I called Angie. “Heard anything new?”
“You saw the Post article, right?” Angie’s beat was art and entertainment. She was following this story because of me.
“Nothing I didn’t know,” I said. My eyes followed a toddler running ahead of his mother. “I think I better go to the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“About my outing with Katya that Saturday night. What if that rooftop Jacuzzi guy has done something to her?” A shiver ran through my body just speaking the thought out loud. “The cops can look through the club’s security tapes and talk to the staff. Katya is not a girl who goes unnoticed.”
“True. But who are you going to say you are? Katya’s . . . what? Baby mama? Surrogate? Beneficiary of her egg donation? Or are you going to introduce yourself as her stalker? Officer, I saw her on the subway and followed her.”
“Very funny.” I got off the bench and started walking. “What’s wrong with simply saying that I’m a new friend of hers? She fell on the street. I rushed to help her and we clicked. The Bulgarian connection . . .”
“Ah, friendship at first sight,” Angie said. “And it just so happened that you’re pregnant with her eggs. But that’s just a minor detail.”
* * *
I took my time in the park. I even walked up the stairs to the castle, stopping on the way to admire the tulips and lilac bushes in Shakespeare Garden. At the top, I leaned against the stone wall and stood there looking over the lake. The chatter of the birds in the trees grew louder as the sun dipped lower behind the rooftops to the west.
It was past eight p.m. when I finally made it home. I was so engrossed in my thoughts that when I heard Tyler call my name from the living room, I nearly shouted back, “Hey, baby!” Then I caught myself. Mouth open, hand still holding the door ajar, I could only stare as Tyler came into the corridor with Plato purring in his arms.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling, his hand brushing Plato’s back. “I hope I didn’t give you a fright.”
17.
KATYA
THEN
Damian was a bit hot-blooded, but I liked that about him. It kept me on my toes. Like, the other night we went to the Beekman—that posh hotel in the financial district. It was a mild fall night. I didn’t even need a jacket over my dress. A red vintage dress I’d scored at the flea market last weekend. The bars and clubs downtown were bursting with people. From the moment we walked in, I felt like I was starring in a film set in the 1800s. The soaring atrium, the lacelike ironwork of the balustrades, the Persian rugs, leather club chairs, bookshelves and oil paintings, everything exuded old New York. The crowd was older, swankier than in most of the places I hung out.
I followed Damian to one of the lounge tables and sank into the soft armchair. While he examined the bar menu, I snuck in a few snaps on my Insta story. Damian wasn’t that old, but social media wasn’t his thing. My posting “all the time” amused him at first but lately he’d been complaining about it. Looking at the cocktails, he decided that it would only be appropriate to order the Moscow Mule. You know, because I was Bulgarian. I didn’t bother explaining that Bulgaria was actually in the EU and had nothing to do with Russia. Communism and the Cold War were over before I was even born. But whatever. I’m not a vodka fan and certainly couldn’t imagine mixing it with ginger beer plus honey, lime, and rosemary. I love tequila and asked the waiter for an El Diablo instead.
Damian had a fit of laughter. Started teasing me that El Diablo was a more fitting description for me anyway. “My sexy she-devil,” he called me. It was cute the first time, but by the second round of drinks, it really got old, not to mention annoying. Maybe because it resonated with my fears about myself. I started playing with the lamp that stuck to the table like a magnet while Damian looked through the menu, debating what snacks to order. I wasn’t hungry, but he insisted. “My she-devil needs some fattening.”
That did it. I would show him my true evil side since he was such a smart-ass. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and sauntered through the place with just the right swing in my hips, making sure the eyes of every man in the room were on me. I knew I looked hot in my red dress and strappy black stilettos.
The young guy at the end of the bar—more or less my age by the looks of it—followed me with his gaze. He’d been staring at me across the room ever since I’d walked in. I liked him. He had that dashing Mediterranean look I adored.
I smiled as I passed, then lowered my eyes before looking up again.
