Page 16

Lovie

“ Y ou’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The moment I get the text with his address, I can’t help but say my reaction out loud. Because his apartment is the exact same building as mine, just several floors up. For months—nearly four of them now—I’ve been living below him this entire time without knowing.

I step onto the elevator, holding the package in my hands, listening to the cellophane crinkle when I pass it back and forth.

For nearly an hour, I debated on what to wear to his place. On one hand, it’s not like I had to take an Uber over there, and I thought it might just be low-key to wear the sweats and T-shirt I had on.

But on the other hand, something tugged at me to look a little nicer.

Probably because this is only going to work if Harrison feels the drive to have sex. I should at least put some effort into being appealing.

So I took a long, hot shower. Shaved, exfoliated, moisturized. Pulled on a pair of snug jeans, pulled my hair down from its top-knot on my head, and straightened it until it was shiny, natural waves gone. Then, right before I walked out, I spritzed on some perfume, then immediately regretted it.

Now, the elevator dings, and I step out onto the small landing. Unlike my floor, which is a long, wide hallway with several doors on either side, this is just a little landing with two doors, one facing east and the other facing west.

I find Harrison’s apartment, swallow, and knock on the door.

“Lovie,” he says, opening it a second later, his eyes dropping instantly to the package in my hand. “What is that?”

“Sourdough,” I say, raising it up, feeling silly for it the second I do. I couldn’t exactly bring a bottle of wine—it’s not like I can drink it, and I know him drinking it could lower his sperm count—so I’d thought bread might be a suitable house gift.

As it always does, a flicker of guilt rolls through me, like headlights through a window at night.

It’s hard to acknowledge the realization that I’m compelled to bring a gift to a house party because my mom bred that into me.

Even when I was going for sleepovers as a kid, she’d send me with a plate of brownies or some flowers for the parents.

“Perfect,” Harrison says, reaching out and taking the bread from me, pulling me from my thoughts.

When his eyes flick to mine, there’s something there that tells me he caught the grief, saw something on my face and wanted to pull me away from it.

Maybe that comes from coaching—a heightened awareness of others.

“I have artisanal butter in the fridge and nothing to put it on.”

At first, I think he’s lying about that, but ten minutes later, I’m seated at the breakfast bar while he stands in the kitchen, cooking, a little plate of bread and butter in front of me. I watch him move, transfixed, as he shifts around his kitchen, cutting and sliding ingredients into a bowl.

His apartment might be in the same building as mine, but it’s something different entirely.

Because it takes up half the top floor and it’s all windows on the sides, letting in the light from the setting sun and offering a stunning view of the city.

The Patapsco River and west channel are glittering brilliantly in the soft orange glow.

“What are you making?” I ask, leaning forward to watch as he tosses red seasoning into a bowl of cubed chicken. It already smells amazing, and my stomach growls loudly, so I pick up a piece of the bread.

It’s very, very good.

“Cajun pasta,” he says. Then, meeting my eyes, he amends, “No shrimp—not too spicy. Oh, and I got you this.”

He turns around and reaches into the fridge, unearthing a bottle of red liquid. I watch as he sets it down, then picks it up.

“You got this for me?”

“The woman at the grocery store said it was good for fertility.”

A blush rises to my cheeks when I think about Harrison talking to someone at the grocery store about me. What did he say? Did she think of me as his wife? His daughter? Did she think it was weird that a man his age was with a woman worried about fertility?

“Thank you,” I manage to croak, and when I meet his gaze, there’s some amusement there. He nods and turns back to his cooking, and I sit quietly chewing on my bread, willing myself to relax.

But this entire thing feels too weird—too domestic.

“You didn’t have to cook me dinner,” I say, eyeing the ingredients spread out over the counter. “This is just sperm, remember?”

“I remember,” he laughs, not stopping the movement of his knife in a way that’s impressive. “You need to be nourished to make a baby, right? So this is all in the spirit of the goal.”

For some reason, that makes something relax inside me, and I look down at the plate of bread, only to realize I’ve had the last piece.

“Here,” he says, pushing a new plate under me.

“When did you even do that?” I ask, laughing, swearing he was cutting bell peppers the entire time.

For the next hour, I watch him as he puts the chicken into the pan, as he sautes peppers and onions, as he pinches up salt and pepper from little pots like an actual chef.

And we talk. We talk about how he enjoys cooking, how he’s lived in this apartment since his divorce, how he grew up down the street from the property manager.

“I didn’t know you grew up in Baltimore,” I say, taking another sip of the tea—which is surprisingly good.

“Yep,” he says, straining the pasta and tossing it into the pan with the sauce and chicken.

His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and I can’t stop focusing on the little spot on his forearms where the muscles flex.

“Grew up in West Baltimore. Not on the most dangerous streets, but close enough. He and I were in a low-income afterschool program together.”

“I didn’t realize it was like that for you, growing up.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t have a lot of money. And the schools back then were hurting for funding. That’s why I want to do the program. There’s just…something different about hockey.”

I wait for him to say more, and he does, something almost shy in his expression.

