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the ads Ben and I had browsed earlier.
    I stopped at the one of the woman who preferred a Christian couple and wanted a relationship after the baby was born. Something about her had stuck with me, perhaps because she was one of the only ones to not romanticize the experience. There were no adjectives like wonderful or incredible peppered throughout, and I liked how up front she was about what she wanted out of the contract, money aside.
    Tapping my spoon gently against the sides of my now-empty bowl, I tried to imagine what it would be like to have another woman carry a baby for me—a baby I had no genetic link to. My mind filled with a million questions and concerns, like how we would pay for it, and how our friends and family would react, and how I could be certain the surrogate wouldn’t change her mind in the end and fight us to keep the baby. And if I would love a baby that wasn’t mine as much as one I gave birth to.
    Ben and I had agreed to put the surrogacy idea on the back burner. He preferred the idea of adoption, worried about the astronomical costs and complications—both emotional and logistical—that came with surrogacy, and as a last resort, option C. With a sigh I shut the laptop and took my bowl over to the sink. While I rinsed it I imagined rinsing out baby bottles after midnight feedings, and the pain in my belly was so intense I doubled over the sink, dropping the ice-cream bowl—the loud clang as it hit the stainless-steel tub echoing through the kitchen.
    â€œFuck it,” I said, drying my hands and opening the laptop again.
    Scanning the ad I found the contact information, and before I could even think about what I was doing, I typed her an email. With my finger over the enter key, poised to hit Send, I realized I was shaking. I told myself I wasn’t committing to anything. It was just an email, and Ben didn’t even need to know about it because nothing would likely come of it.
    I hit Return, saw the confirmation my email had been sent and then went back to bed.

9
    KATE
    My cell phone rang, the familiar bars of Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing” filling the silence of the kitchen. Hannah. I jumped, a hand to my chest, only then realizing I was still holding the butter knife I’d been spreading the peanut butter with.
    â€œShit,” I said, glancing down at my previously white shirt. There was a large peanut-butter stain right in the middle of my chest. Why did I even bother trying to wear clean shirts, and a white one at that? I ran my finger over the excess peanut butter and licked it off, answering my phone.
    â€œHey, you,” I said. “How goes it?” I tucked the phone in the crook of my neck and, glancing at the large clock on the wall, swore under my breath and quickly cut the crusts off the bread. My head was still pounding, despite the migraine medication I’d taken at four in the morning, but at least the tingling in my neck and arms was gone and my stomach had settled.
    â€œHey, are you going to be around for a bit after the girls go to school?” Hannah sounded weird. Out of breath. Like she had a secret she couldn’t wait to let burst out of her mouth.
    â€œIt’s a migraine morning, so David’s taking them. You okay?”
    â€œYeah, yeah, good. Okay, I’ll be by in about forty minutes. Want a latte or maybe a tea for your head?”
    â€œCoffee, definitely,” I replied. “I haven’t had a chance to make any yet. That’s probably why my head is still pounding.”
    â€œFor the last time, set your coffee timer. It will change your life, promise.”
    â€œSo you say.” I leaned into the knife as I pressed it against the sandwich, the soft bread squishing and some peanut butter and jam squeezing out the edges.
    â€œI’ll get you a double shot. See you soon.”
    â€œSee you soon,” I said, hitting End with a peanut-butter-covered fingertip.