Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“It’s nothing like that,” I say, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Not a big secret or anything. You’ll probably wonder why I thought I should tell you in the first place, it’s just…” I sigh, but I can’t keep putting him off. It’s best to get this out of the way now.
We’ll be at the motel in ten minutes, and I can escape for a head-clearing walk, even if it’s only around the parking lot a few dozen times.
Determined to keep things as light as possible, I keep my focus on the road ahead. “Sometimes I get a little emotional when people compliment my way with kids or tell me I’m going to be a great mom someday or…whatever.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Remember that old boyfriend I told you about? The one who didn’t want to rent bikes in California?”
When I see Wes nod in my peripheral vision, I continue, “Yeah. Well, he wasn’t good at having fun or driving. He insisted on trying to make it all the way home to Bad Dog on our second travel day. I begged him to pull over and get a room, but he insisted he could stay awake just fine. I tried to stay up with him, but eventually, I guess I passed out. When I woke up, the car was upside down and I had a piece of metal sticking out of my stomach.”
Wes curses.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “Not a nice way to wake up from a nap, I’ll tell you that. I was too scared to be mad at him at first, but once we were both out of surgery, and I knew we weren’t going to die, I was so pissed.” I clear my throat. “And that was before the doctor told me the shrapnel had destroyed my uterus. He’d hoped he would be able to repair it during surgery, but the damage was too extensive.”
“I’m sorry, Tessa,” Wes says, a sympathetic rumble vibrating his chest before he adds, “I had no idea.”
I wave a hand. “Of course, you didn’t. But yeah, so…I can’t have biological children. It’s something I’ve come to terms with, but sometimes I still get a little sad about it. I just can’t help it, I guess.”
He reaches out, resting a gentle hand on my knee. “You don’t have to help it. Grief isn’t a linear thing. It comes and goes. I still miss my grandpa all the time, and he died when I was a kid.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I just hate pointless feelings. Feeling sad about what happened in the past isn’t going to change the future. It just seems like a waste of time and energy.”
His lips twitch. “Because human emotions are all about conserving time and energy. They’re all so cooperative that way.”
I laugh beneath my breath. “Good point.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he takes the exit and turns right on the two-lane highway that will lead us to Mother Meyer’s Mountain Motor Lodge. “Can I ask kind of a personal question?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Have you looked into egg harvesting at all? I mean, you can’t carry a child, but if your ovaries weren’t damaged, you might be able to retrieve eggs for a surrogate to carry down the line.”
I sigh again, regretting taking a single step down this road. “I looked into having my eggs frozen when I was thirty-five. I probably should have done it sooner, when I was younger, and retrieving viable eggs might have been easier, but I didn’t have the money until then. Freezing your eggs isn’t cheap or covered by insurance, you know, and chefs don’t make a ton of money unless they’re working at a swanky place in the city.” I stretch my neck to one side, rubbing at a knot that’s suddenly formed there. “Anyway, it was too late. We tried one round of retrieval, but there was nothing viable. Either I was just born with fewer healthy eggs than other women or my ovaries were damaged in the crash, too. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. The end result is the same. No biological children for me. Ever. Even if I met a wealthy Prince Charming willing to pay for expensive fertility treatments and started trying tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Wes trails off, his foot easing from the gas pedal. “Oh wow, is that…”
“Yeah, that’s it.” My eyes widening, I take in the small gingerbread-style house with a large red sign reading “Office Open” above the door. Behind it, a cracked and graying parking lot stretches toward the tree line, where several gloomy cottages crouch amidst the evergreen trees and melting snow. Brown grass pokes through the pavement, adding to the dilapidated vibe, but I can safely say I’ve never been so glad to see a seedy motel.