Until November

Chapter 1

Jocelyn

In four weeks I will give birth to a baby that isn't mine. Don't get me wrong, my attachments run deep for this sweet, lovely baby taking up my womb. I do want a baby of my own someday. Just not this day. So, let me be clear. This child has never been mine. Not for a second.

Here I go, counting down the days until I can shave without it becoming a game of where's-my-ankle and I can sleep on my stomach with my face gloriously smashed against my pillow. My God, I miss sleep. I long for the days that I can tie my shoes. Not that I mind sharing rent space with this little guy—or girl. I signed up for this. The due date is getting closer, hovering like a heavy cloud. And that, I cannot ignore.

"Jocelyn, aren't you a teeny bit sad?" Leona watches me from across the table. "Baby clothes are so stinking cute. I'd have overspent by now." She sets down her mug of something smelling wonderfully caffeinated.

It's not just her coffee awakening my sleep deprived bones. Double Shot Café is like a caffeine ocean and I am stranded at sea surrounded by espressos and lattes I can't drink. I consider Leona's question. Am I sad? A little, maybe. As a first time surrogate, pregnancy holds my hormones hostage in a constant state of chaos.

"Jocelyn? Hellooooo?" Leona's laugh brings me back. Her soft brown eyes wait for my answer.

I frown. What had she asked? "Am I sad?" I repeat the question in case I forget to answer. "I cry at commercials now." It's true, I broke down during an ad about a golden getting lost at a carnival and I don't even have a dog. Every time I get emotional, I remember that the Winfield's are paying me fifty grand for my services.

"I'm worried about you." Leona eyes me speculatively. "My sister cried for a week straight after she gave birth. Be prepared for a hormonal roller coaster."

"I won't be caring for a newborn in the middle of the night," I point out. "I'll be catching up on sleep and getting my body back."

The teeny lie knits across my heart. I do think of motherhood. Will I be okay? Am I ready for what comes after this? Leona has known me since we anxiously waited to see who got their period first. She's right, I do think about how my life will go back to normal. The ten minutes I spent on Amazon picking out a few things for the parents was harder than I thought. "You're the best friend anyone could ask for, but don't worry about me. Surrogacy is something I signed up for."

She rolls her eyes and sips her coffee. "This baby is going to be so beautiful and you, my friend, are one in a million to give these parents a baby."

The barista calls out someone's order and I glance at the door to the café. Already the last week of August and the breezy, crisp air of an early New Hampshire autumn is knocking on our doors. Our small town of Redford is like one of those pop-up books that come to life with pretty old buildings and carolers at Christmas. Idyllic. Small. Everyone knows everyone's sister's, cousin's life story. I slop some self-preservation into this conversation to erase Leona's inner fears that I will crumble and cry when I hand over this baby. "Besides," I say with too much indifference, "the lawyer has a document stipulating that if I bust out of the hospital and take the baby, I'll be charged with kidnapping. Before you get all teary-eyed on me, let me remind you this baby is from someone else's egg and sperm."

Leona's attention is suddenly stolen by the television hanging on the wall. On screen is Ben Ryan. The Ben Ryan. Professional golfer. A vision of height and athletic definition that puts the rest of the male species to shame. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, spends his days getting plenty of publicity both on and off the golf course. I can't tear my eyes away either.

The latest scandal to hit the news, social media—everywhere in between involved Ben, his mouth, his abs, and some woman videoed in a hot tub with their bathing suits hanging over the ledge. They were hardcore making out.