A Really Bad Idea Read online

  He leans back on his heels and looks down at me. “Where did that come from?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Just something that’s been on my mind. I’ve been pondering my life’s plan and how far off I am. Made me think of yours and how right on track yours is. I just don’t want you to miss out on love. That’s all.”

  “Being a surgeon is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be. I always assumed the rest would fall into place.” He pauses a moment, his teeth skimming his lower lip as he considers his answer. “Plus, I guess I haven’t met the right woman who’ll have me.”

  I nod lightly and place my head back on his shoulder. Our feet move in a familiar box step, yet I can’t ever remember dancing with him before.

  “Meadow,” he murmurs, “you really want to be a mother, don’t you?”

  I close my eyes and whisper, putting it out into the universe, “More than anything else in the world.” He squeezes my hand as I pull him closer. “I had this perfect life planned, and suddenly, it was swept out from under me. That future I envisioned is now a memory of what I hoped it would be. And I’m okay with it, I think. I mean, it is what it is, but I want the same things I did two years ago. Except, now, I have to figure out a new way to make it happen.”

  “You don’t think you’ll fall in love again?”

  “I want to. That’s why I don’t want to settle for someone who doesn’t make my heart race. I want someone who makes me laugh. Someone who challenges me to be better and misses me when I’m not around. Someone I can snuggle up with on the couch and read at the end of a long day. Who I can cook with and take care of when he’s sick—”

  His feet halt. “Wait. Your dream is to take care of a man when he’s sick?”

  I step back and look at him. “Sure. That’s the best part of loving someone.”

  There’s a slight flinch in his body. His hand splays on my back, his fingers gripping on to my trench, pulling me in a touch more. Christian raises our hands into his chest and my heart with it. Our bodies are close—closer than they’ve ever been before. I can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, thumping proudly behind the veil of muscle and masculinity.

  “You deserve all that, Meadow. If I can promise you one thing, it’s that there is a man who loves you and all your quirks.”

  I raise a brow. “What are these quirks you speak of?”

  His chest rumbles. “You have interesting taste in romance literature and an unhealthy obsession with boy bands from the nineties.

  “Fine, I’m quirky.”

  “You’re fucking adorable, and any man would be lucky to have you as his own. You just have to love him as much as he loves you.”

  I gaze into his eyes and see them looking into mine, falling into the abyss of something that my soul seems to be telling him.

  And he’s listening with pure intent.

  “Of course, he’d have to be handsome and charming and make me laugh,” I convey.

  “Remember what they say about the perfect man. He doesn’t exist,” he says as he slowly gives me a spin and then releases my hand.

  Losing his warmth is unsettling as I right myself next to him.

  “Are you saying you’re not the perfect man? Why, Dr. Gallagher, I thought you fancied yourself the perfect catch?”

  He grins. “I have my faults. Come, let’s get you home, so you can watch This Is Us. I know your Saturday nights are reserved for catching up on your shows. It must be killing you not to have your weekly cry.”

  I hit him in the arm. “It’s about the love of a family. You should watch it.”

  “So is Braveheart, and you refuse to watch that film.”

  “Why men like a movie about a man who gets castrated is beyond me.”

  He shakes his head. “Missing the point, as always.”

  Before we walk away, I take a penny out of my pocket. It’s old and tarnished. Most people think a penny is dirty when, really, its brownish color is from oxygen binding with the copper. All you need to make it clean again is a little chemistry. I toss the penny into the fountain.

  “What did you wish for?” he asks.

  “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” I bite my lip and walk alongside him to the edge of the park.

  Our steps are loud as our voices are quiet. We’re two friends traveling in the world’s largest park, and yet it feels like our own piece of earth, a place only the two of us inhabit.

  When we get to Fifth Avenue, Christian takes out his phone and pulls up his Uber app. I step to the curb and hold up an arm.

  “I’ll get you an Uber,” he offers.

  I see a yellow cab up ahead with its vacant lights on. “No, thanks. I’m going classic New York tonight.”

  I catch the twinkle in his eye as I wave down the cab, and it pulls up to the curb.

  Christian walks forward and opens the door for me. I’m stepping off the curb when he says, “Can I go with you?”

  I halt on the other side of the open door and look back at him, confused.

  “To the doctor,” he further explains. “I know you don’t need me, but I want to be there. Besides, it’s a fascinating field. I’d like to check it out. And I’d like to be with you, if that’s okay.”

  My guarded albeit heavy heart warms at the idea. “Sure. If you have time.”

  “I’ll clear my schedule. Text me the day and time, and I’ll make sure I’m there.”

  “Okay,” I say, oddly touched that he wants to go with me. I’m not sure exactly how he might be able to help, but I suppose it would be nice to have another set of ears there in case I miss any important information.

  With his hand gripping the top of the door, he leans over and places a soft kiss onto my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Meadow.”

  My breath shakes a touch. “Good night.”

  I climb into the cab and close the door, and as the car travels down Fifth Avenue, I can’t help but wonder how my life is about to change.

  “Meadow Duvane?”

  I stand from my seat in St. Xavier Fertility Center and walk toward the nurse calling out my name. I glance toward the elevator and then down at my watch, wondering if Christian will be able to make it.

  “Right this way,” she says.

  I’m following her when the elevator at the other end of the waiting room pings, and the doors open.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Christian says, still in his doctor’s attire and adjusting his name badge that has flipped over on his jacket.

  I sigh in relief as he walks over and places a hand on my lower back, giving me a smile.

  “You made it in time,” the nurse says with a smile. I have my own to match.

