by Piper Lennox
“I don’t like how you keep pointing out reasons it won’t be ‘that bad’ if you fuck up.”
Because you’ve already decided I’m going to fuck up, I think. Might as well remind him even the worst case scenario can’t be but so catastrophic.
“I won’t fuck up.” I slam the binder shut and lean on his desk, hands on either side of the ink blotter. “Look, man—you and I both know I probably won’t do things a hundred-percent perfect. But I promise: I’ll make them think it’s perfect.”
Levi rubs his temples, pushing his reading glasses up into his hair. They’re thick and plastic and make him look old as shit, but I know better than to mock him right now.
“I have a strong feeling I’m going to regret this,” he says, “but...okay.”
“Okay?”
“Just that one event,” he’s quick to add. “And if you screw this up, you’ll be on cotton candy duty an entire year.”
He’s got to be bluffing. He can’t relegate me to booth work forever—not if he wants to promote himself to a nine-to-five, front-of-house position, instead of wearing every hat this business demands.
And deep down, he has to know I won’t mess this up.
“Deal.” I stick out my hand. Levi slaps it: the closest thing we’ve got to a handshake, but just as good.
“Now,” he adds, “do I even want to know why you didn’t bring the van back until today?”
Levi has many strict policies. Not messing around with clients and/or event guests is tied for First Place, along with always maintaining professionalism. Since my night with Juliet violates both, there’s no way in hell I’m mentioning it.
“Sorry. I was totally exhausted after that reception, so I just drove home.”
He stares at me a while, like he doesn’t buy it. But since I didn’t bring the van back as a flaming ball of wreckage, he has to chalk it up as a win.
“You can go. I’ve got an order to finish before I lock up for the day.”
We slap again. “Dinner’s at six, right?” Sunday dinners with Levi and his wife are a longstanding tradition for us. Too bad he’s missed more this year than he’s attended.
“Six,” he repeats, but the reading glasses are back on; he’s clicking through his computer with one hand, scrolling his phone with the other. I slip out of the warehouse like a neglected kid from his dad’s office.
Outside, the air feels like midsummer, not spring. Heat pushes on my back while I walk and think about my night with Juliet. Again.
God, the way she moaned my name when she finished…the feeling of her body shaking underneath me. That glitter on her skin, transferring to mine and the sheets. I’d found some in my hair earlier.
“I’m just...not interested.”
She seemed plenty interested last night.
Walking home has suddenly lost its appeal. I’m near the Acre Hotel, so I find an empty concrete bench in the courtyard and lie down, letting the sunlight trapped in the stone bleed through my clothes.
She was drunk. I was drunk. It’s not like this is the first morning-after I’ve had that didn’t turn into something more.
But it is the first time I can’t just brush it off—the first and only time I’ve had to lie down and listen to the crowd around me, the bustling roar of downtown, just to drown out the echo of a woman calling my name.
6
Two Weeks Later
“Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Not a clue.” Abby takes my arm as we approach the steps of Marco and Viola’s new McMansion. It’s 2,900 square feet of faux-Colonial decadence, and far more space than the two of them need. But Marco’s got the money, and Viola has expensive tastes to match.
“Look at this place.” Abby sneers at the lion’s-head door knocker. “Who’d want to live in some cookie-cutter Stepford compound like this?”
“It’s not Stepford-y,” I answer, but she’s got a point: every house in this neighborhood looks exactly the same. Even the unfinished ones with bulldozers in their yards don’t stand out.
Nevertheless, the area is obviously high-quality. Love it or hate it, I wouldn’t expect Viola to live anywhere else.
“What the fuck,” Abby mutters, pointing to the house numbers by the door: they’re spelled out in letters, not digits.
“Be nice.”
Viola is gorgeously tan when she swings open the door. “God, I’ve missed you guys so much!” she squeals. As annoying as she was throughout the wedding planning stage, it feels good to get wrapped up in her hug now. I’ve missed her, too.
