My eyes start to well up again, but I take a few deep breaths, reminding myself to not think about it. To not concentrate on the aching pain in my heart. Instead, I slip my bra off and put on the robe, placing my feet in the provided slippers. I gather my clothes and shoes and then take them to one of the lockers off to the side. I lock up and join Dottie on the lounge next to hers.
“A waffle maker, huh?” I ask, trying to convince myself that I can be carefree and fun right now.
“You have no idea.”
Emory shows up just as the receptionist hands us both a juice. We thank her as another attendant hands us a plate of our favorite finger foods. They know us so well at this point that we don’t have to ask for much.
“We’ll be right with you,” the attendant says. “Until then, enjoy.”
“Thank you,” Emory says and then turns to Dottie. “Okay, so what about this waffle maker? Did he burn his penis? Please tell me he burned his penis.”
“That would very much be a Jason thing to do, but no.” Dottie picks up a piece of cheese and plops it in her mouth while I sip from my glass, forcing myself to relax. “For some reason, Jason couldn’t sleep the other night so he decided to do some online shopping. He bought a waffle maker, thinking he’d spend one Sunday morning making tons and tons of waffles. Well, he did.”
“How many waffles?” Emory asks.
“Enough to feed the Chicago Rebels. But I doubt any of them would chow down on them like Jason did this morning.”
“Ooo, were they not good?” I ask.
Dottie shakes her head. “Oh no. They were good, but they were shaped like penises.”
Emory spits out her drink.
“Yup.” Dottie leans back in her chair. “My man was munching on dick all morning.”
That makes me laugh.
Because I can picture it. Jason sitting there at the dining table, taking down one penis waffle at a time, just shoveling them in his mouth completely clueless.
“Oh my God,” Emory says. “Did he order a penis waffle maker by choice?”
Dottie shakes her head. “Apparently he thought he was ordering a rocket waffle maker. It’s obviously a penis, so I’m not sure where his head was at when he ordered it, or made them this morning, not noticing the obvious shape of it, but he is a special kind of man.”
“Please tell me you have pictures,” Emory says.
“Obviously.” Dottie pulls out her phone and shows us a picture of Jason at their dining room table, chowing down on a waffle penis.
“He’s my second favorite human, next to Knox,” Emory says, laughing. “Sorry, ladies, but I love Jason.”
“I don’t blame you,” Dottie says. “Hard not to love the idiot.” She turns toward me and asks, “So, you’re all sun-kissed and glowing. Greece must have been amazing.”
Both Emory and Dottie cast their gazes on me and my stomach immediately rolls with the attention. “Uh, yeah, it was fun.”
“Let me guess, you and Carson just laid around all day in the sun, in between wild romps, am I right?”
“Something like that.” I tack on a smile, even though I know my lips barely lift.
“If Jason and I went to Greece, he’d cart me around to every historical tourist site available. And then when we got home, he’d make a flip book of pictures and hand it out to all of our friends to show them the excitement we had when, really, I would have just wanted to lie around. Did you do anything like that?”
I shake my head and stare down at my plate.
The room falls silent and I realize my mistake immediately.
Not answering, not laughing with them. The question is coming . . .
“Hey, Milly. Are you okay?” Emory asks in a concerned voice.
Yup, there it is. The question.
And what happens when someone asks you if you’re okay, when you’re really not? Immediate tears and loss of all ability to keep it together.
My lip trembles.
My eyes water.
My throat grows tight.
I’m going to break down and I’m not sure I’m ready to share. But there’s no way I can cry in front of them and act like everything is okay.
“Milly,” Emory says quietly while coming over to my lounger. She sits on the end and places her hand on my knee. “Sweetie, what’s going on?”
Dottie sets her plate down and turns in her chair so she’s facing me completely. She places her hand on mine and gently rubs her thumb over my knuckles.
I look up at them as tears cascade down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say, attempting to wipe my tears away but they keep failing. Dottie snags a tissue from the end table between our chairs and hands it to me. “Thank you.” I dab at my eyes. “I didn’t mean to make a scene—”
“Milly, you’re not making a scene. Not even a little. Talk to us, what’s going on?”
I swipe at my eyes again. You can do this, Milly, just tell them. Maybe you’ll feel better.
Staring down at the damp tissue in my hands, I take a deep breath and say, “Carson and I have been trying to get pregnant for a while.” I wet my lips. “We’ve been having a hard time.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emory says.
Gently, Dottie says, “Would you like to tell us more? If not, that’s okay, we’re here for however much you want to say.”
Her calming voice, her reassuring words, they make me feel comfortable and for the first time since we started trying, I talk to someone other than Carson about our struggles.
“It’s been four years. Two years of hormones. I uh, I thought I was pregnant before we left for Greece and the first day we got there, I started spotting. I was so upset that we cancelled our activities and spent the entire vacation just hanging out at the private pool we had. I never got my period so when we got home, I took a test. That was yesterday. It was negative and I got my period early this morning.” I take another deep breath. “It’s been a lot to handle, and I haven’t said anything because it just seems really personal and hard to relate to. Also . . . embarrassing.”
“Hold on,” Dottie says, squeezing my hand. “I love you dearly, Milly, but I need to stop you there. Nothing you’ve said is embarrassing. Nothing. Do you understand that?”
More tears fall and I quickly dab them with the tissue.
“She’s right,” Emory adds. “What you’re going through is extremely personal and close to your heart, but none of it should feel embarrassing.”
“But you were able to get pregnant so easily,” I say.
“It’s hard not to, especially when I know having a baby is all Carson wants, and I . . . I can’t give him that. I can’t give him something so precious and that kills me. It’s slowly eating away at me, with every month that goes by. I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emory says again. “I don’t know what the right thing is to say, especially in this moment. I don’t want to offer advice because I’m not qualified. I don’t want to offer positive affirmations, because I feel like you don’t want to hear that. All I can do is offer my ear and shoulder. To listen and to lean on.”
“Same,” Dottie says. “We’re here for you and I’m so grateful you felt comfortable telling us, because holding on to that kind of pain must put such a heavy weight on your shoulders. Shovel some of the weight on us, as that’s what we’re here for.”