Page 1

Lovie

I clamp myself into the world’s stiffest airport chair, avoiding my email like it’s radioactive, and wonder who thought “Jetport Way” sounded like a good name for an airport.

Around me, passengers roll their suitcases, check gates, and wait in a growing line to talk to the attendant.

Apparently, there have been some re-routed flights because of the storms in the area today.

Across from me, a mother settles down with her baby, and I can’t stop myself from looking, even with the deep ache it causes in my chest.

The baby is in a soft yellow dress with a little daisy pattern, wearing a matching hat with soft white ruffles. She’s crying, her mouth open and gummy, her hands reaching for her mother. There is only a sparse little patch of hair on her head.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, trying to reach into her bag with one hand while bouncing the little girl with her other arm. When her eyes flick up to mine, they’re tired, ringed with exhaustion. “Do you mind?”

I smile, shake my head, and jostle the earbuds on my keychain. “I’ve always got these if I need them. Don’t worry about it at all.”

She laughs and finally pulls out what she’s looking for—a blanket to cover her chest while she nurses. I force myself to look away, force myself to ignore the turning in my stomach, the jealousy and want that pound through me to the point of nausea.

Searching for a distraction, I check for the fourth time that my boarding pass is still snug in the front pocket of my purse.

Then I return to my phone and read through an article about the Portland jetport.

I’ve flown out here in the past, every few years, for a family vacation when I was a kid, but never wondered about the name’s distinction before.

Apparently, there’s no real purpose behind the name.

Feeling unsatisfied, I do the unthinkable and tap over to my email app, the plain white inbox loading for an unreasonable amount of time, before finally popping up with my most recent inbox.

At the top of the list there's a new email from the clinic.

I tap on it immediately, then have to wait another minute for the email itself to load. When it won’t, I bite my tongue and dial the number for the clinic, needing to know.

“Portland Premiere Fertility Clinic, this is Betty. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Betty,” I use my most professional voice, glance around at the other travelers, and hope nobody is listening in on the conversation. “I’m calling because I got an email update, but can’t read the message.”

“Oh,” she says, pausing for a moment. “Who’s your fertility coach?”

“Dr. Cohen.”

“Let me just transfer you over.”

I open my mouth to tell her no—that talking directly to Dr. Cohen might not be the best for my anxiety levels, but it’s too late. The phone is already dialing.

“Hello, this is Dr. Cohen speaking.”

“Hi, this is Lovie Waters, I just got an email update from the clinic, but I’m at the airport right now and can’t load it.”

Maybe I should say more, ask a specific question, but my brain feels smooth. The moment ticks on, Dr. Cohen clearly waiting for me to say something else, and I flounder for a second before she finally speaks, saving me from the discomfort.

“Oh, sure, of course,” Dr. Cohen says, in that soothing, straightforward way she has. “Just give me one moment…”

As I listen to the sound of her mouse and keyboard on the other end of the line, I picture her in her office, that smooth, straight auburn hair that reflects in the light, the settling way her brown eyes focus in. She seemed competent, and the way she spoke about the process was matter of fact.

“Alright, Lovie, it looks like your results came in. You should be able to review those once you have a better connection, but essentially, we’re looking at a pretty decent playing field, considering your age. Hormone levels look adequate. Your blood work came back with good markers.”

“That’s great.” Even as I say it, I can sense the “but” lurking on the other end of the line.

“However,” she says, clearing her throat, “you are approaching the age for what we would consider a geriatric pregnancy, like we discussed during your consultation. With age, those eggs have a harder and harder time producing a viable embryo, so it’s important that we get started as soon as possible.

The first step is the fertility treatment itself—you’ll do a few rounds of that before we move on to egg retrieval and more aggressive prescriptions. ”

“Okay.” I clear my throat, and resist the urge to tap my foot and instead cross my legs, keeping myself still. “I’ll need to give you a new pharmacy. I’m actually moving to Baltimore for work, but I’m planning to fly home for our appointments.”

Never mind the fact that the fertility clinic is expensive enough itself, even without the added flights home. It took me months to get on the waitlist for an appointment, and I’m not risking setting this whole thing back to change clinics now.

“Alright,” Dr. Cohen says, her voice optimistically cautious.

“But keep in mind what we talked about—trying to keep your stress levels as low as possible. Chemically, your body responds to stress hormones negatively, which can degrade the quality of your eggs. But on a more macro level, we care about you as a person, and it’s important to remember that you’re more than an incubator.

You have to take care of yourself if you expect your body to grow a baby for you, right? ”

“Right,” I agree, even though I know I’m more than capable of doing both. I’m organized, intelligent. I can handle this job, the distance, my family—everything that’s happened to us this year. That’s who I am. “I will keep that in mind, thank you.”

“Of course. They should provide you with instructions for your injections at the pharmacy. And, of course, if you have questions or need any help, you can always give me a call. I’ll see you for your next scheduled appointment, and we can check in on how the treatment is working.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Lovie—remember to focus on that sleep hygiene, okay?”

That makes me yawn, and reminds me that I tossed and turned last night, only getting an hour of sleep at a time before I finally pulled myself from bed at four, not wanting to prolong the torture.

She and I had discussed the sleep portion of the questionnaire, with her suggesting a sleep study to help me improve this aspect of my health.

You have to take care of yourself if you expect your body to grow a baby for you .

