CHAPTER 2
It’s five a.m. My favorite hour. New York City is hushed and feels like
mine alone. Growing up, I was always the first one downstairs,
flipping through workbook pages while Dad showered and Mom coaxed
my little brother out of bed.
All these years later, I still cram as much into my mornings as I can.
Coffee in hand, I curl into the corner of my sofa and gaze out the window
of my Morningside Heights apartment. The third-floor view is
underwhelming, but I love that I can see the branches of a honey locust
tree, still waiting to bloom.
I take my first sip of coffee and close my eyes, listening to the
familiar sounds of a city awakening. A siren wails in the distance. A
garbage truck beeps in reverse. For a long time after I moved to New
York from Wisconsin, I missed the silence of a winter morning and the
layered hum of nature on a summer evening. But at some point, the
rhythm of traffic became as soothing as a chorus of crickets—and now,
when I return home, the quiet is almost unsettling.
A quick daydream flutters in—a vision of garden aisles and stringlight
canopies for an early September wedding. We briefly considered
Wisconsin, but we’re leaning toward doing it here in the Hamptons. A
New York wedding would be easier logistically, and a backyard reception
would save my dad money. He’s been planning for this day half my life,
and there is no way he would let Dean or his parents pay.
Before I can disappear too far into white lace and hazy vows, I turn to
the stack of medical journals on my coffee table. As a reproductive
endocrinologist and infertility specialist, I have to stay on top of the
latest research. I flip through one, then pull up my schedule on my
phone. First chart of the day: Sophie Cohen, a thirty-four-year-old
oncology referral recently diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer. She
is scheduled for immediate radiation and chemotherapy. But her first
question wasn’t about survival—it was about her fertility. Just a few
years ago, there would have been little I could do. Now, we can use in
vitro maturation, a process of aspirating eggs and growing them in the
lab. I look forward to explaining that her dream of having a baby doesn’t
have to die with her diagnosis.
All my patients share that same dream, whether they’re a
heterosexual couple trying to conceive, a same-sex couple looking for
sperm or egg donors, or a single person ready to take on parenthood
alone. No one walks into our clinic because life is going according to
plan. I am always honest about the odds, up front that there are no
guarantees. But giving my patients hope—real hope grounded in science
—might be what I love most about my job. I remind every patient that
the best things in life rarely come easy.
As a doctor, I know this lesson well. I also know that my own eggs
aren’t getting any younger. Thirty-seven isn’t old, but it isn’t young,
either, and you never know what reproductive obstacles may await me.
It’s another reason I’m glad to be getting the show on the road with
Dean. The only thing I’ve wanted more than my career is motherhood.
I finish my coffee just as I hear Dean’s alarm going off. I head back
down the hall, eager to see my fiancé. It’s a word I used to consider
cheesy, but I now love saying.
When I turn the corner into my bedroom, he looks up and gives me a
sleepy smile. “C’mere for a sec.”
I slip under the covers, curling up against his warm body. He puts his
arm around me, then smooths my hair back before kissing my temple.
“You better get up now,” I whisper, “before I make you late.”
“One tardy won’t kill me,” he says.
“When have you ever been late to anything?”
“Pot, meet kettle.” He chuckles.
“So,” I say, smiling. “I was thinking about the flowers.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I think we should do hydrangeas and wildflowers. Keep it
simple.”
“So you don’t want orchids flown in from Peru?”
I laugh, just as my phone vibrates on my nightstand.
It’s early for a work call—one of the perks of my practice is that there
are few emergencies, the opposite of Dean’s world.
I glance over, curious, then do a double take. The number stops me
cold.
I deleted the contact years ago, but I still know the number by heart.
Dean glances at the screen, then back at me. “You okay?”
I try to recover, nodding as my phone chimes with a voicemail.
He kisses me again, and I cross my fingers I’m off the hook.
But he presses. “Who was that?”
My heart racing, I take a deep breath and say, “My ex.”
“Which one?”
“My high school and college ex.” I try to sound casual, but my
stomach inexplicably twists.
“Hmm,” he says, his tone neutral. “I thought you said you don’t talk
to him anymore?”
“I don’t. We haven’t in years.”
“Well?” Dean says, gesturing toward my phone. “Let’s see what he
wants.”
I don’t want to listen to the message in front of Dean, but there’s no
graceful way out of it. So I grab my phone from the nightstand, take a
deep breath, and play the voicemail waiting for me.
“Hi, it’s Mick.” His voice, on speaker, fills the room. Low. Serious.
Surreal. “I’m sorry to call you out of the blue like this. But could you
give me a ring back as soon as you can? Thanks, Billie.”
I swipe back to my home screen and return my phone to the
nightstand. Dean arches one brow.
“You’re not going to call him back?”
“I will a bit later.”
“It sounds urgent.”
“It can’t be that urgent,” I say, thinking that’s what 911 calls are for.
He studies my face another few seconds. A tiny muscle jumps in his
cheek. “Here. I’ll give you privacy,” he says, swinging his legs off the
bed onto the floor. He stands and walks toward the bathroom.
I stare at my phone, my heart pounding.
