Sophia
Ihave enough time to do a couple loads of laundry, sign up with a sperm donor site, and browse sample entries before Sunday dinner. It’s intimidating. Apart from information about race, blood type, height, and weight, there’s also something called the Temperament Report, a donor essay about why they chose to participate in the program, a simulation of what the baby might look like, and more.
Information overload.
My head is spinning after just ten minutes on the site, though in fairness, it could also be because I barely got any sleep last night. Not that I’m complaining about that. Not at all.
Thinking about last night makes me think about Damien and Julian again. Is what we have a relationship? Is it heading in that direction? Or is it an extended fling? I wish I had a crystal ball to peer into the future or a time machine because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m going to do. If I’m going to go the sperm donor route, I need to commit to it. Fertility treatments are frighteningly expensive. So if I’m planning to move forward, I have to be all in.
Does Julian want children? Does Damien? They haven’t said. I haven’t asked either. If we were in a serious relationship, would they want to be parents? But even if they do, how would it work? I don’t want to pick between men. Will they draw straws to determine who has the chance to get me pregnant? It’s entirely ridiculous.
I should probably have had these conversations before I jumped into bed with them, but I can’t bring myself to regret last night.
Thankfully, before I have a chance to brood too much, it’s time to cook dinner. Andre shows up just as I’m chopping onions, mushrooms, and peppers. “What are you making?” he asks, looking around curiously.
“Fajitas.”
“Ooh, nice. Want help?”
This is a rare offer, and I’m not about to turn it down. “Yes, please. Can you make the rice?”
He makes a scoffing noise in his throat. “I’m a chef, and you’re going to have me make rice?”
I roll my eyes. If I put him to work on the chicken, he’d complain that I made him cook the entire meal. My brother likes to grumble. “Siri, find me a polite way of telling Andre I don’t care,” I retort unsympathetically.
At family dinner,once we’re done with our time-honored tradition of talking about what we’re eating, we go around the table, giving everyone an update on our lives. “I did the basic fertility tests,” I announce when it's my turn.
“When do you get the results?” Aurora asks.
“Wednesday. I have an appointment with Dr. Hernandez. If everything looks okay, it's on to selecting a sperm donor. If my results aren't great, I'm not sure what happens. I guess I’ll find out.”
“Are you nervous?” This question is from Papa.
“A little bit.” Thankfully, Julian and Damien have been a very effective distraction. I would have been a nervous wreck all week had it not been for them.
Some people would think that this is an astonishingly personal discussion to have with your family, but not me. This is just the way we are. We tell each other everything.
Almost everything.
Once again, I haven't talked about Julian and Damien. This time, the reason I’m keeping them a secret is pretty simple. The moment I mention that I'm seeing someone, my family will ask me the obvious question. If I’m in a relationship, does it make sense to proceed with the fertility treatment?
I’m so torn. I genuinely have no idea what to do. My family wants what's best for me, but I need to work this out on my own before throwing it open for discussion. I value their advice, but right now, all it will do is confuse me further.
“What about you, Simon?” Dad asks. “What's going on with you?”
“Cantor Lane is finally done,” my brother says triumphantly. “We finished on Friday. The homeowners loved it.”
“Of course they did,” Papa says. “You do good work.”
“Do you have your next job lined up?” Dad is always concerned with our financial stability. Another leftover from the havoc Denise wrecked on our lives.
“Not yet, no. I'm going to take some time off first.” He catches sight of Dad's expression and hastily adds, “Just a couple of days. I'll check my messages on Wednesday, I promise.”
Ben looks exasperated. “You still haven’t checked your voicemails? You can’t do it all yourself, Simon. Hire an office person.”
“It’s on my list.”
Simon mentioning voicemails reminds me of Julian’s hothouse. “Hey, did Julian Kincaid call you about a job?”