.e. blood panel, ultrasound…sperm analysis.
He was quite proud of himself when the doctor announced his sperm had “muscle” to them. Then he went ahead and informed the doctor and me “not to fret” because “his swimmers are badass” when the doctor told us not to get discouraged if the first attempt didn’t result in a pregnancy.
He was supportive and cheerful as ever. Otherwise he kept his distance. The teasing and taunting stopped. The showing up unannounced stopped. Sadly, I kind of missed it, the irony not lost on me.
Having completed my twelve days of fertility medications, the big day is finally here. Egg retrieval day. I will be sedated and the egg suctioned out and combined with Dane’s muscular sperm. Five days from now, the fertilized egg will be implanted back in my uterus. All very sexy.
“Hey, Shorty.”
I open to the door to find him with his arms braced overhead, big paws gripping my doorframe, biceps bulging beneath his rumpled blue shirt. And a smile so wide and bright I feel the need to squint.
“I’m not short.” He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. This elicits a mandatory eye roll. “Fine. Compared to you I am, but don’t call me that. I have a name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The lopsided grin he gives me almost has me smiling back. Almost.
“What are you wearing?” I say this while blatantly running my eyes up and down his inappropriate attire. He runs a hand back and forth over his messy, sun-streaked hair.
“A shirt and jeans,” he replies while looking down at himself, like he has to check to see if he remembered to get dressed. With his shirt half tucked and his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, he looks like an overgrown frat boy.
Closing the door behind me, I lock it and head down the hall to the elevators.
“You realize we have an appointment with the doctor, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re making baby soup today.”
Heaven help me. “Dane––”
“What?”
“This is serious business. And you’re not taking it very seriously.”
He gives me a small knowing smile and his eyes, filled with mischief, crinkle at the sides. “I was just teasing. You seem so nervous I thought you could use a distraction.”
“Nervous?
I’m not nervous. What makes you think I’m nervous?”
Looking down between us, he takes my hand, curled into a tight fist, and pries it open. Deep red welts mark my flattened palm, left by the house keys I was squeezing with a death grip. I suck in a breath when the blood comes rushing back into my hand.
“Ouuuuch.”
In his gentle hold, Dane rubs the marred flesh with his thumb. The warmth, the rough callouses rubbing against my palm soothe more than those self-inflicted wounds, they soothe any residual fear––most importantly the one telling me that this man is not cut out to be parent material.
The comfort turns into an electric current traveling up my arm and over my scalp. It makes me shiver and…want those calluses elsewhere.
I try pulling my hand away but he won’t let me, gently tugging back. The elevator doors open and we step inside, my hand still cradled in his.
Dane
“You haven’t said a word in exactly fifteen minutes.” My eyes fixed on the small and very quiet woman sitting beside me. “You disappoint me.”
Man, I really tried to be good. I worked out twice as hard. That was stupid; I can feel my knee throbbing as we speak. I took meetings with Fox Sports and the NFL channel. I went to Brooklyn every other day. I stayed away. It did not go well. It did not go well at all.
I don’t have an addictive bone in my body. Take football, for instance. The love of my life. I didn’t yearn for it once I decided to give it up. What was done was done. And yet this…shit, this was awful.
It was a constant feeling that I’d left something behind, or something was missin’, something was wrong. I woke up in a shitty mood every day. I went to sleep in a shitty mood every day. All over this quiet woman sitting next to me.
Her undivided attention on the Parenting magazine, she slowly flips pages. She hasn’t said more than two words since I gave her the little hand massage in the hallway. Nothing weird. It’s that seeing her look so tense and frightened––I didn’t like it.
“I thought Latinas were supposed to be fiery.”
She drops a sigh as heavy as a hammer and a smile stretches across my face. Feels good to smile again.