On my way back from the ladies’ room, I stopped in front of one of the paintings on the wall right next to the bar. It looked like someone had taken yellow and blue watercolors and blotted out large sections of a perfectly good portrait of an old man. I didn’t have to wait long.
Over my shoulder, I heard a friendly baritone say, “Beautiful.”
I turned, smiling. He was even more handsome up close. I started saying something about not knowing who the artist was, but he interrupted me. “I don’t mean the painting.”
It sounded like a line he’d heard in a film and had been using ever since. But I didn’t care. It was all going according to plan and I was just thinking, I hope Damian is watching, when I heard his voice right behind me. “Hey, pal,” he said, and wedged himself between the two of us. “Can I help you?”
The young guy stepped back. “Sorry, man, I didn’t realize she was your daughter.”
Another movie line? That guy was bold. From behind, I saw Damian’s ears go red. He leaned forward. “What did you just say?”
“I believe I called you an old bastard preying on beautiful young—”
Damian punched him. Just like that, a hook right in the face. I gasped as the guy’s head spun back. He lost his footing, stumbled a few steps backward before regaining his balance. Like in a movie, was all I could think as I stood there in shock.
Next thing I knew, one of the security guards had Damian in his grip. Damian didn’t fight him, thank God, but his face was crimson, nostrils flaring, eyes shining like a beast’s. I shuddered, at once frightened and high on adrenaline.
Luckily, he hadn’t broken the guy’s nose or anything, and we got thrown out of there without the police getting involved. I should have gone home at that point. That much I knew. But when I told Damian I had a paper to write (which was actually true), he said, “I don’t give a fuck,” and stuffed me into the taxi he’d just hailed. During the ride he didn’t say a word, but I could tell he was fuming. He might have punched the cocky young guy, but it was me he was really angry with. And for good reason. I didn’t know what had possessed me. Why I’d tried to provoke him, flirting with someone else.
When we made it to his loft, he poured himself a Scotch—didn’t ask me if I wanted any—gulped the whole thing down, then poured himself another. Only then did he look at me, and with burning eyes he said, “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“You should have seen him the next day,” I told Josh. “He sent a huge bouquet of flowers to my dorm. It was quite embarrassing, actually—like some nineties rom-com. At dinner, he was sweet and apologetic. Told me he’d been ‘a tad overprotective’ because he was so ‘smitten’ with me. Promised to be gentle and docile like a puppy from now on. We had the best sex ever that night.”
Josh raised an eyebrow. “So you plan to continue seeing him?”
“But of course. What girl doesn’t want a man willing to fight for her?”
Josh rolled his eyes.
“Okay, okay,” I said, and laughed. “I’m exaggerating. But there is some truth in it. Plus, it was all my fault. I had no business flirting with that guy. I’d wanted to piss Damian off and I’d succeeded. Spectacularly, you may say.” I grinned and went on. “And he learned his lesson: there are guys galore out there, so he better be careful.”
“His explosive streak doesn’t bother you?” Josh said. “The fact that he treated
you as his property?”
“Seriously? C’mon, Josh. You jealous or something?” I said, and stood up. “I believe we’re out of time.”
At the door, I turned and smiled. “I love it when you worry about me.”
18.
LANA
NOW
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, still holding the door open.
“I was worried about you,” Tyler said, and took a few steps forward. Plato stirred in his hands. “You sounded really distraught on the phone. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Tyler, you have no right to let yourself in and—”
“I’m sorry. I waited for you downstairs but I didn’t expect you to be so late and . . .” He shrugged, pulling his lips back in that self-mocking I’m-only-human expression. “I really needed to use the bathroom. So I thought I might as well wait for you inside.” He stroked Plato’s fur. “And I wanted to see this guy.”
I let the door close behind me and walked into the kitchen. He followed. I dropped my purse and the mail on the counter and sat down at the breakfast table, sandwiched tightly in the corner. Tyler let Plato down, pulled out the other chair, and turned it to the side so that he could face me.
