Page 18 of Healing Hearts
That makes me laugh, and Trent actually flushes a light pink. “Sorry,” I say, trying to control my laughter. “The visual.” I spin my index finger at the side of my head. “Not quite. It’s a syringe and a long tube, and they basically deliver the sperm as close to the egg as they can. Or at least, that’s what the internet tells me. I haven’t met with anyone yet.”
His brow is furrowed, and I can tell there’s something else he wants to say, but he’s holding it back.
“Do you want me to show you?” I ask.
The timer goes off for breakfast, and Trent pulls out the casserole, dishing up plates for both of us and bringing mine over.
He takes the seat beside me, and our knees graze. He nods at the computer as he takes a forkful of hashbrowns, egg, bacon, cheese, and whatever else he found in my fridge to mix with it. “Show me.”
For the next hour, I take Trent through the databases, search functions, and fertility treatment options.
“Seemed weird to me at first,” Trent says as he cleans up the dishes, “but I can see how you’d like the idea.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking the dishes from him and putting them in the dishwasher.
“With the genetic testing, you wouldn’t have to worry about ending up in a situation like you’ve got with Amir—where you’re not sure of the outcome.” He glances at me after he scoops the leftover casserole into a container for the fridge. “You like certainty, and this would give you that.”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat surprised that he caught all of that without me having to say any of it. “It would.”
“You deserve that,” he says with finality.
And I don’t know why, but his comment makes me a little sad instead of happy.
“Thanks,” I whisper, wishing for something I can’t even name.
Chapter Eight
Trent
The day passes the way snowed-in days typically do, quick in some parts and slow in others. The slowest parts of the day were when I spent a couple of hours trying to cobble together a short-term fix for the snowblower until the roads are clear to get to the hardware store.
I finally got it going, but I know at least part of my problem is that my brain was half caught up in thinking through Em’s decision to go with a sperm donor.
Despite what I said to her, and even though I know it’s a solution that makes sense for her, I don’tlikeit. The idea of some unknown guy getting her pregnant, the idea of watching her expand with some other guy’s baby—none of it sits right with me. And Iknowthat’s ridiculous.
We’re friends. I’ve got zero say in what she does with her life and certainly not with her body. So it bothers me that I’m bothered.
Get a fucking grip, Trent.
I should be happy that she’s pinpointed what she wants out of life. A few months ago, I vowed that I’d do whatever I couldto get her out of this slump, and now that she’s found what she wants, I can’t seem to make myself get fully behind it. Like all those dates she was going on that didn’t seem to satisfy her, this solution doesn’t seem like quite the right fit either. At least to me.
I really hope my reluctance wasn’t obvious when she was telling me about it all.
I want her to be happy—whatever that looks like. And all day I’ve had to remind myself of that fact.
For lunch, we eat the leftover breakfast casserole while Emily combs through databases and adds to her spreadsheets. I find other odds and ends around the house to fill my time—changing light bulbs, tightening handles, fixing squeaky doors, anything to keep myself busy.
At dinner, we make food side by side, getting in each other’s way, jostling shoulders and laughing while we make some stuffed chicken recipe that Em found online. It’s messy as fuck but also funny as hell. The finished product looks like we dug it out of the garbage, but it tastes amazing. The cheese, tomatoes, and spinach complement each other to perfection.
“That’s a winner,” Emily says, pointing to the chicken and potatoes on her plate. “Though I think we also could have submitted it as a Pinterest fail.”
“Does not look like the picture online,” I say. “I don’t know how they got all this shit to stay together in the photo. I suspect a Photoshopwin, there.”
“That would make sense,” Emily says, pointing her fork at me. “Do you want some wine? There’s probably enough for two more glasses.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll get it.”
I pour us both a glass and deliver it to Em at the table. We eat in silence for a few minutes before Emily’s phone rings. When she sees it’s Amir, she puts him on speakerphone,and the two of us tell him about the snowstorm, about me fixing the snowblower, and he tells us about swimming in his grandparents’ pool, about walking their tiny dog, about the new Lego sets they bought him.
