Page 2 of Mile High Coach

“Right,” I agree, even though I know I’m more than capable of doing both. I’m organized, intelligent. I can handle this job, the distance, my family—everything that’s happened to us this year. That’s who I am. “I will keep that in mind, thank you.”

“Of course. They should provide you with instructions for your injections at the pharmacy. And, of course, if you have questions or need any help, you can always give me a call. I’ll see you for your next scheduled appointment, and we can check in on how the treatment is working.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Lovie—remember to focus on that sleep hygiene, okay?”

That makes me yawn, and reminds me that I tossed and turned last night, only getting an hour of sleep at a time before I finally pulled myself from bed at four, not wanting to prolong the torture.

She and I had discussed the sleep portion of the questionnaire, with her suggesting a sleep study to help me improve this aspect of my health.

You have to take care of yourself if you expect your body to grow a baby for you.

But it’s like my body won’t let me take care of it, keeping me awake even when I lie there for hours, desperately trying to drift off.

When I get off the phone with the doctor, I see that my phone has finally finished loading a PDF document from the lab at the clinic. For the next hour, I tap between my levels and the search results explaining exactly what they mean, then I open my fertility spreadsheet and input all the information. The clinic will keep track for me, but it doesn’t hurt to maintain my own records.

For all the markers on my hormones and blood work, I’m on the low end of ideal. Maybe I should be grateful for that, considering what Dr. Cohen said. I’m only two years away from being considered a geriatric fertility patient.

When I surface from looking at my phone, the sky outside the windows isn’t as dark, the storm clouds a softer gray, the rain lessening to a weak drizzle against the glass.

A man joins the mother sitting across from me and takes the baby from her. Now that she’s fed, the baby is more angelic, nestling right into the crook of her father’s arm. He’s young and handsome, with a full head of dark hair and dimples.

When I’d taken a quick look at the sperm donors in the clinic, I looked for dimples in the description. Maybe they don’t take that information. Maybe people blessed enough to have dimples don’t think of donating their sperm.

He shifts, smiling down at his baby, and I can’t stop myself from thinking that he’s a good choice for DNA if I’ve ever seen one. That’s probably not why the woman across from me chose him, but it’s way too late for me to do things the traditional way.

Doing a quick scan of the space, I clock each of the men at the gate, sitting or standing by the attendant desk. Tall, shoulder-length blond hair and flip-flops? No. Sideburns and fedora? Double no.

The instant I look at them, my mind produces a reason they’re not a good choice. Short legs. Bad posture. Acne, pale skin, balding.

“Is it okay if I take this seat?”

When I look up, my mind and voice come together, still playing the sperm donor game, and when I answer, I do it with a little too much gusto. “Yes.”

In front of me is an older man, standing tall with his hand resting casually on the handle of a suitcase. He’s all salt and pepper—both the tousled hair on his head and spattering of beard over his chin and jaw—and he has the kind of perfect white smile that lands men on magazine covers.

He laughs, raising his eyebrows at what I’m sure probably sounded like flirting to him.

Biting my tongue, I turn away before it’s obvious that I’m checking him out. Maybe he’s a little older than me, but he has a body that matches his face, and when he sits down, I catch his spicy cologne along with the faint smell of coconut sunscreen.

It makes my mouth water. Jesus, it’s been a long time.

He shifts in his seat, dropping his hat down onto his face and leaning back, everything about him graceful. He’s a big guy—tall, with broad shoulders—but he moves with the practice of someone who stays in shape.

The bicep bulging against the sleeve of his T-shirt sleeve tells the same story.

Luckily, I’m distracted from my shameless staring by the rapid vibration of my phone against my ass. Without looking, I immediately know who it is. My sister.

“Chrys?”

“Lovie,” she says, sounding breathless, and my heart immediately drops with the assumption that something has gone wrong.

“What is it?” I ask, sitting up and away from the man next to me. “Everything okay with Dad?”

“No…yeah…everything is okay. I was actually calling to ask if you’re okay. You weren’t texting back. Are the storms affecting your flight?”

Glancing at the handsome man, and finding him still reclined with his hat over his face, I stand, walk over to the flight board, scan the information, then say, “It doesn’t look like mine is delayed.”

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