“You know that’s not okay,” I finally said, trying to control my voice. “You don’t live here anymore. And what if I’d come home with a guy?”
He flushed; a wounded expression settled on his face. “Are you seeing someone?”
“That’s not the point, Tyler.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He relaxed back in his seat. “The thing is, I worry about you. You were so upset—”
“A little too late for that, don’t you think?”
He bit his lower lip as if to keep himself from fighting the point, pressed his hands on the table, and, looking me in the eyes, said, “I know why you’re so distraught about this girl going missing.”
“You do?” My stomach tightened.
“You were so set on doing that donor egg cycle,” he said in a gentle, almost loving way. “But that’s exactly why I had to leave. We needed a break from all the fertility treatments to collect ourselves and heal after the last miscarriage.” His eyes narrowed and his tone turned clipped as he continued, “But you wouldn’t hear of it. You had stopped hearing me, period.”
“Tyler, I’m not interested in—”
“Hear me out, goddammit.” He shoved the chair back and began pacing the length of the kitchen. I’d never seen Tyler so angry. Not even close to it. Had I really been blind to his feelings? When he’d pushed for a vacation last fall, I’d dismissed it, thinking he was worried about me and how I was going to cope with yet another loss. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have needed the break.
Tyler stopped pacing and leaned against the door frame. “I know you’re worried about this girl because you fear that you won’t find another Bulgarian donor. I know it’s a big deal for you because of your mother. I understand. But there are so many other good donors, even if they’re not from that part of the world.”
My shoulders relaxed. I had no idea where he was going with this, but at least it sounded like he had no clue about my pregnancy.
“We got on the baby-making treadmill,” he continued, “eight fucking years ago and we never even stopped to catch our breath. To do something fun. To pack our bags and go hiking out west. Or even drive up to Bear Mountain for the day. Go for a walk together, or a bike ride. See friends for dinner. Hell, we barely even had sex unless you were ovulating.” He paused and looked at me. “What happened to the free-spirited girl I met on Kilimanjaro?”
“What do you think happened, Tyler?” I snapped, clenching my fists. “Life happened. Infertility happened.”
“But that’s exactly what I mean. We let the infertility take over our lives. We didn’t stop to reconsider our priorities as our circumstances changed and we moved from one treatment to the next. We didn’t reevaluate the risks we were taking. And we lost something vital in the process. We lost us. We were no longer a couple making decisions together. You were making decisions for us. On the few occasions I dared to disagree, you guilted me into doing as you wished because you were the one undergoing the surgeries, injecting the hormones, lying nauseous on the sofa only to be shattered by another miscarriage. But I was grieving, too.” He sighed, peered into my eyes before continuing. “It really pains me that you think I replaced you with another woman.”
“C’mon, Tyler. How stupid do you think I am? For years you refuse to bother with texts, then suddenly you’re texting at all hours of the day? You’re distracted and irritable. Then, out of nowhere, you decide to forgo the donor egg cycle we’d spent our last savings on. What am I supposed to think?”
He stared at his shoes. A muscle in his cheek was quivering. “You’re right,” he said finally and looked up. “But while there was someone else—let me finish—that is not why I left. You and I had come to a dead end, a stalemate, and we couldn’t push past it. I couldn’t reach you anymore.”
I sat there with my mouth open, gripping the sides of my chair. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my mind stuck on “someone else,” stumbling over it like a broken record. While I’d suspected it all along, hearing it from Tyler was a fresh blow. “Wow,” I finally said. “That’s a lot to take in.” I met his eyes. “What do you expect me to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to listen.” He smiled. “For a change.” But I didn’t find it funny. I watched him standing there, leaning against the door frame, at once so familiar and foreign. How many times had I seen him in that exact spot, wearing that very same blue shirt and pair of jeans? He continued, shifting gears. “I just wanted you to know how I felt. Because we can’t move forward, we can’t heal the relationship if—”
“Wait. What?” I sat up with a jolt. “What relationship? You said you were done, remember?”
