The Choices We Make - Karma Brown MIRA

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a really good feeling about it,” he said.

      I nodded again. “Thanks for the flowers,” I said, craning my head around him to look at the tulips on the counter. I didn’t want to talk about next month. Or IVF. “And the beer. I take it at least three of those are for me?”

      Ben laughed. “Well, I figured you might need it,” he said. “And if not, I was prepared to drink the lot.” He winked and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

      “I love you, Ben Matthews.”

      “I love you, too, Hannah Matthews.”

      I extricated myself from his embrace. “Listen, I just need to go call Kate. You know how she frets.”

      “I’m sure she can wait for one beer,” Ben said, cracking the lids on two bottles. “Here.”

      “Thanks.” I took it from him, then picked up my phone. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

      Ben nodded and took a sip from his bottle, settling in on the couch. I headed to the bedroom upstairs and shut the door, then put my phone and beer on the nightstand and picked up a pillow from the bed.

      Covering my face with it, pressing so hard my knuckles dug into my cheekbones, I screamed into the four-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase until my throat hurt and I had no air left.

      KATE

      “Don’t talk about the girls, or babies, or anything to do with eggs or sperm.” I grabbed the taco shells out of the pantry and arranged them on the cookie sheet before sliding it into the prewarmed oven. David stirred the simmering beef on the stove top, shaking in some extra chili flakes.

      “How would I even bring eggs or sperm up?” he asked before blowing on a spoonful of beef and popping it into his mouth. He swore under his breath, then grabbed his glass beside the stove and took a large gulp of water.

      “Is it spicy? Did you put in too many pepper flakes?” I asked, even though I had no business commenting on his cooking. I was—had always been—a horrific cook, something I blamed on my upbringing. My mom could make exactly five dishes—scalloped potatoes with ham, spinach frittata, pasta with red sauce, chicken enchiladas and turkey potpie. I had since learned, thanks to David, how to make from-scratch pancakes, roast chicken with potatoes and beans, and a decent Mediterranean bread salad, but all of us were happy he shouldered most of the cooking. “It’s temperature hot,” he said. “Spice is perfect.”

      “I feel so guilty every time,” I said, sighing. I whirled the margarita mix in the blender with two cups of ice, yelling over the blender noise. “It was so easy. Like, you barely touched me easy. Why can’t it just work for them? One time.”

      The doorbell rang just as I finished rimming the glasses with rock salt.

      “Remember, it’s like nothing is different,” I said as I headed out of the kitchen.

      “Got it. No eggs. No sperm. Nothing is different.” David scraped the beef into a large bowl and set it on the island beside the lazy Susan filled with tomato, onion, hot peppers, lettuce, salsa and cheese.

      I opened the door, took one look at Hannah and immediately welled up.

      “Shit, shit, shit!” I furiously wiped away the tears. While I was definitely the crier of the two of us, I had been determined not to shed a tear tonight. “I’m sorry. I suck.”

      Hannah gave me a tissue from her pocket. “Thanks a lot. Now I owe Ben twenty bucks.”

      “What?” I took the tissue. “You made a bet I’d cry?”

      “I knew you’d cry,” Ben said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

      “I told him you would at least hold it together until after the first pitcher of margaritas.” Hannah handed me the bowl of her famous guacamole along with a large Tupperware container. “I’ve been stress baking,” she said, with a shrug. “Chocolate peanut-butter cupcakes.”

      “Well, now that Katie has completely ruined the evening,” David said, wincing slightly when I smacked him in the arm. “Let me just say I’m really sorry, guys.” He shook Ben’s hand, clasping his other hand against Ben’s arm.

      “Thanks, man,” Ben said. Hannah looked down, her long, blond ponytail falling to the side, and I could tell she was just holding it together.

      “The margaritas are ready, and I’m putting an extra shot in yours tonight,” I said, grabbing her hands and pulling her with me to the kitchen. “Come on. It’s time to get drunk.” David walked behind Hannah and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them gently as we all moved into the kitchen. With their blond hair and similar height—David only a couple of inches taller than Hannah—we often joked I had married the male equivalent of my best friend.

      “I think I need two extra shots,” Hannah said, taking a seat at the island and letting out a shaky breath.

      “Done!” I freehand poured the tequila and we laughed.

      Three pitchers of margaritas, a bottle of red wine, a mess of tacos and two rounds of Cards Against Humanity later, Hannah was drunk and snoring beside me on the couch. Watching her sleep, I brushed strands of hair out of her face and lay my hand against her cheek. “I’m going to help you, Hannah. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to fix this.”

      HANNAH

      Though my hangover was mostly gone by Monday morning, I still felt like crap. My period was coming and, though I was ready for it, the thought of it still gutted me. One more month and a thousand dollars down the drain—quite literally. I sighed as I pulled out the box of tampons I’d hoped to tuck away with the pregnancy tests.

      After throwing my hair into a ponytail—being a recipe developer meant I never wore my hair down at work—I quickly brushed my teeth, already feeling dull cramps in my abdomen. Ben was in the kitchen, downing a quick cup of coffee before he had to leave for the office.

      “You all right?” he asked, swirling the mug in his hand, then drinking the last mouthful, his eyes still on me.

      “All good.”

      He watched me for a few seconds more, then put his mug into the sink. “I’m going to be late tonight,” he said. “Dad and I have to work on the proposal.” As a junior partner at his dad’s firm, he was currently involved in trying to secure a major project—the redesign of a chain of boutique hotels that stretched along Southern California’s coastline—and they were only two weeks away from presenting to the client.

      “Dishwasher’s clean,” he added, seeing me eye his mug—which he had placed unrinsed in the sink—with irritation. “I’ll unload it when I get home, okay?” He was using his cautious, soothing tone; the one reserved for days like this. I think he figured if he stayed calm, I would, as well.

      I longed to explode with anger, with sorrow, to yell at Ben if for no other reason than to expunge the sadness out of me. But Ben’s tone said, let’s be gentle and quiet and polite with each other. Like not looking an angry, aggressive dog directly in the eye—if we averted our gazes from our failure to become parents, we might be able to walk away unscathed. I wondered sometimes if Ben believed that being nice enough would smooth the disappointment out, like a hot iron over wrinkled cotton.

      So, as always, I took the same tone with him, because this was the dance we danced—the steps well rehearsed, the cadence predictable. “Sure, sounds good.” I opened the fridge and grabbed a yogurt, then scowled and put it back. The thought of eating something creamy and cold made my stomach turn. Pouring a large mug of coffee, I popped the lid on the acetaminophen bottle and shook out two—three—pills.

      Ben raised his eyebrow, leaning back against

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