Page 98 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

She crouches in front of me, serious now. “You need to be careful. Not scared, not guilty, careful. There are contracts, doctors, money, power dynamics, and now a possible paternity issue. This is not something you can solve by making jokes until everyone gets tired.”

My eyes sting. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

Her face softens.

I look away because that makes it worse.

“I didn’t mean to lie to him,” I say. “That’s the thing. I didn’t go into dinner thinking, let me hide a surrogacy arrangement from this man. I thought it was one night. I thought it was separate.”

“Separate from what?”

I laugh once, without humor. “Everything.”

“And now it isn’t.”

“No.”

The door handle rattles again.

Simone stands so fast I almost laugh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, and walks to the door.

She opens it just enough to glare through the gap. A first-year freezes outside with a water bottle in hand.

“Use the one downstairs,” Simone says.

The girl nods and disappears.

Simone shuts the door and locks it again.

I stare at her. “You’re terrifying. But can we go now? The pee smell makes me want to throw up again.”

She makes a face at me. “My apartment, later. I need more details or I won’t fall asleep tonight.”

* * *

Simone gives me the couch, three pillows, one blanket, a glass of water, saltines, and the kind of look women give each other when the world has become too stupid to trust.

“Sleep,” she says.

“Yes, doctor.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I know. That’s your resting bitch face.”

She just shakes her head.

I pull the blanket up to my chin. “Goodnight.”

She rolls her eyes and disappears into her bedroom.

For a while, I lie still and listen to her apartment. It’s quieter than mine, but not cold. Simone has plants by the window, a stack of books on the floor, a cardigan thrown over the back of a chair. Her place looks like someone lives in it on purpose. Mine usually looks like I broke into my own life and forgot to clean up evidence.

I try to sleep. I really do. I close my eyes. Turn on my side. Turn on my back. Put one pillow under my knees because a nurse once told me that helps with everything. It helps with nothing.