My phone buzzes with a text.

He snatches it away from me.

“It could be the adoption agency!” I protest weakly. I don’t even reach for it.

Henry looks. His head recoils. “It is.”

“It is?” I gasp, grabbing the phone.

Home study cleared, Chloe. Please call me when you can. Congratulations, Yvonne.

Henry and Jemma have been my staunchest supporters through my adoption process. They came over and helped me install child-proof locks on all my cabinets before the home study. Have given tips and hints, listened and held me, parsed through logical issues and irrational state requirements.

“Yes. It says yes. Home study cleared,” I say in wonderment.

His face splits with a huge grin, his white teeth shining, the former tense lines between his eyes gone. “I knew it.” He pulls me into a hug. “You’re going to be a mom soon.”

Mom.

The phone buzzes again. I look behind Henry’s shoulder at the phone in my hand.

And buy a fifth of Tito’s, Joe texts. You can drive me home.

“You are getting what you deserve, Chloe,” Henry says. “Everything you’ve ever wanted.”

I turn my phone off.

Right.

* * *

Coffee has diminishing returns, and by two in the afternoon, I am a rat pushing the caffeine lever over and over without receiving the desired effect. All I can think about is babies. My computer screen has twelve tabs open, one to PoshTots, one to Babycenter, one to Dr. Sears, one to the CDC guidelines for cribs, and the rest are for baby clothing sites. I don’t know why they make shoes for babies who can’t even stand up, much less walk, but they are ridiculously cute.

Hey—priorities.

“Chloe? Must have been a good night if you’re still wearing hangover glasses after lunch.”

Carrie is O’s junior designer, though she’s only a year younger than me. We’re opposites. I’m darker-skinned with dark, straight hair, while Carrie looks like someone dropped her out of an Amazonian cornfield in Iowa. Her long, wavy strawberry blonde hair hangs over one shoulder in a loose ponytail, like a witness to the awful mystery shop report.

She drops a bunch of new fabric samples in the basket next to my desk, towering over me. “Are those the new J.Crew sunglasses?”

Well, yes, they are. I take them off and rub my eyes.

“Worse than a hangover. I’ve been reading hot pink criticism for four hours. I needed protection,” I explain.

She gives me a polite, soft laugh.

“Carrie, how are we doing with the voice response system? We’ve reached a point where we need to get the computer system in place for customer service calls and reservations.”

“I’m on it, Chloe.” Carrie reaches for a folder and slides out a piece of paper. “Our only obstacle now is the service request menu.”

I look at the list.

Press 1 to schedule a massage appointment

Press 2 to request a master masseur

Press 3 to speak with a coordinator about divorce parties

Press 4 to purchase merchandise

Press 5 to --

I squint. “Does that say what I think it says?”

Carrie laughs. “Yes.”

“We can’t have an option to speak directly with one of the masseurs. They’ll be inundated!”

“It’s a new idea from the business development office. Customer-driven. They want ‘phone sessions’ with the guys.”

“Paid phone sessions?” My jaw drops. I’ve seen a lot here, but this takes the cake.

“Right.”

“That’s phone sex!”

Carrie squirms, her face reddening. “Ah, technically, it’s a half-hour consultation with the guys to discuss self care.” I can tell that is a very well-rehearsed euphemism written by a marketing team via focus group input, all right.

“How much?”

We often speak in shorthand. Carrie knows what I mean. “One eighty.”

“For a half hour?”

“Focus groups. Marketing priced it with focus groups.” See? Called it.

“Was there a beta test?”

“Yes.” Carrie bites her lower lip. “Revenue from each customer jumped like crazy. They want the personal touch. One woman set up a recurring appointment.”

“I’m surprised Henry didn’t mention this to me.”

Carrie lights up. “Do you think you could convince him? He was the most requested consultant and he refused.”

I’ll bet his wife Jemma refused.

“And the guys...they’re okay with this?”

Carrie chortles. “Ryan’s loving it. Says he makes more money talking to women about their hot flashes and uptight husbands than he does when his hands are on them. They just want someone to listen.”

“For one eighty a half hour, Ryan better be a damn good listener.” Ryan is one of the tatted-up male employees. The women love him.

Carrie’s face softens, eyes going unfocused. “He is.”

“You can handle the phone tree people? I don’t have to add this to my plate?”

“Sure. No problem. It’s all about getting people to put themselves on hold when they need to be patient, and to learn to press the right buttons to get what they want.”

“Just like sex,” I note.

We share a laugh.

Just like life, I think. Someday, maybe my options will change, and I can just press zero for help.

If only life were so simple.

A message window pops open on my computer screen:

HELP GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW

It’s the cool and unflappable Henry.

What’s wrong? I type back.

CLIENTPROFNAKED!!

Professional naked? Your client is a stripper?

This would be highly unusual for an O client—our members might enjoy watching a show, but they don’t typically perform in it—but it’s certainly nothing to panic over.

PROFESSOR!

NAKED!

HELPOUTNOW!

I’ll get Zeke, I type. Zeke’s our other master-level masseur. He has brown hair halfway down his back, pulled up in a trendy man bun right now, blonde streaks a sign of his addiction to outdoor life. Tanned, with strange scars dotting his thighs, and a tattoo of a mandala on one ass cheek (hey – I can’t help but look—it’s my job) in vibrant colors. Zeke’s a great asset to O.