I’ve lied to you about plenty of things, Molly, but one area where I’ve actually been honest is in my struggle to have a child. This is a struggle that you and I share, a haunting desire that binds us. The only difference is that my hurdle is not biological—at least not that I know of. My hurdle is psychological. My hurdle is Jake.
It wasn’t always this way, obviously. Let’s make Jake-and-Sisi babies, he said once upon a time, his eyes lighting up with excitement, filling my heart with possibility.
But now, he’s hesitant. There’s something holding him back, something that was never there before.
Later, he says.
Soon.
I’m not ready.
I’m still not ready.
Stop pushing, Sisi.
I know that once it happens—once we do conceive, once he holds our little baby in his arms—his fears will melt away. In the meantime, I’m doing what I can. The FCCC is a family-oriented place—about as family-oriented as it gets. Chubby babies floating with their mothers in the turquoise pool, tots in tennis whites with miniature rackets, neatly dressed children sipping Shirley Temples in the clubhouse while their parents mingle. Camp, swim team, junior golf.
Jake and I are practically the only members without children, which means everyone is constantly chivvying: When are we going to see a little Danner around here?
It’s the perfect excuse to take the conversation home to Jake. Like I do tonight.
We’re lying in bed. Clean sheets, freshly ironed by our cleaning lady, Priscilla. She comes twice a week.
I’m ovulating, according to the app on my phone. Jake doesn’t know. He’s propped up on a pile of pillows, scribbling in his notebook. I lean over to his side of our king bed, slip my hand under the waistband of his boxers.
“Sees. I’m working.”
I ignore this. I take the notebook from his hands and drop it to the floor, hooking my thighs over his hips. I push his boxers all the way down, press my lips to his stomach, work my way south.
“Sisi. Not now.”
I don’t listen. I take him in my mouth, and he’s growing hard. Progress. I slide my lips all the way down till he rams the back of my throat. He usually goes crazy when I do this.
“Sisi.” He pushes me away, off of him, yanks his boxers back up.
“Jesus, Jake. What?”
“I just think we should be careful.”
“Careful?”
“You know I’m not ready. You got your period two weeks ago. I know what that means.”
I say nothing, waiting, testing him.
“Now is your…” He pauses. “Fertile window.”
“Calm down. I’m on the Pill.”
“You never remember to take it.”
He isn’t wrong, but I’m surprised he knows this. Jake is secretly very perceptive, though he probably doesn’t realize I “forget” to take my birth control on purpose.
I sit up, irritation rising in my chest. “Why don’t you want to have a baby?” I’m not yelling, but almost.
“That’s not what I said.” He sighs, interlacing his hands across his chest.
“Everyone keeps asking when we’re going to have one.”
“Who’s ‘everyone’？”
“I don’t know. People at the club.”
I watch Jake resist the urge to roll his eyes. “We’re both still young,” he reasons. “Your mom was almost forty when she had you.”
“That was a completely different situation, and you know it.” I scowl. My parents’ choice to have me was a now-or-never sort of verdict, a decision they came to as my mom got past the point of “advanced maternal age.” In retrospect, having me is something they likely regret. Or at least look back on with indifference.
“I’m not like my mother,” I press. “I want a baby. And I don’t want to be fifty when my child is in grade school.”
“Look, I’ve been busy with work and the solo album.” Jake swallows, his Adam’s apple dipping. “I need the summer to focus.”
“Fine. So we’ll start trying in the fall.” I don’t give him the luxury of posing it as a question.
He fiddles with the edge of the top sheet. French blue scalloped embroidery. He stares at his fingers, lost in thought. Finally, he looks up. “Did you know my ex lived in Flynn Cove?” The question is so out of nowhere, it spears me. It cuts right into my center.
“What?”
“Molly.” He locks my gaze, a flash of blue. “I mean … I’m sorry—it’s just…” He sighs, runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “What are the chances we both end up living in the same tiny town?”