Natalia

One thing my nomad life with my parents taught me is how to make do with what we had at the new place.

Packing when you move your household once in a while is one thing. Packing and moving when you do it every year or two is a different beast. The skills of starting over my parents inadvertently taught me are the ones that served me well as a scientist. I can say with certainty that I will have to start over, and over, and over, and over until I find one plausible solution and that might be shut down by my peers and I must start all over again. The most promising of the results fail in vivo. But I was certain that starting over period in my life was over. I should've known better. No matter how controlled the experiment, the rate of failure remains high.

My long running-study with Samson just came to an end and my options are: give up or start again.

I'm not the giving up type.

When Phillip leaves, I turn every light in the townhouse that will be my temporary home. The galley kitchen is small, but has a fridge, a stove with a built-in oven, a dishwasher, and a microwave. The cabinets have some pots and pans and a set of plates, glasses, and silverware for six. Apart from the entrance door and one to the garage, there are three more. One is a hall closet, that has an ironing board and empty hangers. The second one is a half bath with a toilet and a sink, decorated in a grayge tones the stagers use to persuade the renters and buyers they can see themselves in the space.

The third door is glass and leads to a patio. I flip the switch by that door and the backyard lights up. A wood slated table and six chairs around it sit to the left under the kitchen windows. To the right there's a small pool and a fire pit. On the other side there is another patio with the identical table and chairs sitting in the dark. The townhouse is a duplex, where apart from a wall the neighbors seem to share the facilities in the back yard as well.

Back in the house, I walk up the beige carpeted stairs. The landing has three doors and an open loft space that looks over the backyard, set up like a small den or office, with a desk, a standing lamp, and a couch that might be a foldout. The door in the middle leads to a well-sized bath with a small tub, double sinks, a toilet, and some decorative shelves with white fluffy towels rolled into the perfect burritos I could never accomplish on my own.

The next door is a linen closet with bedsheets, more towels, some rugs, and cleaning products on the bottom shelf. The final door leads to the bedroom. The windows look onto the street and the space is bigger than the bedroom Samson and I shared. The bed is large enough to be a king. The rest of the decor is in shades of the impersonal blue-gray. Bedside tables. A dresser. A TV on the wall opposite the bed. An armchair in the corner with a third identical standing lamp next to it. The feel of a hotel room permeates the space.

This is temporary. This is nice. I should be grateful.

My intestines twist in poisonous doubt and something else I can't identify. The bile from the unnecessary mug of black coffee I downed to occupy my hands while Phillip was proposing his deal sloshes like the waves of a stormy ocean, intent on making me sick. Am I ruining my life? How do I know this is a step in the right direction? What if I'm making the hugest mistake of my life?

I lean my overheated-by-churning-thoughts forehead on the cool glass of the oversized window and try to guess if the cars that stop at the T-bone intersection right in front of the duplex will turn right or left. Most turn left. My hypothesis is that's the direction out of the complex. My new neighbors walk by with their dogs. Someone's smoking on their front porch. The flickering light of the cigarette reminds me of Phillip, of the reunion night, of our conversation in the kitchen. Both seem to be dreams. Nothing that happened to me in the last four days feels real. If I squeeze my eyes really hard, I will wake up and find myself in the comfortable life I've been building over the last ten years.

But all I see are the blinding LED lights of the turning cars, brighter than the streetlight that stoops over the pedestrian crossing. The full moon hangs in the sky, like a giant lamp casting its judgment on my new surroundings. I don't squeeze my eyes anymore. I don't allow myself to pretend I can wish everything away. Phillip's offer is the most ridiculous thing for me to consider, but my head is already making calculations, lists, and writing questions I should ask him to be sure we do this right.

This is not an on-a-whim or a rush decision. Realistically, if I start dating someone it'll take me months to get to know them, to even approach the subject of kids. It'll be a year before I can begin trying for one. With IVF, apart from the funds I don't have, the process takes months as well. And time. So much time away from my studies, my lab, my work, that needs me even more before I have a kid. I'll have to double down and finish everything. I'll need to spend every waking hour in the lab more than ever.