  Today’s first appointment is a consultation with Dr. Abbot, one of the best fertility specialists in the city. The nurse escorts us to his office and leaves us alone to wait for the doctor.

  We take a seat in the brown leather armchairs on the guest side of the dark wood desk. There’s a credenza on the other side, filled with pictures of who I assume to be the doctor’s family. The walls are lined with degrees and awards. The one closest to my head is U.S. News & World Report Top Doctor of the Year.

  It suddenly becomes very real. I’m sitting in a fertility doctor’s office, single, with my best friend, about to find out the first steps to having a child.

  Needing a distraction, I look to the side, out the window that faces office buildings and directly into the apartments across the way.

  “Have you ever seen someone doing something obscene inside their apartment?” I ask Christian, knowing his living room window faces another apartment building.

  “All the time.” He adjusts his tie as he rests his right leg over his left. His foot is bouncing over his knee. “The people across the way from me practice naked yoga.”

  “That sounds kinda sexy.”

  “Have you ever seen someone doing downward dog with their backside in full moon? It’s not sexy. At all.”

  I laugh. While my living room looks over Central Park, the v
iew out my bedroom window isn’t quite as interesting as Christian’s. “My neighbors are all boring. The most exciting thing they do is watch television.”

  His brows curve in. “Do you want to see people having sex?”

  “No,” I answer long and convincingly, which makes Christian smirk. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “You’re the voyeur. Not me. Maybe I should have bought you a pair of binoculars for your birthday,” he teases, causing me to slap him in the arm. He doesn’t flinch.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Dr. Abbot says as he walks into the room. He shakes my hand and then turns to Christian. “Dr. Gallagher, it’s a pleasure to see you in here. I’ve been reading some of your published reports on valve-in-valve replacement going up through the femoral artery. Impressive stuff.”

  Christian gives a hearty shake back. “Thank you. I’ve reviewed your articles documenting the high success rates of vitrification methods for oocyte and embryo cryopreservation.”

  “Looks like you’ve been doing your homework for your girlfriend.” Dr. Abbot takes his seat.

  “We’re not together,” I say.

  “I’m lending support.” Christian lays a hand on mine, which is clutching the end of the armrest.

  “Well, as long as I have your permission to openly discuss things in front of Dr. Gallagher, we can proceed.”

  “That’s why he’s here,” I say. My knees shake under my skirt.

  Dr. Abbot folds his hands on his lap. “The best candidate for this procedure is an intelligent woman who knows that time matters. The younger the egg, the healthier it is. Thirty-three is an ideal age because your eggs are still healthy. There is a major decline in egg health at thirty-five, which is when a lot of our clients come in. You can do this now, or you can wait, but if this is something you’re really considering, I’d suggest sooner rather than later.”

  “What is the ideal age?” Christian asks Dr. Abbot.

  “Between twenty-eight and thirty-four,” he answers. “Fertility drops quickly after age thirty-five, but the decision is highly personal, including how many children Meadow wants and how old she’d like to be when she has her last child.”

  This is followed by statistics and odds. We cover everything from age, health, and demographics, to the overall health of future children. The number of eggs I should harvest to how many will successfully thaw is both fascinating and frightening. Christian is leaning back with rapt attention as he listens intently, absorbing the facts.

  “We’ll take blood work and start you on the birth control pill. Ultrasounds will follow to get the follicles synchronized. Then, there’s a two-week supply of take-home hormone injections. This is where the support can really come into play.” He motions toward Christian, who nods, accepting his newfound role of supporter-in-chief. “The egg extraction will take twenty minutes under anesthesia,” Dr. Abbot explains.

  “Sounds too easy,” I say even though I know from years of medical training that this is far more complicated than how it’s laid out on paper.

  Christian looks at me with a grimace. “It’ll take a physical and emotional toll on your body.”

  I raise my brows and run my hands over my knees and thighs. “If I was afraid of the pain, I wouldn’t plan on having children. Not to mention, the emotional toll of raising a human.”

  Dr. Abbot laughs knowingly at my response.

  Then, we discuss cost.

  “Ten thousand dollars to harvest the eggs from the ovaries, and that doesn’t include the yearly storage fee and the cost of IVF when you’re ready to have the baby.”

  I whistle at the vast amount of money. “And that’s hoping the eggs survive.”

  Dr. Abbot rests his elbows on the table and lays his hands in a praying position. “That brings us to our next conversation. A fertilized egg has a better success rate of thawing than a non-fertilized egg.”

  “I don’t have a willing partner, and if I’m going to go to a sperm bank, I might as well just wait until I’m thirty-five and do artificial insemination,” I suggest.

  “You could,” Dr. Abbot says.

  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?”

  “Despe
rate 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.

  “I’m fine,” I state. “You rushing over here is nice but unnecessary. I’m not really drinking away my sorrows.”

  “I know. I just thought you could use the company.” He grabs my computer that’s resting on the coffee table with the screen lit up on the webpage I was looking at—the New York CryoBank. “Worse than Tinder, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I sit up and scrunch my mouth a little. “There are a few viable candidates.”

  The laptop is now on Christian’s thighs. I settle myself up against his side, so I can look at the screen with him.

  “So, you’re going with embryo freezing?” He looks at me, concerned.

  “Just keeping my options open. Besides, it’s kinda neat to pick out the future father of my children.”

  His brows are curved, and his cheekbones are accentuated so severely that it’s almost lethal. He blows out a sharp breath. “All right, what are your criteria?”

  There’s a drop-down box on the side where you can filter down the donors. The first is height. “Five foot ten and up.”