But it’s like my body won’t let me take care of it, keeping me awake even when I lie there for hours, desperately trying to drift off.

When I get off the phone with the doctor, I see that my phone has finally finished loading a PDF document from the lab at the clinic.

For the next hour, I tap between my levels and the search results explaining exactly what they mean, then I open my fertility spreadsheet and input all the information.

The clinic will keep track for me, but it doesn’t hurt to maintain my own records.

For all the markers on my hormones and blood work, I’m on the low end of ideal. Maybe I should be grateful for that, considering what Dr. Cohen said. I’m only two years away from being considered a geriatric fertility patient.

When I surface from looking at my phone, the sky outside the windows isn’t as dark, the storm clouds a softer gray, the rain lessening to a weak drizzle against the glass.

A man joins the mother sitting across from me and takes the baby from her. Now that she’s fed, the baby is more angelic, nestling right into the crook of her father’s arm. He’s young and handsome, with a full head of dark hair and dimples.

When I’d taken a quick look at the sperm donors in the clinic, I looked for dimples in the description. Maybe they don’t take that information. Maybe people blessed enough to have dimples don’t think of donating their sperm.

He shifts, smiling down at his baby, and I can’t stop myself from thinking that he’s a good choice for DNA if I’ve ever seen one. That’s probably not why the woman across from me chose him, but it’s way too late for me to do things the traditional way.

Doing a quick scan of the space, I clock each of the men at the gate, sitting or standing by the attendant desk. Tall, shoulder-length blond hair and flip-flops? No. Sideburns and fedora? Double no.

The instant I look at them, my mind produces a reason they’re not a good choice. Short legs. Bad posture. Acne, pale skin, balding.

“Is it okay if I take this seat?”

When I look up, my mind and voice come together, still playing the sperm donor game, and when I answer, I do it with a little too much gusto. “Yes.”

In front of me is an older man, standing tall with his hand resting casually on the handle of a suitcase. He’s all salt and pepper—both the tousled hair on his head and spattering of beard over his chin and jaw—and he has the kind of perfect white smile that lands men on magazine covers.

He laughs, raising his eyebrows at what I’m sure probably sounded like flirting to him.

Biting my tongue, I turn away before it’s obvious that I’m checking him out. Maybe he’s a little older than me, but he has a body that matches his face, and when he sits down, I catch his spicy cologne along with the faint smell of coconut sunscreen.

It makes my mouth water. Jesus, it’s been a long time.

He shifts in his seat, dropping his hat down onto his face and leaning back, everything about him graceful. He’s a big guy—tall, with broad shoulders—but he moves with the practice of someone who stays in shape.

The bicep bulging against the sleeve of his T-shirt sleeve tells the same story.

Luckily, I’m distracted from my shameless staring by the rapid vibration of my phone against my ass. Without looking, I immediately know who it is. My sister.

“Chrys?”

“Lovie,” she says, sounding breathless, and my heart immediately drops with the assumption that something has gone wrong.

“What is it?” I ask, sitting up and away from the man next to me. “Everything okay with Dad?”

“No…yeah…everything is okay. I was actually calling to ask if you’re okay. You weren’t texting back. Are the storms affecting your flight?”

Glancing at the handsome man, and finding him still reclined with his hat over his face, I stand, walk over to the flight board, scan the information, then say, “It doesn’t look like mine is delayed.”

“Okay,” Chrys says, and I can picture her running her hand through her hair.

Her’s is a lighter brown like mom’s, so much finer than the thick, glossy hair I share with Dad.

I wonder if she’s sitting at the kitchen table and if Dad is there with her.

“It does look worse down south, but I just wanted to check.”

“I think those southern routes are pushing some flights over here.” I shift onto my right foot and cup my opposite elbow with my hand, thinking. “That could delay us—I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I’m boarding.”

“Okay. Good.”

A beat passes, then I clear my throat and ask, “How is Dad doing?”

The volume of Chrys’ voice drops immediately, and I know it’s because she doesn’t want Dad to overhear her talking about him. So, they’re not eating dinner together. “He had another accident this morning. But he’s been chipper about it.”

That makes sense. Our Dad has been surprisingly, almost troublingly chipper about everything since what happened.

I say goodbye to Chrys and head back to my seat, eyes snapping to the napping man again. The ease of his posture is impossibly relaxed compared to the other, more high-strung passengers around us.

Including me.

Twisting the ring on my right hand, I decide I’m done ogling and need something substantial to take my mind off of everything, so I do what I do best—distract myself with work.

When I sit, I pop in my ear buds, open my laptop and find last year’s Stanley Cup finals.

I’ve already watched through the others, and I’m on the last game in the series now.

I queue it and wait for the terrible airport Wi-Fi to do its job.

The notes on my tablet are color-coordinated, and I pull them up, glancing through them while I wait for the game to load.

Finally, after a few minutes, the video starts up and the announcer’s crackling voice fills my ear buds.

“…puck bounces past the right post, and into the air on a blast to the goal—but it's into the glove of Roman Petroff! A great save by this Atlanta Fire’s goalie…”

I take notes about form, communication, and the basic rules of the game, just like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks after I received an offer for the position and realized I was going to have to go from knowing basically nothing about hockey to being a passable professional.

Because in less than five hours—barring a delay from the storms—I’ll land in Baltimore, head to an NHL arena, and start my first day as the official Director of Player Development for the Baltimore Blue Crabs.