“Thanks for having us over. How was the honeymoon?”
“Amazing,” she sighs, ushering us inside. “The islands got some rain, but nothing too bad. Honestly, the worst part was trying to finalize details on this place remotely—like, how was I supposed to pick backsplash tiles over the phone?”
“Oh, no, you poor thing,” Abby drawls. Viola doesn’t hear her, but I do. And I make sure the glare I throw over my shoulder proves it.
“Let me give you the tour! Not every room is finished yet, so use your imaginations. Dad stopped by last night and just couldn’t visualize the final product. You know how he is.”
I give a polite nod as Viola leads us from massive room to massive room. They’re mostly empty, freshly painted; a few have holes in the ceiling where the light fixtures will go. Abigail behaves herself for the most part, but I sense her patience wearing thin when we start up the stairs.
“What do you need five bedrooms for?”
“One bedroom is my office, of course,” Viola smiles. She’s a rep for Aspen Housewares, a mail-order kitchen company. Their structure sounds eerily similar to that of a pyramid scheme—buy inventory up-front, recruit friends, plague everyone you’ve ever met with social media pitches—but she seems to turn a decent profit each year. The title of “saleslady” suits her well. Already, she’s got one bedroom filled with extra inventory and a desk. “And that other room’s going to be Marco’s home office, for when he’s telecommuting.”
“So, what,” Abby says, as we go back downstairs and into the living room, which looks like a page ripped from a Pottery Barn catalog, “you need two extra bedrooms for guests, when everyone you know lives right here in town?” She sinks into the pristine white sofa, props her feet on the ottoman, and sighs. The fight’s draining out of her—she’s in her second trimester, but exhausted and sick as a dog more often than not.
I wish I could blame hormones for her nastiness, but Abigail’s always shown disdain for Viola’s—and now, Marco’s—success. She and Lionel aren’t in the poorhouse or anything, but they’ve had to work twice as hard for half as much.
We sit: me beside Abigail, Viola on the ottoman in front of us.
“The empty bedrooms,” she says slowly, “are for...you know.” She blushes, which is rare for her.
Forget rare. Continents are discovered more often than this.
“For whenever we have...kids,” she finishes.
Abigail scoffs behind her bottled water. Once again, it’s probably jealousy: here Viola has separate rooms for children that don’t even exist yet, while her daughter and twins will have to share.
But I catch something Abby probably doesn’t—how softly Viola says the word “kids.”
“Are you guys thinking about that already?” I ask.
Her blush deepens. I almost wish I had a camera, just to remind myself that Viola is, in fact, capable of embarrassment.
“Actually,” she says, “we’ve been trying for a little over a year.”
“What?” Abby and I say together. For once, our tones match perfectly.
Viola shrinks back under our stares. “Um...yeah.”
“Shit, did you guys start trying the second you got engaged?”
Viola flashes her sweet smile and laughs again. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Vi,” I say, then take a breath to fit my words together. “You’re only twenty.”
“So? Abby got pregnant with Stell
a, like, a month before she turned twenty.”
“Yeah, by accident.” Now, I can hear concern filtering into Abby’s voice. The envy and sarcasm never last an entire visit. “Look, I love Stella, and yeah—motherhood is awesome. But it’s also so, so hard. Especially when you’re young. If I could’ve been older when I had her, I would have.”
Viola eyes Abby’s stomach.
“And yes,” Abby goes on pointedly, “we wanted more right away. But that was because, you know...I’m already doing the mom thing. Might as well have the rest close together. And I wanted them to have small age gaps, like you and me.” Her voice dips, growing gentle. “I want my kids to have that closeness.”
Viola smiles. I look down at my lap.
“Not that bigger age gaps are bad,” Abby adds quickly, while Viola nods.
“It’s okay,” I assure them. “I know what you meant.” Don’t take it personally, I tell myself. It’s not a secret Abigail and Viola are closer. They’ve got a bond I can’t force any more than they can.
