Page 2

Indi

Tears hovered on my eyelashes as I pulled into the driveway.

I was supposed to work for another couple of hours at my job as a massage therapist, but my boss Burton had let me leave early today.

And I had sworn to myself I wasn’t going to test at work.

It always fucked me up, ruined the rest of my day so I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

But I’d been so hopeful. At lunch, Burton’s Philly cheese steak sandwich had made me feel a little nauseated, and my breasts were achy and sensitive.

But when I looked at the test on the bathroom counter it was the exact same result as every month for the last three years we had been trying to have a baby.

One line.

One stupid line and the rest of the test was plain as fuck, totally blank without even a hint of pinkish color. Not even a ghost of a line.

The gears in my brain instantly starting whirring with desperation.

Maybe it was a faulty test.

Maybe it was an old test.

A bad batch.

Maybe if I tried again with the first pee of the day tomorrow morning.

But my stomach sunk with despair and I dropped the test into the garbage with numb fingers.

Failed again.

What was wrong with me? Why was this so easy for all my friends but so hard for me?

Ambrose had gotten a sperm test. There was nothing wrong with him. He had a normal sperm count.

It had to be me .

I was only 33, for God’s sake.

And I was the reason we had been trying so long, with no success at all.

Ambrose didn’t understand it. He was always wanting to fix it, find the problem. Drink this green smoothie, up my protein, do more yoga together. Start IVF. I was exhausted by his brain trying to logically solve my infertility, even though he meant well.

I wanted to just focus on relaxing. Every month that went by made me more tense and wound-up.

This sucked.

Even though we’d been fighting more recently, I needed the comfort of my husband’s arms right now, needed him to hug me and tell me everything was going to be OK. Even if afterwards he said: with 55 grams of protein a day, you’ll definitely get pregnant.

Ambrose’s car was in the driveway of our big cream and brick-colored house, but when I let myself inside, he wasn’t there.

Not sitting at the table with his laptop and a stack of scholarly journals, or out doing laps in our pool, his long strong arms scything in perfect lines from one end to the other.

Well, damn, where was he? Had he gone on a run?

We were supposed to be training for a half-marathon or something, even though I had little to no interest in that. But if I didn’t try out his hobbies we wouldn’t have anything to do together.

I wandered out to the backyard, morosely sucking on my iced lavender latte.

That’s when I heard it.

A squeaking sound coming from our neighbor’s yard.

Eek, awkward. Astrid must be fucking someone at 3 pm in the afternoon.

I mean, all right. She was recently divorced. The hedge back there between our houses was pretty tall. I guess it wasn’t that strange.

Good thing Ambrose wasn’t here.

He was so stiff and proper that he’d be probably be all furious at the lack of Dignity and Decorum and report them to the HOA.

I wasn’t going to do that. Astrid was a little cold, but she was nice enough. Since she worked in an adjacent department to Ambrose’s, we’d seen each other quite a bit in the last year or so. She wasn’t the easiest person to get to know, but we were casual friends.

After all, that would make an awkward situation to report my next-door neighbor to the HOA.

Then I heard something else.

A deep voice.

I had already turned to go inside, but at that sound I froze.

Wait, what the fuck?

I paused, straining to hear it again.

I was just being ridiculous.

My husband and I were in the process of having a baby . We’d been married for 5 years and were still madly in love.

But then I heard it again.

A gravelly rumble that was different than his usual modulated, cultured tones.

I knew that voice

My heart pounding, I rushed down my manicured lawn.

I wanted to cry out,

Who is that

Who is there

It’s not him, is it

He wouldn’t

He loves me

But my voice wouldn’t work.

I pressed my face up against the hedge, my fingers yanking the thick, dense greenery apart.

And I saw them.

Ambrose and Astrid on her new garden patio furniture.

Ambrose was sitting in the chair, his long legs sprawled wide.

He was still wearing his tweed jacket, like he’d just come from work, his tie askew.

Astrid was astride him, her skirt pooling around her long sleek thighs.

He had his hand in between their bodies, and under my horrified eyes I saw him moving his fingers rapidly.

I realized with horror that he was fapping at her clit, trying to get her to come.

His shirt sleeves were pushed up, the cuffs hanging loose.

Ambrose never allowed himself to look this unkempt.

No need to worry that he’d see the new hole in the hedge, because his eyes were glued on her.

“Come on, baby. Almost there.”

His hand was frenetic, practically fucking starting a fire, the tendons straining in his forearms.

Astrid was looking down at where their bodies were connected, her hips jerking back and forth.

“Faster,” she breathed. “Almost there.”

I saw sweat break out on Ambrose’s forehead, his glasses slide down his nose, his hand move so fast it was a blur.

“You ready to be filled?” he groaned.

His eyes were locked so tightly on her, so greedy to watch her every pulse and twitch.

Ready to be filled?

How could he do this to me?

Was it my fault?

“You’re so naughty,” Astrid purred, “so wicked. It’s dangerous to fuck in the middle of the day like this, but you just can’t stay away, can you?”

“I shouldn’t have,” Ambrose groaned. “She might catch us.”

He meant me

That was how my husband talked about me when I wasn’t there. A she to be worked around.

Astrid came with a juddering shake, gripping his hair, her dress falling down her back so he could suck her pointy nipple into his mouth, his suctioning tongue laving all around her breasts with loud, obscene sounds.

“Ready for me to fill you with my cum?” he growled. “You want a baby in this belly?”

All the air left my lungs, as I clutched my flat, empty belly.

This was a nightmare

I was living in a nightmarish parody of a marriage.

And I opened my mouth and screamed.

Present day

Astrid and Ambrose were both standing in their driveway staring at me, Astrid looking like she’d stepped in shit and Ambrose’s face drained of all color.

It had taken many months for me to be able to look at him without a pang of pain. At first I had only stayed in the house because I wanted to finally do the backyard garden exactly like I wanted.

Then, as I began to transform the yard, I didn’t want to go anywhere.

He was not going to chase me out of my own home.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“How—when?” Ambrose started, raising his hand, then belatedly realizing it was not polite to point at a pregnant woman’s belly. He dropped his hand abruptly, pursing his lips together like a pig’s asshole.

He looked like such a stuffed suit, drawing himself up poker-straight. God, what had I ever seen in him? Was I blinded by his height? The fact that he had this attractive thick salt and pepper hair with one romantic curl falling across his forehead?

Did I have some sort of professor fetish?

“We’re both pregnant at the same time,” I said, because they were just staring at me. “Isn’t that fun! How many weeks are you along, again?”

“25 weeks,” Astrid said, her mouth barely opening, like if she barely opened it she wasn’t responsible for her words.

“Me, too,” I said brightly. “25 weeks on Saturday. We’re due at the same time. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Is there a. . .father?” Astrid broke in, her too-big blindingly white veneers barely fitting in her mouth. “Or sperm bank we can congratulate?”

“I’ll pass your congratulations along to the father,” I said. “He’s on a business trip now.”

Ambrose’s face flushed and he tightened his lips.

He never liked to be bested in anything, and I could read the signs that he was getting annoyed at feeling knocked off his balance.

“Congratulations,” my ex-husband said. “I am—sure that was a surprise to you.”

“On the contrary,” I retorted sweetly. “I wasn’t even trying to get pregnant. My baby daddy is just particularly virile.”

“Who is the father?” Ambrose asked abruptly.

His fingers went to the knot in his tie, worrying the silky fabric like he wanted to yank it off.

“None of your business,” I said coolly. “My pregnancy is none of your damn business. And don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”