“I said I was done living like this. That we needed a fresh start and I didn’t see any other way.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I never wanted us to split up. I love you, Lana.”
I covered my ears. “I can’t listen to this. It’s crazy. You turned my entire world upside down and now you want back in? It doesn’t work like that. You can’t patch a broken vase.”
“I don’t want to do any patching up. That’s why I thought we should start from scratch, put the baby quest aside and focus on us. Because the endless heartbreak, the grueling march forward without even knowing—”
“Enough.” I stood up. My head was spinning. “Whatever you meant or wanted is beside the point now. That ship has sailed. I’ve begun building my life again and it doesn’t include you.”
He straightened up, a hurt look on his face. “I know I rocked the boat, but I had no choice.” He took a step toward me. “All I ask is that we keep talking. That you don’t shut me out—”
“Well, you just got your wish. We talked. Now I need to eat dinner and go to bed. It’s been a long day.” I walked into the corridor, making it clear it was time for him to leave.
Tyler followed me. At the door, he stopped and turned. “I know this is a very hard time for you. And the Bulgarian donor going missing must have hit too close to home.”
If he only knew.
“That’s why I wanted to come and comfort you.” He leaned forward and smiled. “I asked around a bit and the word on campus is that the cops aren’t concerned. They’ve found no signs of foul play.”
I exhaled with relief. After Tyler’s sharp reaction over the phone, I hadn’t expected him to look into it. At least his visit had brought me some comfort about Katya.
* * *
At night, I lay in bed, wide awake, my mind going in circles. One minute I felt guilty for having alienated Tyler, the next I was angry he hadn’t stuck it out through the donor cycle. If it hadn’t
worked out, then we could have talked as much as he wanted or gone on vacation or whatever he wished to do. He’d been unwilling to take the risk of one more disappointment and had pulled out of the game. I got that. But by doing so, he’d made the same mistake he’d accused me of—making a choice for both of us. Luckily, I’d decided to go it alone. But that had meant bending the rules and going ahead with the cycle behind his back. I had done something unethical and maybe even illegal.
I didn’t regret it. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have my little miracle growing inside me. I pressed my palms gently to my belly as I did every time I thought of my baby. I was seven weeks and one day pregnant today; two more days until my next ultrasound—
I sat up in bed, seized by panic. I’d forgotten the progesterone shot.
Dr. Williams had me on hormonal support until the twelfth week of pregnancy when—he had assured me—the placenta would take over the hormonal production. Until then, I was to take two estrogen pills daily, affix four estrogen patches to my belly every other day, and give myself progesterone injections every night. I had no problem administering the small injections in my belly. But learning to jam the enormous needle into my buttock—while standing in front of the mirror with my pants down—had been quite a challenge. Tyler had always done that one for me.
His visit tonight had rattled me so much that I’d forgotten all about it. I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was ten before midnight. Technically, it was still Monday, I thought, and got up. I pulled my supplies—I had an entire drawer full of syringes, different types of medications, pads, and alcohol wipes. Hopefully, doing the shot a few hours later than usual wouldn’t make much of a difference. I was still spotting on and off, a constant reminder of the hematoma and the fact that things could take a turn for the worse at any point even without me screwing up my meds.
I returned to bed even more livid with Tyler and his intrusion. How dare he ambush me like that, telling me it was all my fault we were no longer together? After admitting there had been another woman? The mere thought of it turned my insides. He’d said it so matter-of-factly, a trifling detail. How could he possibly think that it was okay as long as he hadn’t left me for her? I should have told him that was enough of a reason for me to have left him. But he’d caught me by surprise. Finding him in the apartment had given me quite a start, and his I-love-you bullshit had nearly undone me. I was upset with myself, too, because, for a moment there, I’d actually loved hearing him say it.
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