Page 66 of Office Hours
She leaves, the door shutting with a soft, final click.
I don’t move for a long time. The sun keeps rising, filling the kitchen with brutal, perfect light. I stare at the empty chair where she sat, trying to remember how to breathe.
When I finally pull off the apron, the words PEANUT BUTTER IS MY JAM sneer at me, hurting my eyes.
But my heart hurts even more.
I turn off the lights, one by one, and let the house fall silent.
15
IT GETS EVEN WORSE
SIMONE
It’s fully dark by the time I let myself into Liam’s house. He gave me a key weeks ago, casual as a tip left on a diner table. I touch it to my chin first—dumb, nervous habit—then slot it into the lock, shivering as the tumblers roll under my fingers. The deadbolt’s so smooth it feels greased. The door opens with a hush, not even a click, like the house is expecting me.
Inside, the world is a different density. The furnace hums somewhere beneath the floor, all else is silent. There’s a single lamp burning in the living room, casting amber over the books and the clean lines of the couch. It’s a good silence, almost, if I let myself believe in it. If I ignore what I came here to do.
He’s on campus tonight—office hours, then evening lecture. I triple-checked the schedule. I have two hours, maybe less, before his headlights rake the windows and his voice fills this space again. My heart is running fast and high, a feeling I used to crave but tonight only makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I take off my shoes, leave them by the door like a kid at a sleepover, and pad across the wood floors in thick winter socks. My hands are shaking; I can feel it in the way my phone wobbles as I check the time, in the way I have to brace myself against the kitchen island to steady my breath.
The house is cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. There’s a bowl of oranges on the table, knife block neatly squared to the wall, not a single crumb or ring on the black granite. It’s so neat it feels like a dare. I run a fingertip over the countertop, half-expecting to find it sticky, but there’s nothing—just the chill of the stone, the faint chemical scent of lemon cleaner.
For a second, I consider stopping. Pretend this is just a normal night, pop a La Croix and binge Netflix until he gets home, let him fuck me on the kitchen table until I forget the weight in my gut. But I can’t. Not after what I saw in his office last week, the flash of a letterhead in his bottom drawer, the unmistakable blue-and-gold logo of the donor egg agency.
I walk the hallway with the caution of a thief, even though no one’s home to catch me. The office door is closed, as always, and when I turn the handle there’s a soft metallic groan, like it’s not used to being opened by anyone but him.
The air inside is different: drier, dustier, edged with the sharp scent of ink and old paper. There are three framed diplomas on the wall, all the same dark walnut, all perfectly level. His desk is a slab of some ancient wood, covered in a scatter of notepads, a stapler, a green glass paperweight that looks like it could break a skull. The bookshelf is so tightly packed I half-expect the volumes to scream when I pull one out.
But I’m not here for books.
The letterhead is gone from the desktop, but I know him too well. The desk drawers are locked, but the file cabinet isn’t. I pull open the top drawer, braced for anything. There’s nothing on top but manila folders, neat as ribs. I start at the front, pulse thrumming so hard I almost miss the names—“CryoOptions,” “Surrogate Packet,” “Legal-Retain (Goldman),” “Semen Analysis.”
My heart falls.
I literally feel nauseous as bile rises in my throat.
But I force myself to go on.
My hands are so cold I have to rub them against my thighs to keep moving. I go folder by folder, trying not to shake too much. Each packet is thicker than the last, and I try to ignore the color printouts of smiling, heavily pregnant women, the margins filled with Liam’s precise, pointed notes.
He’s highlighted the word “gestational carrier” in at least three brochures. There’s a sheet comparing the costs: $42,000 to $78,000 per child, depending on the agency, not including “donor egg premium.” There are spreadsheets—so many spreadsheets—breaking down dates and blood types and what looks like dozens of donor profiles, each tagged with a sticky note in a shade I didn’t know existed.
My stomach flips when I find the next folder: “Simone – Health History.”
It’s labeled in his handwriting, which is cleaner than mine, almost pretty. I open it with the care I usually reserve for rare library books. Inside: a printout of my university medical records (how did he get those?), a summary of the last three years’ worth of prescriptions, and a Post-It stuck to the topthat says “re: fibroids – candidate for GC only? Confirm w/ Dr. Norris.”
For a second, the world goes thin around the edges. I’m seeing everything in double exposure: the office in front of me and the hospital corridor from when I was thirteen, cold tile under my feet and a nurse with big hands drawing blood from my arm. My hands start shaking so hard I almost drop the file, but I force them still, flattening the pages with my palm.
He’s underlined every mention of “unlikely to conceive” and “reduced uterine function.” There are cross-references to other folders, numbers circled in red. There’s even a page titled “Future Prospects,” with bullet points underneath. The first is “marry young, consider gestational carrier early.” The second is just “find willing candidate?”
My name is in the margin, twice. The second time, it’s in all caps.
I read and reread, mind sprinting ahead of my body. This is more than curiosity. Liam’s been researching surrogacy for months, maybe years. Obviously since before he even met me.
I search deeper, until the bottom drawer sticks. I tug harder. There’s a thick envelope inside, sealed, addressed in his hand: “Simone.” I hesitate, but the urge to see is bigger than the urge to leave.
