Page 17 of Shiver

“Because it fucking hurts. Emotionally, every time I have another negative test, physically, as I jab myself with needles senselessly, hoping for a different outcome, and financially, it’s a huge burden. Even if I have the money, it’s too much of everything. IVF usually has a very good success rate at nearly seventy percent. So I have to think that when I’ve done five rounds of this shit with no results, it’s just not going to happen for me,” I explain, rubbing at the ache in my chest.

“A dat wid yuh now.” She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh, you can’t stand me?I’m sorry,but you asked! I’m giving you the only answer I know how. Or did you want me to lie?” My voice is becoming louder the more defensive I feel.

“Stop with that.” She waves her hand in front of my face. “You always find the negative.”

“Vea, please.” I plead with her to understand. “My body is so tired.Iamsotired. I have to shave my face daily to keep my lady beard in check because most laser hair removal systems aren’t safe for our complexion. I work my ass off to stay in shape so I don’t have to sport something solovinglyreferred to as an ‘apron belly.’” I say the phrase with every ounce of disgust I feel toward it.

The fact that so many people with ovaries and a uterus have to suffer from polycystic ovarian syndrome is fucked. You’d think with how prevalent it is that there’d be real treatments for it, but there aren’t, and I think it’s largely to do with it being something that doesn’t impact people with a dick and balls. As if either of those are so damn useful.

“You and your body are beautiful, sis. You do hard things with that body every day! You should be proud of it!” It’s moments like this that remind me how much of a disconnect we sometimes have between us.

My body sags. “I know my body does hard things, but it’s also difficult on my mind. Now, can wepleasestop talking about this?”

“Fine,” she huffs out. “Tell me about work.”

This is safer territory, andmaybeshe can help me work something out. I share limited details with Vea, maintaining attorney-client privilege, and I mention how off-putting I find Luca, and throughout the entirety of it, several things become more and more clear to me.

She clucks her tongue. “Uh-huh, and you don’t think that this man having a baby dropped into his hands with not one effort could be playing a factor in yourfeelingstoward him?” she asks, suspicion clear as day in her words.

My shoulders sag. “It’spossible.” I groan.

She rolls her eyes again, not even bothering to justify what I’ve said with a response. “Okay,fine. MaybeI have been putting some of my trauma on him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a playboy, and based on how easily he dumped that poor woman after her abortion, he probably had no plans of becoming a father. Who’s to say he really even wants this child? Besides, he has all this money and walks around getting recognized left and right, always being seen with a new woman.Thatdefinitely plays a part in why I don’t fuck with him like that.”

“Mhmm,” she says. “I’m sure it does.” Her big brown eyes glimmer as a smile tugs across her lips. “Maybe if he’s so fertile, he could help you with your pum-pum problem.”

Wine dribbles out of my mouth as I fight to stop myself from spraying it across the room. “Ido nothave a pum-pum problem! My vagina isfine.It’s my fucking ovaries that are useless.”

“Ohh, you don’t have a pum-pum problem, huh? When was the last time you had an orgasm with apersonand not your hand?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Four years,” I grumble somewhat incoherently.

“Sorry, what was that?” she asks, her hands cupped behind her ears as she leans into me dramatically. “I couldn’t hear you, sis. You couldn’t possibly have saidfour years.”

“You suck,” I deadpan.

She cracks another grin. “And sadly, it seems you don’t. Maybe if you did, you’d be having more orgasms.” She stands abruptly, downing the rest of the wine in her glass before heading in the direction of my guest room.

“Mi gaan,” she calls over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall.

I let my body slide down into the cushions. I love my sister, but she has a way of dredging up every uncomfortable topic on the planet, and it isn’t what I needed tonight.

My mind wanders as I scroll mindlessly online, reading article after article about Luca De Laurentiis and his most recent “conquests,” as the media so disgustingly calls these women he’s seen with.

They’rehuman beings,not quests to be conquered.

I place my phone down on the coffee table before turning the TV on. Clearly, I can’t be trusted with social media tonight. Nothing good can come from my doomscroll.

My body finally starts to relax, and with it, my mind, but the harsh screech of my phone ringing startles me.

As I grab for it and see a newly familiar name across the screen, annoyance ramps up inside me.

“This is Samara,” I answer.

“Ms. Perez-Allen, this is Hank. I’m calling about Ms. Cecily St. James. There’s been a change of plans for our court hearing tomorrow.”

My stomach drops to my toes. I knew that woman was wifty.1

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