“I know it’ll be hard,” Viola says, after a moment, “but I’m ready.”
“Ready? You can’t even order alcohol yet, for Christ’s sake.”
“Why does age matter? Most people would say I was too young to get married, too, or buy a house—but here I am.”
Beside me, Abby’s legs tense up. Probably resisting the urge to literally kick Viola’s ass across all 2,900 square feet of this house.
“It just makes sense for me right now. Marriage and a house and my career—I’ve met those goals. Now it’s time for the next thing. And that’s being a mom.” Growing quiet again, she glances up at us through her bangs. “This is going to sound crazy, but I feel like...not having Mom around, when I was growing up? It makes me want to be one myself even more.”
I look at Abby. Without a doubt, she’ll be sneering again, or at least displaying as much confusion as I am.
Instead, she nods.
“I get that,” she says, all the malice scrubbed from her voice.
“You do?” I blurt.
They look at me. “Of course. When Stella was born, it was like, I missed Mom even more—but it also felt easier to handle her being gone. Because whenever I got too sad about us not having her, I could just be grateful my kids would have me.”
“Exactly!” Viola smiles, relieved.
Their eyes turn to me again.
“I, uh...I’m not sure I understand.” My laugh squeaks out, like a guitar string pulled too tightly. “How can becoming moms help you miss our mom less?”
They exchange glances. It’s this element of their closeness I hate most: some supernatural ability to read each other’s mind on all matters concerning me.
“I would think you of all people would get it,” Abby says. “I mean, you basically raised us.”
“Yeah, because I had to.”
“Doing the mom stuff,” Viola prompts. “The bedtime stories, the shopping, the recitals—that didn’t make you miss Mom less? Doing all the stuff she was supposed to do?”
“No. It made me miss her more, because...because it was hard.” I look from one to the other. “I’m sorry, but this makes zero sense to me.”
There’s the look again. Why couldn’t our parents have given me a sibling close in age, if only for ESP moments like these to make the other siblings feel like shit?
Finally, Abby shrugs. “You were young, when all that stuff got put on you. Maybe it’ll make more sense when you have kids.”
I laugh. “So...never.”
The air gets nosebleed-thin. Suddenly, I can feel the buzz emanating off every electronic device in the room.
“You...don’t want kids?” Viola asks.
Fuck.
It was a slip-up. Only Mara, my roommate, knows I’m fairly certain I’ll never, ever want children. I’ve done the “mom thing,” or at least some form of it, already. No, thanks.
I’ve never admitted it to my family, though. Especially not Vi and Abby.
I open my mouth to retract it, amend it. Anything.
But I know I can’t. It’s out there. Time to face the music.
“Not really. I don’t know,” I mumble, reaching for the tray where Viola arranged bottled artisanal waters for our visit. My wrist cramps as I unscrew the cap and drink.
Abby sits up and waves her hand. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t met the right guy. You’ll change your mind.”
“I might,” I concede, “but right now, I don’t. I don’t even get that ‘I want them someday’ feeling, to be honest.”
“Do you not like kids, or...?” Viola leans closer, looking worried.
“No, no, I love kids. Being an aunt is incredible.” Their eyes could shatter me like glass, if it weren’t for the fact I’m completely used to this. Ganging Up on Juliet is one of their favorite little games. “But being a mom—a real one? I just can’t see myself doing that.”
Abigail holds up her hand again, ready to dismiss this, but Viola’s quiet, forced little laugh stops her.
“Wow.” She pulls her hair around to one shoulder and studies split ends that aren’t there. “This makes what I was going to ask even more awkward.”
“Why? What were you going to ask?”
She blushes again, but straightens her shoulders, saleslady-style. “Okay. Like I said, Marco and I have been trying ever since the engagement. But...obviously, it isn’t happening.”
Something about the tilt of her chin makes me set my water back on the tray.
