Love Expectations (Season 1 of Nata and Phillip's Romance) ✔️

20. 'How many people can say that?'

Nata

The shade of the umbrella stuck in the middle of the outdoor table progressed far enough to leave my feet, propped one of the four deck chairs, in the sun. I should move but removing my IUD yesterday got me to this chair this morning instead of my usual three-mile run around the office campus. I mark the date on the app that's supposed to help me track my cycle and will alert me of the most fertile window.

My calendar for the next two weeks looks like a game of whoever has the least white space left on schedule wins. After we signed the contract, I had a plan of actions: OBGYN appointment, hire the new lab assistant, figure out a running route, assure my parents I will have the money to buy the tickets to visit them for Christmas, discuss the timing of sex with Phillip and add it to my calendar. My phone in my hand buzzes with an incoming text.

Whoville: Did you know there are lubricants that are recommended when trying to conceive.

Whoville: I told Dustin to order Pre-seed and BioSeed.

Phillip's assistant not only has my work, personal, and ovulation calendars now but apparently is in charge of ordering lube. Although the timing of having sex with Phillip to increase our chances to conceive has been on my mind a lot as I waded through research papers on the topic, I didn't allow myself think of the actual mechanics of the act.

I'm a scientist. I've had sex hundreds of times in my life. I know what goes where and the mechanics will be exactly the same with Phillip's body there instead of Samson's or anyone else's. It'll be like 'riding a bicycle.' I don't even use lube when 'riding a bicycle.' If Phillip's expecting some kind of marathon sessions, he'll have to lower his expectations. This is sex for procreation, not fun. I set my left foot on top and squeeze my thighs. My stomach tugs in a low ache. Hopefully cramps isn't something I'll have to get used to again. Lack of period cramps is one of the positives of an IUD. And of pregnancy. My phone buzzes again.

Whoville: Good morning. Are you home?

I turn the device to silent and flip it face down. Figuring out the hiring situation is more important than imagining Phillip's expectations of us making a baby.

The resumes of the candidates for the full-time position at the lab might as well be copied and pasted, the candidates' names the only significant difference between them. Same pedigree, same colleges, same lack of the qualities I'm interested in. The three people I'll be interviewing tomorrow are my last attempt at finding someone who matches what I'm looking for: people from background that don't have an easy way getting into STEM, who didn't have the support of their families or safety net, yet chose to follow this path. People who fought for where they're at because they want to be here, not because someone told them they should.

The door to Phillip's side of the house slams shut. I lift my head to a sight of Phillip in swim trunks standing on his side of the deck behind the railing that separates his portion of deck from mine. For two weeks streams of people were carrying items into his side of the duplex like ants. Some days the hammering was loud enough to cover up the gurgling of the basic drip coffee machine as it butchered my nice medium roast Arabica into a mediocre brew. Yesterday the cars that were taking up the street parking cleared. I should've seen the event for the sign it was.

Phillip isn't covered in showy muscles I admire on male models. He looks surprisingly ... normal. Thin, like his clearly lanky frame suggested. A marathoner vs a sprinter. The eighty percent of Phillip's body is on full display, the swim trunks low on his hips. Heat from my toes jumps to my cheeks. Not like I haven't seen men without clothes on before. And not like Phillip is naked. Although if, no, when we proceed with the plan, I'll be seeing him fully naked or naked strategically below his waist. Which is something we need to go over.