Phillip is a known quantity. If I were looking at him as a romantic partner, he would've been off the list already, but as a father? As a co-parent? As far as I can see, he will be a perfect one. I retrace my steps to the mess of a living room.

Unpacking is what I should do, but not a single cell in me wants to start. I flip on the TV above the gas fireplace, put a baking show on, hide under a blanket, even though I'm not cold. I need to pretend I'm comfortable, and since my middle school days, that's always been accomplished with me under a blanket in whichever country, on a couch, in front of a TV, watching something I don't care about or don't know the language of, so that the house, too silent while my parents were at work, didn't scare me.

My vigil used to last until they came back.

No one is coming back for me today, but I can't stand the silence. I mentally thank the British accent on the screen for filling the void, pull my phone out, and start with Kate's messages.

Kate: Can you get me one of those cold fruity drinks before you come up?

Kate: You're not in your office.

Kate: Not in the lab.

Kate: I've walked to the cafeteria. Where are you?

Kate: Were you kidnapped?

Kate: I'm seriously worried. I just saw Samson leave, so I know he wasn't the one at fault.

Kate: Or are you having the siesta with your old flame?

Kate: Is he dangerous? Rich guys can literally get away with murder.

Kate: I'm going to assume something bad happened to you and call the police if you don't get back to me today. I sent you emails as well.

Kate: Call me even if it's the middle of the night. I'm seriously freaking out here.

Nine p.m. is far from the middle of the night, but the thought of talking to Kate and telling her what's going on with me sends my heart into my throat. If I do not respond, she would actually involve the police, which is the last thing I want to worry about.

Me: I'm fine. I was with Phillip. I'll explain tomorrow. I'm not coming over to your place tonight.

Her reply is immediate.

Kate: !!!!!!!!

Kate: You can keep that outfit and use it any time in the future when you need extra luck.

Kate: heart emoji

Kate: eggplant emoji

Kate: winky emoji

Kate: You're welcome.

Kate: Call me.

I scoff but ignore her request. Not tonight. I've had enough conversations for the day.

Samson's name has an unread texts bubble next to it as well, but I skip over them.

I read Dad messages that are about me visiting for Christmas. I'll answer those later.

The last message I open is from Phillip he sent an hour ago. He must've sent it from the car before he drove off, because there's no way he got home by then already, and if he's in the habit of texting while driving, I'll be refusing his offer. I don't need to worry about him doing it while my kid is in the car with him. I put a stop to my brain coming up with all the possible ways that scenario can hurt my potential future child and read the words on the screen.

Whoville: How about we meet this week? What's the best email address to contact you? I'll have my assistant schedule something with my lawyers to see what a standard contract will look like. If you won't change your mind about co-parenting with me.

A standard contract? The way he phrases the co-parenting deal we discussed on this very couch makes it sound like something people actually do. Like there are standard contracts for that sort of a thing. Like it's a reality. Me and Phillip co-parenting. I expect the thought to restart the coffee waves in my stomach, but my gut is calm, no nausea or heart palpitations. Even my breathing is measured and deep. Co-parenting is a thing people do. Why not meet with a legal professional and set my requirements on paper? What's so wrong about going after what I want and doing it on my preferred schedule? I've done it before.

"Aim for the stars." Mom's voice whispers in my head.

My gaze slides from the screen to the suitcases on the floor and the bags on the armchairs. I crawl from under my blanket and unwrap the towel I put around the vase Phillip took down from its hiding spot on top of the kitchen cabinets. The sharp edges of the traditional design on the heavy crystal prickles my fingertips in a familiar, comforting way. I hug the only memento I've kept from my mom and promise myself I will do better. I place the vase on the mantle as a reminder. As a flagpole in this new-to me territory. The first item that claims this space as mine. Whether this thing with Phillip works or not, I'm not going to let anyone sidetrack me from what I want anymore. I'm going for it.

Me: Thank you for your help. I owe you one.

Me: Please send all the details to Natalia.M.Boyko at bct.com. What's yours? I'll send you my non-negotiables.

Whoville: I expected nothing less.

I catch myself smiling. And I'm not mad about it.