So, I guess loving is accepting that it’s about giving and never about taking. If you expect something in return, then love becomes a transaction and it’s not love anymore.
Maybe that’s why I attached myself to Ian. There was never any chance of pain there. And maybe that’s why I never accepted any of my mom’s set-ups, or any other date, because I was too afraid. But now Ian wants more and I don’t know what to do.
Because when I close my eyes at night I don’t see Ian, I see Josh.
But I guess, in the end, I am a coward, because I’m too scared to admit that out loud. Or even really to myself.
Because what if I say something and instead of saying he feels the same way, Josh laughs. Because, ninety-nine times out of a hundred I think it’s guaranteed that that’s what he’ll do.
Carly said I’m brave, but I’m not brave, I’m a coward.
I rub my hand over my belly and try to think of a fertile, happy, pink-uterus garden.
22
Valentine’s Day is here. I spent the last week in a manic haze of symptom spotting. I told myself I wouldn’t do it, but somewhere between the day of the transfer and the next morning I became obsessed with every single tingle, sneeze, or itch.
I kept a diary of symptoms in my phone’s calendar. It reads like a hypochondriac’s wet dream. Slightly congested morning after transfer, symptom of pregnancy? Web search—definitely, yes. Dry skin, chapped lips, symptom? Maybe, yes. Gassy after lunch on day four after transfer, symptom? Possible, yes, but three-day-old fried rice could be culprit. Spot on my chin on day six, symptom? Web search—yes. Vivid dreams, restless sleep. Symptom? Yes. The list goes on…tired, irritable, more thirsty than usual, craving salt, tingling breasts…according to the internet, someone somewhere has had each symptom that I’ve experienced and yes…chapped lips, zits, hiccups, accidently placing your keys in the freezer, and craving watermelon are all a sign of pregnancy. Since I’ve had all these symptoms and more, then I’m definitely, probably, maybe pregnant.
Soon I’ll know.
I lean back in my office chair and the donut pillow under me squeaks. I gave in after too many miserable days of sitting on my needle punctured welt-ridden bum and bought a little ergonomic chair pillow. Lavinia raised an eyebrow the first day I brought it in, but otherwise, no one said anything.
I’ve decided progesterone shots are the worst. The worst.
Who decided it was a good idea to shoot yourself in the butt with a needle day in and day out? It bruises, it welts, it hurts, and then what? How are you supposed to sit?
I look around the office. It’s nearly six and everyone is already gone for the day. I’m nearly wrapped up, Ian’s virtual Live Your Best Life Conference is soon and I’m concentrating on making sure all the partner presentations are complete and on-message. I also wrote another draft of my remarks since Ian asked me to introduce him on the first day. Unfortunately, I had trouble concentrating.
I open up my phone, tap on my calendar, and write trouble concentrating, symptom?
When I look up from my phone, I see Ian. He’s standing at my desk, smiling down at me. He looks good today. He’s dressed in what I’d considered his Hamptons outfit, a dressy casual outfit that would work in a boardroom or on the deck of a yacht.
“Oh, hi,” I say. I slide my phone back into my purse and bite my bottom lip. “How are you?”
Ugh. Brilliant.
Ian grins his bright, white toothy smile. “Ready for the weekend?”
I pat my suitcase, a little overnight bag that I put under my desk this morning. Ian said we’d be leaving from the office.
“Yup. All set, mhmm.” I fidget with the hem of my new dress. I went out with Carly over the weekend and she helped find outfits that “showed off my assets.” I’m in an Audrey Hepburn-inspired dress, with a silk scarf tied in my hair. It’s a long, long way from my usual chunky sweater and legging get-up. It makes me look sophisticated and elegant, so I’m not sure why I’m so uncomfortable.
“Shall we?” Ian asks. “The car is ready.” He holds out his arm. I hesitate for a moment, then Ian says, “I’ve never regretted the doing. Only the not doing.”
I tilt my head. “Is that a new quote?” I haven’t seen that in any of his books or materials before.
“Hmm. Let’s just say, I felt it fit the moment.” He holds out his hand, and when he does, the fluorescent lights of the office shine down and hit him just right. There’s a glow around his black hair, like he’s been anointed by the angels. I’m reminded that he’s Ian Fortune, the man that pulled me out of my self-loathing and hurt after my divorce. He’s Ian Fortune, guru extraordinaire.