Page 18 of The Surrogate Mother

“ D o we really have to do this?”

Sam is being his usual antisocial self and kicking up a fuss about having Monica over for dinner tonight.

I called to remind him to put the lasagna I made in the oven, and he’s taking the opportunity to piss and moan about how he doesn’t want to do this.

I’m sure he must realize it’s futile though—Monica is coming, whether he likes it or not.

“Yes, we have to,” I say.

“Do I have to wear nice clothes?”

“Yes.”

“And by nice clothes, you mean…?”

“I mean if you open the door in sweatpants and that T-shirt with the rip in the sleeve, I will murder you.”

“Okay. Gym shorts then. Got it.”

I roll my eyes at the phone. “I’m going to trust you’re joking.”

“Relax, Abby. I’m putting the lasagna in the oven as we speak while wearing my tuxedo.”

“Sam… ”

“I just don’t understand why we have to do this,” he sighs. “We’re paying for her to go to grad school. We’re going to cover her expenses when she quits your company. Why do we have to have dinner with her?”

“You don’t like to have dinner with anyone.”

“I like to have dinner with you .”

Well, that’s true. But he’s averse to most social interactions, except with his closest friends. He’s okay with having dinner with his mother, but he’s thrilled with the arrangement where we only get together with my parents a couple of times a year.

“I’ll be home by a quarter to six, okay?” I say to him. “Just… please try to be good.”

“I’ll try to try.”

I don’t know what he’s so worked up about. He seemed to like Monica enough when we gave her a ride home that other night. Although I have to admit, there’s a small part of me that’s glad he isn’t all that excited about having dinner with the twenty-three-year-old girl who’s pregnant with his child.

I’ve got a few letters on my desk that Monica brought for me this morning that I never got around to opening. I grab my ABBY letter opener that Sam got me and slice open the first letter. But before I get it open, the letter opener nicks my finger, which immediately starts bleeding.

Damn. That thing is sharp. It’s supposed to open letters, not perform surgery.

“Abby?”

I look up from my wounded finger and see Monica standing at the doorway of my office.

She’s got on another of her outfits of black slacks paired with a white shapeless blouse buttoned up to her throat.

In the last week or so, I’ve noticed a tiny bulge in her midsection, but she’s still probably got a smaller waist circumference than I do.

“Hey.” She beams at me. “I’m so excited about tonight. Six, right?”

I grab a tissue off my desk to ease the flow of blood from my finger. “That’s right.”

“Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”

She nods happily. “Would it be all right if I head out now? I need to go home first.”

I glance at my watch—five o’clock. “Sure, sounds good! I’ll see you at six.”

She claps her hands together. “This will be so much fun! I can’t wait!”

As Monica races off down the hallway, I smile to myself. As long as Sam isn’t too cranky, this should be a nice night. I’m glad I invited her.

My finger seems to have stopped bleeding—guess I don’t need stitches or even a Band-Aid.

I spend the next fifteen minutes answering emails, then I shut down my computer.

I’m about to head out of my office when I practically slam right into Denise.

Even though it’s the very end of the day, Denise’s suit is as crisp as it was this morning and she doesn’t have a hair out of place.

How does she do that? She must spritz herself with some sort of glaze every morning.

“Abigail.” Her cool, calculating blue eyes look me over. I’m sure I look as rumpled as I feel. “You never sent me the new website copy for Cuddles.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Sorry, I thought I did.”

“You did not.” She frowns at me. “I’d like to see it now. A printed copy, if you can.”

“Um…” I glance at my idle computer. “Can it wait until the morning? I’ve sort of… got to be somewhere… ”

“It absolutely cannot wait until the morning.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Our meeting with the executives from Cuddles is tomorrow at eight!”

It is?

I’m usually so on top of these meetings, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. How could I not have realized I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning?

“Any time now, Abigail,” Denise sighs.

“Right.” I go over to the computer to turn it back on. I glance at my watch—five-twenty. Plenty of time to get back for dinner with Monica. “Let me get this printed for you.”

While I’m waiting for the computer to boot up, I slip my phone out of my purse and check my calendar. And there’s the meeting: eight in the morning, just like Denise said. How did I miss that?

It takes several minutes to boot up and load the document Denise wants. I send it to my printer as I feel a vein throbbing in my temple.

“It’s not printing,” Denise observes.

