Hannah gasps.
“Wow,” Brook says. “I think you’re more like Ian than we realized.”
“What?”
Brook holds out her hands and shrugs. “He pretends to be a guru but he’s really a lying prick. You spout positivity quotes and pretend you’re courageous, but really you’re a judgmental coward. I’ve seen enough of human nature to know a dickish judgmental coward when I see one.”
When Brook stops speaking the room goes silent.
I look over at Carly, but she’s still staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at me.
Hannah looks down at her purse.
Brook crosses her arms over her chest.
There’s something inside me that’s whispering, she’s right, she’s right.
I shake my head no.
“You’re the judgmental one. You always blame your husband for being infertile. Well, how about you stop smoking? Don’t you think that has something to do with your egg quality? Maybe it’s more your fault than you care to admit?”
Brook abruptly stands up. The bag of beignets falls to the ground. “I think the meeting’s done.”
I stand too. “Fine. This is my last one anyway.”
No one says anything.
So I grab my purse and walk out of the pink room, down the long dark dirty hallway up the stairs to the darkness of the city.
I don’t need friends. I don’t need Josh. I don’t need Ian. I don’t need them.
I’ve got myself, I’ve got my baby, I’ve got my family.
That’s all I need.
It’s Monday.
I skipped babysitting on Friday and the post-Valentine’s Day pot roast on Sunday. I couldn’t face my family or the possibility that Josh would be at the meal. I couldn’t face it. I feel scraped raw. Plus, I’m exhausted and have constant stabbing cramps that make it feel like my period is on the way.
I looked up cramping in the fertility and pregnancy online forums and almost everyone agreed—cramps are a sign of early pregnancy.
The Live Your Best Life Virtual Conference begins in a few minutes.
We’re all set up with a large poster backdrop, lighting, cameras, microphones, the works. Ian is in a tall chair in the corner getting his makeup and hair done. The sound technicians have already done their checks and the cameras are waiting to feed to the live stream.
I’ve been here since five in the morning getting ready for our nine a.m. start. I check my computer and see that almost twenty thousand people are already logged on waiting for the feeds to go live and for me to give my introduction.
Nearly the entire staff is at their desks, helping with the Q&A, the chats, the loading of the presentations and making sure the day goes smoothly. Lavinia has been tearing around the room reprimanding interns, scolding junior staff members, and for the most part, acting like a banshee. Today, I appreciate it. Her iron fist is going to make sure this whole thing goes off without a hitch.
Ian gets down from his makeup chair and strides across the office. He comes and stands in the stage area beside me. I have to admit, he looks great, like the perfect self-help guru. He gives me his toothy, bright white smile.
“All set, Gemma? My introduction is in…”—he looks down at his sapphire-faced watch—“fifteen minutes.”
I brush my hair back from my face and nod. I’m wearing one of my new dresses, a classic gray shift with a black belt.
“We aren’t going to have any problems, right? All water under the bridge? Keep it professional.” He looks at me from the side of his eyes as he smiles at the cameras. “Let bygones be bygones.”
I glance at him in surprise. That’s the same thing he said to Josh on the sidewalk. “Sure,” I say.
We have little microphones attached to our collars, and I don’t want to say anything, because I’m not sure whether or not the techs are listening. Lavinia is at the sound board, she’s watching me with her usual lemon-sucking frown and eagle-eyed stare.
Oh well.
“How about you practice your introductory remarks one final time. I can give you last-minute pointers on your performance,” Ian says.
“Alright,” I swallow and try to let go of the nerves that have been jangling around inside me since I woke up at three thirty this morning.
Ian steps close to me so that our elbows nearly touch. He’s wearing his usual cologne, and it still smells like pine-sol and musty wood shavings.
He leans in and says in a low voice that I used to find sexy, “Go ahead, Gemma.”
I clear my throat. The professional lights are bright and hot. I wipe away the drip of sweat at my hairline. I’ve been dizzy for the last hour, but I pushed through. This conference is important. It’s going to help thousands of people. A little dizziness can’t get in the way.