Page 9 of Nine Month Contract
“Are you sure?” I ask again because, seriously, the stinging in my face must mean we’re looking at an ambulance ride here.
“I know what blood looks like.” Her tone ventures on less sympathetic and more impatient.
“Maybe it’s internal?” I peek one eye open at her.
“An internal nosebleed?”
Terror washes over me. “Is that a thing?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who suggested it!” She hunches down to get a better look at me.
I groan, my head throbbing now from the stress of having a potential internal nosebleed. That can’t be good.
“You better come sit down.” Soft hands wrap around me as I’m ushered to a nearby bench. “I think there are nurses inside this building who could come take a look at you if you want. Though, fair warning, they’re complete assholes.”
“I thought nurses were heroes.” I squeeze my nose to try to stop the burning.
“Okay, not you too,” the woman says flatly, lowering herself beside me.
“What?” I glance at her through my tear-filled eyes.
“Obviously, nurses, in general, are heroes, but that doesn’t mean some aren’t assholes.”
“What?”
She stands and begins pacing in front of me, making me a little dizzy as she moves back and forth. She stops to thrust a finger back toward the building. “Trust me, those nurses were trained at the asshole academy.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask as the burning in my nose lightens enough for me to be able to focus on the person standing in front of my slumped body. She’s tall…maybe not quite as tall as me, but close. Her chestnut hair looks like it has natural curls, but it’s balled up on top of her head in a messy bun, so I can’t tell how long it is.
My eyes drift down her body…
Healthy hips…check.
Ample bosom…check.
Robust yet feminine physique that reminds me of my stepmom in a not-so-creepy way…check.
No sign of a wedding ring…talk about a sea of great check marks!
“Do you know you can’t be a surrogate unless you have prior experience having a baby?” She props her hands on her curvy hips and glares up at the building.
“I didn’t know that.” I clear my throat and lower my hand to straighten a bit more, the pain lifting from my face as hope blooms in my chest.
“Apparently, they wantproofthat all your parts work.” She gestures toward her groin area. “Pardon me for appreciating the scientificmarvels of birth control. My God! I got off it three months ago, and I can assure you…I’m a sharp twenty-eight-day cycle. I even did those pee sticks that tell you when you ovulate. I’m as regular as they come. Also…did you know there’s a weight limit for surrogates?”
“What?” I ask, shocked that it never came up in my research. And I researched a lot. Like, for example, there are basically two types of surrogates. A gestational surrogacy is when the surrogate does not supply the egg. The egg comes from a donor, and they go through the process of IVF to implant the fertilized egg into the surrogate. All very clinical, and it involves no genetic connection to the surrogate.
In traditional surrogacy, you artificially inseminate the surrogate so the baby is genetically linked to the female. That one only involves intrauterine insemination, which is still clinical but not as invasive as IVF. But the surrogate has to sign legal documents to terminate the rights of the birth mother at the time of delivery.
“Two hundred pounds is the weight limit!” the woman balks, snapping me out of my thoughts as her voice takes on a high-pitched note that probably has nearby dogs’ heads turning. “Two hundred pounds is nothing these days. And they don’t care how tall you are either. It’s just about that number on the scale. Tons of women are over two hundred pounds and perfectly healthy.”
“Did they say why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Something about my BMI being bad and obesity being high risk to pregnancies,” she snarls and rolls her eyes dismissively. “But Jesus, anyone with a brain knows the BMI system is outdated and physiologically flawed. There is no allowance for the proportions of bone, muscle, and fat. Bone and muscle are far denser than fat. That’s how some professional athletes find themselves registering on the BMI scale as overweight or obese. Tell me a man who runs a football field every day of the week for his job is unhealthy? I won’t believe you.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” I reply, enraptured by this perfect stranger speaking so confidently about her size. She’s inspiring.
“Check my labs.” She smacks the veins on the crook of her arms. “I’m the healthiest fat person you’ll ever meet. My cholesterol levels are incredible. How dare they. Howdarethey not even consider me.The BMI system is just an insurance scam so they can charge higher premiums to fat people who are perfectly healthy, and the rich man just keeps getting richer.”
