Page 27 of The Surrogate Mother

“ S o it sounds like Monica saved the day then.”

I glare at Sam, who is wearing his “I ate some pie” apron and attempting to cook meatballs. He’s got them in a pot on the stove, simmering in tomato sauce, but he’s babysitting them too much. Every thirty seconds, he lifts the lid of the pot to stir them.

While he’s been cooking, I told him the whole story about what happened today, about how I got called into HR thanks to Monica. But he doesn’t seem to get it.

“Yes, she ‘saved the day,’” I admit. “But she wouldn’t have had to save the day if she had left the job like she was supposed to. It really got me in a lot of trouble. Denise hates me.”

A smile twitches at Sam’s lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t have emailed her that she was a bitch.”

I groan. I’ll never live that down. I told Shelley what happened, and she couldn’t stop laughing. This isn’t funny. This is my career . Maybe we’ve got enough money to get by without my salary, but that doesn’t mean I want to give up everything I’ve worked for .

“I just feel like this is a bad sign,” I say. “If she’s going to go back on our agreement about work, what else will she back out on? Giving us the baby?”

Sam opens the pot and peers down at his meatballs. “She won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“She said she wants to focus on her career right now. And maybe go back to school at night after all. Possibly to study graphic art or maybe math—maybe both. Either way, she can’t do that with a baby.”

I narrow my eyes at Sam. “And when did she say all that to you?”

Any trace of a smile fades from his lips as he quickly busies himself with the pot again. “What?”

“It just seems like you know a lot about her plans for the future, that’s all.”

Sam fiddles with the knob on the stove. “We had lunch a couple of days ago.”

Well, great. My husband is having lunch with a young, attractive woman who happens to be carrying his baby. And he’s lying to me about it. “Were you planning on telling me about it, Sammy ?”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he mumbles.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d make a big thing of it.” He shakes his head. “Look, Monica is at a crossroads in her career and I want to help her, you know? That’s part of what I do—advise students.”

“Yes, but she’s not your student! She works at my company. Don’t you think if she really wanted advice, she’d come to me ?”

He lowers his eyes. “I think you intimidate her a little.”

“I intimidate her? ”

“Yes, that’s what she said.”

“Oh, Lord.” I roll my eyes. “That’s the horseshit she’s been feeding you?”

“It’s not horseshit. You can be intimidating, Abby.”

“Oh, really? Do you find me intimidating?”

“The first time I met you, I did,” he admits. He smiles crookedly. “You had on that power outfit of yours with the matching black skirt and short jacket and your hair up in that elaborate knot. It was so goddamn sexy. You got me so nervous. I didn’t even know what I was saying.”

I can’t suppress a smile. “You mostly started talking about math.”

“I know—that’s what I do when I’m nervous. I thought I’d made a complete idiot out of myself. I couldn’t believe it when you agreed to go to dinner with me. I almost didn’t bother asking.”

My anger from earlier is starting to fade. “I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” He lifts the lid from the pot one more time and fishes out a meatball with his fork. “Want to taste?”

“Um, you first.”

He clutches his chest with his free hand. “Are you afraid to try my meatballs?”

I peer at the lopsided gray blob hanging off the fork. “What is in them?”

“Well, ground beef, obviously. Um… breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, an egg…”

Bread crumbs, parmesan cheese, and an egg. How could he mess that up?

I lean forward and take a bite from the meatball on his fork. And…

“Sam!” I cry. “This has eggshells in it! ”

“It does?” He looks down at the meatball, baffled. He takes a tentative bite. “Oh. It does. Damn.”

He looks down at the pot of meatballs, crestfallen. I want to tell him I’m willing to eat them anyway, but I’m not. Crunchy meatballs are not pleasant to eat. Even to spare my husband’s feelings. Plus I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to eat them either.

“Pizza?” I say.

He sighs. “Sure.”

But before I can grab my phone, Sam reaches out to take my hand. “Hey,” he says.

“Yes?”

His brown eyes meet mine. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone to lunch with Monica.”

“Oh…”

He squeezes my hand in his. “I figured… well, I didn’t think it was a big deal when she asked me, and honestly, she’s doing so much for us, I felt like I owed her.

But then when I was there, I realized it was a mistake.

I knew you’d be hurt if you found out, and I felt terrible about it. I felt like an asshole.”

Sam is really good at apologizing. He’s harder on himself than I would ever be on him.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re right—it wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, it was just lunch.”

“I won’t do it again. I promise.”

And now I feel guilty for giving him a hard time. “It’s fine.”

I suppose I’m making too big a deal out of all of this.

Lunch is lunch—not an affair. Sam wouldn’t do something like that.

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that my husband isn’t a cheater.

And he’s right—Monica stuck up for me today and saved my job.

If she wanted, I could have been clearing out my office as we speak.

I suppose it’s not ridiculous that she might want to keep her job.

At age twenty-three, you’re allowed to change your mind about your career path.

Everything is going to be fine.