Page 1 of Nine Months to Bear

1

OLIVIA

I learned early on in my life how to smile when I’d rather scream instead.

Dr. Mom is parading me around her surgical conference like a prize pony?

Clench and smile.

Med school professor takes one look at me and tells the entire class I probably only got accepted because of my last name?

Clench and smile.

A glittering charity gala at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, during which a “potential investor” is ogling my cleavage so blatantly that I find myself dreaming of dousing him in kerosene and lighting a match?

Clench and smile like a Crest commercial, baby.

Not that I can afford to do the dousing. There’s too much at stake here tonight. And honestly, my self-esteem is low enough these days that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my dream alive.

If wooing this investor means pouring champagne on myself instead of kerosene on him—then, shoot, I’ll put on a bikini top and pour ‘til the cows come home.

“We have very promising patient results, Mister?—”

But before I can even get halfway through my pitch, the man is shaking his head. “Save your breath. You’re not getting a cent from me, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart” must be his nickname for my tits, because the silver-haired vulture capitalist—excuse me,venturecapitalist—is still lost in my cleavage.

He tosses back his drink and holds his empty glass out towards me like I’m on the catering staff. “But Iwilltake another drink. Be a good girl and fetch it for me, will ya?”

My jaw drops. He can’t be…?

Oh, yes, he is. He is very serious indeed. So I take a deep breath… I clench and… Clench and sm…

Ah, screw it. I can’t do it anymore.

So I freaking unload on him instead.

“You know what?Fuck. You.” I jab a finger in his chest. “Fuck you very much. Fuck you for your misogyny and your condescension. Fuck you for failing upwards time and time again, just because you’ve got a pair of saggy, wrinkly balls dangling between your legs. Fuck you for pitying me and fuck you for the fact that, even after this shitshow of a conversation, you’re gonna waltz off into the sunset to go blatantly hit on some other poor woman, even though your wife, theliteralmother of yourliteralchildren, isliterallyten feet away.”

The man blinks at me and shakes his glass again. “I said,I’ll take another drink,darling.”

That’s when I realize that my entire monologue was just a fantasy.

In reality, I didn’t say any of that out loud. I only did what I always do.

Clench and smile.

With a shrug that might as well say,Suit yourself, you crazy bitch,the man turns and saunters away. Sure enough, not a minute passes before he’s pressing his clammy hand to the exposed back of another unsuspecting female victim.

I’m not gonna lie: The rejection stings. It stings a lot. They always do.

But I’ve become numb to the pain. After all, I’ve had a lot of practice.

This is the sixth rejection tonight. For those keeping score at home, that means that six potential investors who could’ve saved Aster Fertility Solutions from drowning heard my pitch and said,Nah. Six people looked at me, at my work, my passion—and yes, my boobs—and decided it wasn’t worth any of their precious millions.

I mean, why invest in a clinic that is dedicated to offering desperate women autonomy, choice, and second chances? After all, there are yachts to buy and strip clubs to patronize, right?

I take a deep breath and shove my business card back into my clutch with the others. I was so proud last week when two hundred pieces of premium cardstock withAster Fertility Solutionsembossed on the front arrived at my office.