Damn it. Monica’s the one who knows how to troubleshoot the printer. I don’t know what to do now. I try printing again, but nothing happens. I flash Denise an apologetic look, and she simply sighs loudly.

“Could I just email it to you?”

She sighs again. “I suppose that’s fine.”

I look at my watch again—five-thirty. It takes me twenty minutes to get home by taxi if traffic isn’t too bad. I should be okay. Well, unless traffic is killer. But even so, Sam will entertain Monica until I get home.

Denise stands in front of my desk, her phone held up to her face. She taps on the screen, obviously opening up my email. I hold my breath, watching her face.

“Okay?” I ask .

She shakes her head. “This is really what you’re going to present at the meeting tomorrow to Cuddles?”

“Um…” Admittedly, it’s not entirely finished because I hadn’t realized the meeting was first thing tomorrow morning. But I didn’t think it was that bad. With a few finishing touches that I could come in early to do tomorrow morning…

“I thought we were going to emphasize the nutritional value of the baby food,” she says.

“I did.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s right here.” I read off the screen: “Cuddles baby food is made with only the healthiest and most wholesome of ingredients.”

“Yes, but that’s the only place.” She frowns at me. “I said emphasize . Mentioning it once is not emphasizing, Abigail.”

“So… I should mention it twice?”

“It should be everywhere!” Her cheeks turn pink. “The apple puree should be made from apples harvested from a pesticide-free orchard! The pea oatmeal should be created from peas picked from a natural pea ranch!”

A pea ranch? What the hell is a pea ranch?

“You need to fix this, Abigail.”

“I’ll fix it first thing tomorrow morning,” I promise. “I’ll come in at the crack of dawn.”

“Unacceptable.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Tomorrow morning, the clock will be ticking. This needs to be fixed before you leave for the day.”

Great. If only I had known about this a few hours ago, it would have been fine. I can’t believe I forgot I had a meeting tomorrow morning. What’s happening to my brain?

“I’ll be in my office,” Denise says. “Please send me a more appropriate draft as soon as you’ve completed it, then we’ll discuss if further changes need to be made.”

I shoot daggers with my eyes at Denise, but they bounce harmlessly off her back as she exits my office. Fine. I can fix this draft in fifteen minutes, then I’ll grab a taxi home. I’ll be late, but not too late.

I shoot a text to Sam:

Denise making me fix something. Should be leaving within 15 minutes.

Sam replies almost instantly:

What????? She’s going to be here soon! Get your butt back home!

Poor Sam. I can almost picture him freaking out. I write back:

Really sorry. Start dinner without me. Should be back soon. I promise.

You better be.

And at the time, I really believe I will.

_____

When I stumble home over two hours later, I have a throbbing headache in my left temple.

I fixed the draft for the meeting in fifteen minutes, sent it to Denise, but it was still unacceptable.

So was the next draft. At one point, she gave me an exasperated look and said, “Honestly, Abigail, I feel like I’m talking to an intern . ”

If it had taken even five minutes longer to fix the document, I swear I would have strangled her with my bare hands. She never treated me this way before I started trying to have a baby.

It feels like an icepick is jabbing me in the side of the head while I fumble in my purse for my keys. Whenever I get a headache, it’s always in my left temple. Why is that? Is it a sign of a tumor? Christ, where are my keys? Sam is going to kill me for being so late.

And then I hear it:

Laughter. Coming from inside the apartment.

My fingers make contact with my keyring.

I yank it out and when I get the door open, I see Sam and Monica sitting together in the living room.

They’ve got two empty plates on the coffee table, which means they ate in the living room, which Sam knows I hate because I’m worried about the floral-patterned couch getting stained.

There’s a bottle of white wine open on the table that is half-full, and Sam’s got that flushed look he always gets when he’s had a bit too much to drink.

And Monica…

In the time I’ve known Monica, I’ve always thought of her as being somewhat plain.

She has some nice features, but she doesn’t wear makeup and she dresses like a choirgirl, which makes her look fairly average.

But tonight she looks very different. She’s got on mascara that makes her dark eyes pop, dark red lipstick that compliments her jet-black hair, and a low-cut blouse that shows off her now impressive cleavage.

Monica isn’t just attractive—she’s really hot . Much more attractive than I am, if I’m being completely honest. Especially right now, when I’m rumpled and exhausted from my twelve-hour workday .

“Abby!” Sam exclaims when he notices me staring at them, probably for far too long. “You’re home!”