Page 57 of Spectacular Things

No-Try Valentine

Since her fertility journey began two years ago, Mia has learned to avoid certain sections of her local Hannaford.

The deli counter. The wine and liquor aisle.

The cheese section. The coffee section. The candy section.

The cereal section. The snack section, with its deliciously ultra-processed cheese puffs and shelf-stable pretzel rods.

As ever, love demands sacrifice.

But today is Valentine’s Day, so Mia has allowed herself to trespass down the baking aisle.

She scans the ingredients on the side of the brownie box, justifying her breach with the vague argument that chocolate’s aphrodisiac properties might counteract the added sugar that fertility websites so puritanically frown upon.

Besides, she and Oliver deserve a treat for their extreme efforts in reproduction.

Because that’s what it feels like these days: zoological attempts at breeding.

Their time in bed is no longer about attraction and love but syncing ovulation cycles with rounds of successful insemination.

They are mating in captivity, and as Mia and Oliver often commiserate, sex has never been less sexy or more fraught.

Mia tosses the box of brownie mix into her cart, where it lands between the bag of walnuts and six cans of sardines (both full of baby-making omega-3 fatty acids). She’s rounding the corner to the dairy aisle to compare the prices of organic plain yogurt when she sees the woman and freezes.

Slurping from what appears to be a venti caramel Frappuccino, the woman bounces the baby strapped to her chest. Tiny, doll-like arms and legs dangle on either side of the infant carrier, hitched snug above her obscenely pregnant stomach.

With her Frappuccino-free hand, the woman pushes her cart, which not only brims with wine bottles and frosted animal crackers, but also a toddler standing up in the designated seat, his face stained an unnatural orange as he vrooms a Cheeto through the air.

Appalled, irate, and so, so sad, Mia walks past them at a clip, and as she does, she realizes she’s been doing this whole thing wrong.

Oliver, of all people, should have figured out the holes in their strategy, their weak line of attack, their utter lack of dynamism.

Snapping the hairband on her wrist hard enough for it to sting, Mia does not proceed to the yogurt section but instead turns her cart around and starts again from aisle1.

“What’s all this?” Oliver asks that night when he walks into the kitchen and sees the table.

He has arrived home with a bouquet of overpriced lilies wrapped in Valentine-heart paper, a pound of salmon, and a bottle of Perrier because he knows that he is little more than the quality of his sperm these days, which is why he drinks twelve ounces of pomegranate juice each morning.

The spread before him looks like a cross between a police drug raid, a college dorm room, and a child’s lunch.

Stretched across the kitchen table is a landscape of small plates, each one presenting an illicit temptation: a tuna-avocado roll; a turkey and cheese sandwich; lime wedges next to shots of tequila; a gigantic cup of hot coffee; a fat pinch of what appears to be magic mushrooms; a thick, gloopy triangle of brie; a can of Diet Coke; an expertly rolled marijuana joint; a bowl of M seven pornographic slices of rib eye; a package of Dunkaroos; and a canister of Cheez Whiz.

“I’m scared,” Oliver says, staring at his wife.

“New game plan,” Mia tells him, setting down a brownie barely visible under an avalanche of whipped cream. She wipes her hands. “No more trying.”

“But we said—”

“No,” Mia interrupts, making room on the table for more plates as a timer goes off. “We’ve been trying so hard for so long and it’s not—we need to take a break and enjoy the freedom that comes with not being pregnant and not having a kid.”

“Like red wine?” Oliver says, examining the bottle on the table. “Wow, this looks nice.”

“Like red wine,” Mia says, pulling a small hunk of swordfish out of the oven. “And everything else.”

“So you’ve rounded up all of fertility’s archenemies.”

“Ha!” Mia laughs, throwing her head back for high drama. Oliver notes the bowl of chocolate-covered espresso beans and wonders how many Mia has already eaten because how did she pull this off? There must be twenty small dishes, overlapping and fighting for space on the table.

“It’s like what you tell your goalkeepers,” Mia says. “Stop thinking and just play.”

“How’d you get the mushrooms?” Oliver asks, investigating the table. “And the—Mia, is that cocaine?”

“I know people,” Mia answers, baffling her husband. “Want to try it?”

Oliver eyes her. “You okay?”

She nods vigorously. “I’m in love with you and I missed out on three years of college so I think this needs to happen. We gotta cut loose, man.”

“Where’s that steak from?” Oliver asks, visibly salivating. He hasn’t had red meat since Mia said it compromised the quantity and quality of his semen. Two years of deprivation and yet his soldiers are still underperforming.

“Primo Bistro.”

“Can we eat it?”

“Absolutely.”

Oliver pulls a steak knife out of the drawer as he continues to take in the wide-ranging contents on the table. “Is that brownie normal or special?”

“What do you think?” Mia asks, hands on her hips. “And just to be transparent,” she says slowly, “I’m ovulating, but we’re definitely not having sex tonight.”

“Really?”

Mia nods.

“Oh, thank God,” Oliver says, allowing his shoulders to slump as he pulls her into a grateful hug. Whenever she’s ovulating, Mia has insisted they have sex three times a day, and it’s been the least erotic thing they’ve ever done. At this point, Oliver would rather floss than copulate.

“Let’s be wildly irresponsible,” Mia declares now, swooping her finger through the dollop of whipped cream and inserting it in Oliver’s mouth.

“I love this,” he says. “And I love you, and I love—is this Pez?” He picks up a tiny purple skull candy.

Mia shakes her head, grinning mischievously. “Ecstasy.” Oliver laughs because there’s no way, but Mia just shrugs. “Toby’s brother has a side hustle,” she explains.

“Who’s Toby?”

“One of the vet techs,” Mia says. “He promised on a blind shih tzu’s life that his brother only sells the best product.”

Oliver drops the skull back into the dish. “Okay, so I appreciate the lengths you went to,” he says, “but I’m gonna say no to the ecstasy. And the coke. And the magic mushrooms.”

Mia shrugs, unfazed by his rejection. She nods to the brie on the far end of the table. “What about unpasteurized cheese?”

“Oh yeah, I need that,” Oliver says, reaching for a cracker.

“So we’re on the same page?” Mia asks, fixing him with a penetrative stare. “About not trying for a while?”

“Absolutely,” Oliver says, pulling her in for another hug. Mia already feels more relaxed, her body melting into his. “But I’ve got to admit,” Oliver continues, “not being forced to have sex with you makes me really want to—almost.”

Mia cackles as she twists around and grabs the closest plate. She shoves the piece of maki into her mouth. God, she’s missed raw fish.

Oliver leans past her and helps himself to another slice of rib eye.

“This steak is unreal,” he says, feeding her a forkful.

It’s been five minutes and they are already giddy with freedom, spry with youthful disregard for anything beyond the goodies in their direct line of sight. Not trying has never felt better.

“You are brilliant, Mia Lowe,” Oliver says, taking a sip of Diet Coke. Mia beams at him, her eyes bright and dilated, and not just because she consumed a sizable marijuana gummy an hour ago. “This is a brilliant idea.”

Mia kisses Oliver, his mouth full of artificial sweetener and hers savory with saturated fats—all of it horrible for fertility, all of it delicious. Mia doesn’t need Oliver to tell her this is a brilliant idea. She knows it’s genius, just like she knows it’s already working.