The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(7)

“Correct.” Doctor Bjorn nodded, still mesmerized by my lack of emotion. Didn’t he know I had none? “Paired with your PCOS, it could be an issue. I am happy to discuss the next steps with you—”

“Wait.” I raised a hand, waving my red-tipped French manicure back and forth. “Go back to that abbreviation. PC-what?”

“PCOS. Polycystic ovary syndrome. It says in your file that you were diagnosed at fifteen.”

Right. Things were a bit hazy when I got to the hospital that time.

“I’m guessing it’s not good either,” I deadpanned.

He swiped a thumb on his phone—to me it was a low point in my life, but to him it was just another Wednesday. “It could cause more infertility issues.”

Great. My womb gave Monica from Friends a run for her money. I wanted to pick a fight. I turned my wrath toward Doctor Bjorn.

“What does it even mean?” I huffed. “Isn’t uterine malformation an issue that develops over the course of a pregnancy?”

With another apologetic smile, Doctor Bjorn turned to the screen in front of him and frowned, his bushy eyebrows high-fiving one another. He clicked his mouse to scroll through my medical history. Stupid mouse with stupid-sounding clicks.

“It does say here that you had a spontaneous abortion at the age of fifteen.”

A spontaneous abortion.

Like I decided to go to coffee with a friend.

Doctor Bjorn looked so embarrassed that I was surprised he didn’t dig a hole in the carpet and disappear to the bottom floor. His eyes asked me if it was true. His mouth did not. He knew the answer.

“Oops.” I smiled grimly. “That’s right. Must’ve forgotten. It was a busy year.”

Doctor Bjorn stroked his furry arm. “Look, I know this is overwhelming—”

I let out a throaty laugh. “Please, doc. Spare me the we’re-here-for-you leaflet speech and let’s get down to business. What are my options?”

“You have plenty of options!” he announced, perking up. This, he could work with. Solutions. Facts. Science. “There are ways to ensure your future parenthood. If you are interested in becoming a mother, of course.”

I was tempted to say no, I wasn’t about the changing diapers or waxing poetic about stick figure drawings life. That motherhood was a force of disempowerment for women in a highly patriarchal society. To some extent, I even believed this post-feminist ideology. After all, I was a self-employed business owner whose life ambition was to piss people off. I would smash a pickle jar on the floor and eat it, glass and all, before I’d ask a man to open it for me.

But I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.

The truth was, I did want to become a mother. With every fiber of my being.

It wasn’t sophisticated or ambitious or noteworthy, but it was true. Which was why a few weeks ago, I had paid my first visit to Doctor Bjorn to ensure my reproductive system was in pristine order and ready to go, whenever I decided to go for it. Needless to say, it wasn’t.

“Yeah.” I shrugged noncommittally. “I am, I guess.”

Doctor Bjorn cocked his head and frowned. He tried to decipher why, exactly, I was behaving this way. Like he was trying to sell me solar panels and I was blowing him off. Was I not an environmentalist?

“In that case, the first stage is to freeze your eggs.”

I shot him a sweet, impatient smile.

“Are you planning to carry your future children to term?” he asked.

“Can I evacuate them during the second trimester?” I yawned, checking my nails. “Don’t babies need to be fully cooked?”

“What I mean is, your age should be one of your considerations. Each passing year, the risk of a miscarriage or a premature birth rises.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” I pressed.

“You may want to consider surrogacy if you plan to have children later in life. Ideally, and considering the complications, if you’re ready, you should try to get pregnant right away. But ultimately, I don’t want you to feel rushed.”

A little too late for that, boo. I went from having five years to being tossed onto the highway of motherhood the minute he said that. Because, again—what the shit? This wasn’t my life. I was supposed to wait until thirty-five, choose a hunky sperm donor—I was even going to splurge and get the really expensive membership to the sperm bank so I could see pictures of these potential men—then pop out a couple kids and create my own mini family.

“Next month seems like a good time to get pregnant,” I heard myself say. “Let me see if I can move my waxing appointment.”

“Miss Penrose,” Doctor Bjorn chided, standing up to pour me a glass of water. He handed it to me. I gulped it in one go. “I know it’s not the news you wanted to hear. You don’t have to be brave here. It is okay to be upset.”

This, of course, was untrue. Breaking down was a privilege other people had. I was programmed to be fearless. Life threw curveballs at me left and right. I’d glided past them like a cartoon character with a smile on my face.

I picked up my Chanel tote from the floor. “If I need to get pregnant this year, I will. No man? No problem. I’ll get a sperm donor. I hear they’re tall, smart, and good with numbers. What more can you ask for in a baby daddy?” I let out a metallic laugh, standing up. The OB-GYN remained seated, still staring at me in complete shock.