Page 65 of Office Hours
I dish the eggs onto plates, slice a baguette, and bring everything to the island. She takes her plate and digs in, no preamble. I watch her eat, the way she chews with her eyes closed, the way she chases stray bits of yolk with her fingertip.
“This is really good,” she says, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I told you. Full service.”
She smirks. “Is that how you seduce your women? With the promise of eggs benedict?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m usually work with more of a French toast M.O., but yeah. That’s the general approach.”
We eat in a rhythm, passing the pepper mill back and forth, trading little bits of gossip about our classes and the people we hate in common. There’s a comfort to it, a feeling that maybe we’re just two normal people having breakfast.
After a while, she looks up from her food. “Hey, do you have a copy ofThe Scarlet Letter? I need it for a paper.”
I nod. “On the shelf in my office. Want me to get it?”
She stands, draining her coffee. “I can find it.”
She pads down the hall, bare feet slapping the hardwood. I watch her go, the shirt swishing around her hips, and I feel a strange kind of pride. Like I’ve finally managed to hold onto something good.
I finish cleaning the pans, rinse the plates, set them in the dishwasher. The routine is soothing, familiar. I hum under my breath, the morning slipping by faster than I want.
When Simone comes back, she’s holding the book, but she’s also clutching a stack of papers. Her face is hard to read—neutral, maybe, but with a tightness around the eyes that wasn’t there before.
She sets the book and papers on the counter and flips through the top sheet. It’s an ad for an egg donor service. The next page is a printout of a surrogacy agency. The third is a blank application, half-filled in with my name.
“Liam,” she says, voice flat. “What is this?”
I dry my hands and walk over, heart dropping into my stomach.
She holds up the egg donor ad, shaking it. “Are you trying to have a kid? Like, right now? I thought you didn’t want a family.”
I start to speak, but the words jam up in my throat. “It’s not—those are just?—”
She waits, arms folded, her whole body tensed for something.
“They’re just forms,” I say. “I was curious, okay? I wanted to see what the process was. It’s not like I’m buying a baby off Craigslist.”
She doesn’t smile. “You told me you didn’t care about any of that.”
“I don’t,” I say, maybe too loud. “Not with you. Oh shit, this is coming out all wrong. I just—” I run a hand through my hair, trying to piece it together. “After the divorce, I thought maybe I’d missed my chance. I looked into it, but it never went anywhere.”
She flips the application to show me the date: last month.
I can feel myself sweating, the morning chill suddenly gone. “It was just a what-if,” I say. “An impulse. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She looks at me, really looks, and I realize I’ve lost her. Not entirely, maybe, but enough.
“Simone,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“You said it didn’t matter to you. Those wereyourwords.”
I don’t have a good answer.
She nods, once, and starts to gather her things. She pulls her jeans on under the shirt, her movements clipped and efficient. I want to reach for her, to stop her, but I know better.
She grabs the book, tucks it under her arm, and walks to the door. She pauses, looks back at me, and says, “You should have just said what you really wanted.”
I stand there, apron and all, hands wet and useless at my sides.