“Hockey is more physical than other sports. It gives you a chance to let out your aggression in a safe, legal way. It’s an outlet for kids who have nowhere else to put that energy.

But gear is expensive, and it’s a hell of a lot more money to maintain an ice rink than a basketball court.

Not like you’re going to find a rink just anywhere to practice.

So offering up those opportunities for free?

It’s a little opportunity for kids who don’t have it so easy. ”

“That’s…” I take a breath, still thinking about the time, the resources, but seeing what he’s talking about.

If I was on the outside—not judged for the team’s performance this year, not looking so microscopically at the data—I’d be pushing for it, too.

“I think it’s a good idea. For those kids to have something like that. ”

“So, what?” he glances at me, then pushes a plate of pasta my way. Little tendrils of steam rise from it, and the smell literally makes my mouth water. “Did you lose your family fortune or something?”

“No,” I laugh and glance across the room, at the dining table that’s strangely empty. “Should we move over there?”

Harrison glances too, then the corners of his mouth go down as he shrugs, “Nah—we’re already here.”

I won’t argue—I’m hungry and ready to eat. “Okay.”

Together, we dig into the food, and I have to purposefully keep myself from moaning at the taste.

It’s not just that it’s good—it’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had since moving to Baltimore.

Chrys is the chef at home, and since getting here, I’ve mostly been eating bagged salads, microwave mac n’ cheese, and soup from the can.

“You avoided the question,” Harrison teases, looking at me from under his eyelashes. “Did you grow up rich or something?”

It takes a moment for my brain to come out of the food haze.

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head and wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“No—pretty middle class, I think. I never had to think about money, and we pretty much always got to go on a vacation. My mom saved up and took me to Paris when I graduated, and we worked together to pay for Chrys’ trip to Japan.

I think things were easier for them when we moved out, but my dad was laid off shortly before the accident. ”

“The accident?”

I freeze, hand halfway to a glass of water, realizing I casually mentioned something so un-casual. This is not something that I should be sharing with a man I’m using as a sperm donor.

It’s something that’s become such an integral part of the fabric of my life that I completely forgot he wouldn’t already know what I was talking about.

“Uh,” I stall for a second, trying to figure out what to do.

I don’t think I can handle pity right now.

But when I look up at Harrison, there’s no pity in his eyes.

Just curiosity and concern. Setting the glass down and grabbing the fork again, I say, “My parents were in a car accident about…well, almost a year ago, now. My mom didn’t make it.

My dad has been dealing with some pretty serious issues, some balance and processing stuff from his head injury. ”

I take another bite, force myself forward, and when I glance at Harrison again, his eyes are still on me, his food forgotten.

“That’s why you’re so pressed for money?”

“What?” It’s not what I was expecting him to say.

“Your dad lost his job. I’m guessing that also means he lost his insurance.”

“Yeah, actually. He was still job searching, and hadn't signed up for new insurance in the meantime. I was doing consultations for some big firms in Maine, and the money was good, but it didn’t come anywhere near touching…everything he needed.”

Harrison is nodding, returning to eating his pasta. “That sucks. And you stepped up.”

“I guess,” I swallow. “Chrys is the one at home, taking care of him?—”

“But you’re footing the bill?”

I nod, biting my lip, not knowing how to negate that.

Harrison nods, reaching out and taking another drink from his water. “So you’re stepping up.”

That settles between us, and I clear my throat, shifting in my seat. “What about you? Are your parents living in Baltimore, too?”

“Mom did. She died—cancer. About ten years ago, now.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nods. “It sucked, but at least she got the time she did. Dad was never in the picture, but she did enough for two.”

He goes quiet for a second, and I have the strangest feeling, sitting in my seat, that he’s had an entire life already when I’m basically just starting mine. Is he thinking about his ex-wife? What it was like the day his mother died?

Ten years ago, I was fresh out of my bachelor’s degree, going into my MBA program. A baby. Ten years ago, Harrison Clark was ten years deep into his NHL career and staring down the hall of fame.

I think about what Chrys said on the phone.

He’s so much older than you.

What would Chrys think about my arrangement with him? Getting sperm—having a baby—the old fashioned way, with a man I barely know.

Except I know plenty about him, now. I know that he grew up in West Baltimore, that he lost his mom—something we have in common.

I know that he hums old songs under his breath all the time, that he hates when the break room has bagels instead of donuts, and that he always gets lunch from the same deli.

“Want to move to the couch?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’ve finished my pasta. He takes my plate, rinses it, and sticks it in the dishwasher.

This is not the same kind of man I’m used to dating—the kind that Postmates Taco Bell and asks for half of mine before I’m finished eating. Harrison has this loft, has the skills to cook an amazing meal. He bought me that organic, locally-sourced fertility tea.

“Yes,” I say, nodding and hopping down from the stool, blood already starting to buzz at what we’ll be doing next.

I think about those donor profiles, about trying to pick a man from a catalog, my eyes trailing down to Harrison’s strong fingers, the subtle quirk of his eyebrow when I say something funny.

Maybe I don’t know everything about him, but I know enough for right now.