But none of that will get through because Matthew is convinced about his rightness, and it’s not my job to teach him empathy. It’s not like I’m going to see him again. I’m thirty-five, and I want a child. My biological clock makes me ruthless. I don’t want Matthew Barnes to be the father of my child—perish the thought—which means I can cut him loose.
“Let’s change the subject,” I suggest mildly. “Did your niece like the cereal you got her?”
Twenty minutes into the meal, I can’t take it anymore. I excuse myself to go to the washroom and call my brother Andre. “I need to get out of here,” I tell him. “Can you call me in ten minutes with an emergency?”
He laughs into the phone. “Grocery store guy not working out?”
“You have no idea.”
“I thought you found him charming.”
“First impressions can be misleading.” So misleading. “Actually, on second thought, don’t wait ten minutes. Call me in five.”
“That bad? No worries, Soph. I’ve got you.”
True to his word, Andre calls me five minutes later. “My brother,” I say to Matthew. “Sorry, I have to take this.” I pick up the call. “Hey, Andre. What’s up?”
“Soph,” he says, his voice loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We have an emergency here. Your cat is projectile vomiting all over the house. She hisses at me when I get close to her. Where are you? You have to get back home.”
I struggle not to laugh. Andre is absolutely brilliant. He sounds at the end of his tether. If I really had a cat, I would be panicking.
I’m not as good an actor as he is. “Oh no,” I exclaim, a little too loudly. What would a concerned pet owner say next? “Poor Foofoo. Call the vet. Her phone number is on the refrigerator door. Tell her I’ll be bringing Foofoo in.”
Matthew can hear the conversation, of course; Andre hadn’t kept his voice down. He makes a face. “You have a cat?”
“I have three,” I lie shamelessly, getting to my feet and digging in my purse for money. The damn steak was sixty bucks, and I’ve barely eaten a quarter of it. I should get a box—Andre might want it. “There’s Foofoo, Mimi, and Sir Farts-A-Lot.” Matthew’s expression indicates that he thinks I’m a crazy cat lady, and I lean into the stereotype. “Foofoo has a sensitive stomach, the poor dear. She does like steak, though. Maybe I’ll take the rest to her.”
“You’re taking your cat a T-bone?”
His expression is priceless. I love it. “Nothing’s too good for my little monster,” I tell him, putting four twenty-dollar bills on the table. I pick up my plate and look around for our waitress. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”
Andre isin the backyard when I get home. I kick off my heels and join him there. “How bad was it?” he asks with a grin.
“I thought it was bad when he ordered for me, but then he said that everyone wants a handout these days, and that was worse.”
“Sounds like a winner.” My brother drinks some of his beer. “What did you get?”
“A steak. I barely ate any of it. The leftovers are in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Soph. You hungry? You want me to cook you something?”
Andre is a chef. He’s usually at work on a Friday night, but he’s been at home for the last couple of days getting over a stomach bug. He rarely cooks at home, so if he’s offering to make me something, he must be chomping at the bit to get back to his kitchen.
“Nah, I’ll just make myself a sandwich.” I steal his bottle of beer and take a swig. “Four awful dates in a row.”
“It happens. What’s the big deal?”
I give him an annoyed glance. It’s dark in the backyard, and my glare bounces off Andre. “Really? We’re doing this again? I’m thirty-five. I want to have a baby. I’m already considered someone of advanced maternal age. I don’t have time to waste.”
My brother shakes his head. “You know, for a supposedly smart person, you’re being pretty dumb. Getting pregnant isn’t the only way to have a child, as you should know.”
“I’m not going to adopt. Papa and Dad didn’t have the easiest time of it.” That’s putting it mildly. They couldn’t legally adopt us because they were a gay couple. As for my birth mother. . . The kindest thing I can say about her is that she was troubled. She would show up outside our house, drunk and loud and belligerent, demanding that my fathers give her money. I spent a large part of my childhood terrified that she’d take me away from my home.
“So what?” Andre’s teeth flash in the dark. “They didn’t let it stop them.”
Andre is ten years younger than me. He wasn’t around for the worst of it. I think I’ve healed okay from the trauma, but I’m absolutely determined not to go the adoption route. I’m not being rational, I know, but when I have a child—if I have a child—nobody will ever be able to threaten me the way Denise had threatened my fathers.
I’ve tensed up. He reads the set of my shoulders and lets it go. “Okay, fine. No adoption. What about artificial stuff?”