“So,” she continues, “right before the wedding, we saw a fertility specialist.” Her confidence slips. Barely visible, but Abigail and I are attuned to the signs: pursed lips, the way her eyes slide to the side, like she’s reading an invisible teleprompter.
“Turns out,” she says, voice just beginning to crack, “I can’t get pregnant.”
“Vi,” Abby whispers, struggling out of the couch cushions to hug her. I wrap my arms around them both as Viola sniffs, already pulling herself together.
“It’s okay. Really, I’ve processed it.” We let go, but keep our hands overtop hers. “And we’re looking at our options, so—so I’m okay.”
Abigail shoots her a look dripping with skepticism, but I believe her: Viola is all about action. When things go wrong, she has her reaction (big and over-the-top, but quick), takes some time to pamper herself, then finds a new plan. It’s the trait I envy most in her. She doesn’t worry and second-guess things to death, like me.
“Options,” I echo, nodding. “Okay. Like adoption, right?”
“Yeah,” she says, drawing out the word, “or, you know...surrogacy.” Her eyes dart off to the side again. She spins her wedding band and engagement ring around on her finger.
The silence looms and crashes. I hear a bulldozer in the distance, carving out a hole in the earth for somebody else’s dream home.
“Surrogacy’s a good option,” Abby offers, eventually. “You get the baby, without the pregnancy.” She forces a laugh, and so does Vi, as we all look at her stomach. “Trust me, it’s not very glamorous.”
Viola sniffs and squares her shoulders again. “It seems like the best choice for us. At least, right now. I’m not sure I could take all the waiting and—and uncertainty that goes with adoption. But we’re having some issues with it.”
“Does Marco not want to use a surrogate, or something?” I ask. Her question’s got to be related to that, maybe wondering if Abby and I can convince him. In addition to punctuality, Marco loves tradition: men propose and bring home the bacon, women stay home and have babies. The end. That was why their wedding took place in a church, despite Viola always wanting it lakeside at our great-aunt’s cabin in North Carolina.
“Oh, no, he’s totally on board. We’re just having trouble finding a surrogate, that’s all. It’s...it’s hard to choose.”
“It is a really big decision.”
“Yeah.” Her voice lowers again. “We want someone who lives nearby, obviously, and—and so
meone we can trust.”
“Of course,” I nod, suddenly aware that Abby’s eyes are drilling a hole in the side of my head.
Viola runs her tongue along her lips and starts to speak. But instead, she bursts into nervous laughter. It hits me like a swarm of gnats in the face.
“Vi,” Abby barks, teeth gritted, “no.”
“What?”
“No,” she says again. “I know what you’re doing, and just—no.”
“It’s a question. There’s no harm in asking.”
I study each of them, attempting yet again to decode this twin-like connection. “What question?”
Viola leans back on the ottoman, hands on her knees. She glances at Abigail before meeting my eyes.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor.” I feel myself cringe. Viola’s requests this past year have been anything but simple, and I’m not recuperated enough to comb surrogacy guides with her, interview women—whatever this “favor” entails.
Beside me, Abigail clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. It’s her “I’m just here for the show” noise, when something’s about to go down that she wants no part in...except to spectate the carnage.
Viola’s grinning like an idiot, though. I know this face.
It’s the same one she had when she asked me to cosign on the car she totaled right after she turned seventeen. The face she made when I let her and her prom date crash on my couch, because Dad wisely refused to let the drunken boy past his threshold.
It was the exact face she made when she asked me to be her maid of honor, complete with a cutesy card straight off the internet and pink Ring Pop.
Finally, it clicks.
“Jules,” she says, sighing my name happily. As though she just knows, like all those other times, my answer will be yes. “Would you consider...being our surrogate?”
7
“So. Heard Levi caved.”
I shrug as Lindsay refills my sweet tea. Their back patio overlooks a golf course; I can see caddies fishing balls out of the sand trap, necks red in the sun.