OCCUPATION: investment banker

RELATIONSHIP TO OTHER GUESTS: married to Eden, best friends with Ted

SPECIAL NOTES: heavy masculine energy with all that air and fire. Watch him closely during the Moon Men exercise. Expect a breakthrough.

MARGOT

In the powder room I stare at my face in the mirror. I am holding it inside, aren’t I?

Adam has never failed to back me up like that. He missed my argument with Eden while he was in his reading, but telling me to settle down was uncalled for anyhow.

Eden and I aren’t close. We tolerate each other for the sake of our husbands, and when the four of us go to dinner, we always have a nice time. But tonight, in the presence of the group, she seemed to have something to prove.

I watch my expressions as I try to re-create how the conversation had gone so wrong.

It should have been a lovely dinner. As the group organizer, I’d lingered around the rustic wood dining table, waiting for everyone to take a seat and begin eating. The sizzle of fish skin wafted from an otherwise quiet kitchen. The smell of garlic in the air enhanced the depth of the merlot decanting on the table. A gloved server arranged a platter of vibrant salmon, yellow and green squash, and caramelized brown baked clams. The chandelier overhead was dimmed.

“Everyone looks fantastic tonight,” I said. Despite this retreat being more casual than last year’s weekend in Playa del Carmen, no one had dressed down. Farah’s fitted dress had a plunging V to reveal heavy cleavage, while Eden’s layered delicate charm necklaces accentuated her bandeau top. Aimee’s backless pantsuit made me feel like a nun in my elegant emerald wrap dress. This group loved to pull out the stops on the first night of dinner.

With a scene as perfect as that, it was easy enough to forget about the ovulation tracking apps, the sadness at the anniversary of my parents’ deaths, the distance from my brother. I kept it all inside. It fit there nicely.

And yet there were tiny sharp pieces that kept poking out. The confusion as to why my brother had lied to me that he wasn’t coming tonight and then showed up in time for welcome remarks. Had he done it for the grand gesture? And the humiliation of being called naive when Farah told me she’s not Aimee’s doctor. Had Aimee said it for Farah’s amusement? And the embarrassment from Rini’s piercing insight that I felt things more than the people experiencing them. Was that code for overdramatic?

“The food is amazing and I’m so impressed with the service,” Farah said.

“I hope no one is eating this,” Eden said, scooping the salad. She pointed with her fork. “Do you see the glisten? That’s an alarming level of oil, even if it was one enriched with omega-6 fatty acids. And blue cheese, the most toxic of cheeses.”

“Eden, you’re off duty this weekend,” Farah said. “No need to police our food.”

I could sense Farah biting her tongue out of respect for Aimee the momfluencer, but I’d bet Farah had the same questions about Eden as I did. She had posted a new “certification” this morning on her social media, and I’d wondered aloud to Ted, “Do people think Eden is qualified to provide health advice?” It wouldn’t surprise me if she rubbed Farah the wrong way.

“So what’s everyone hoping to get out of their sessions with Rini?” I asked, attempting to act the part of the conscientious organizer. No one answered at first.

“Well, for sure you’re going to talk about having a baby,” Aimee said.

“Why would you announce that?” I said. I’m sure that my tight voice was the only crack in my cool demeanor.

“Oh, come on, everyone here is aware you’re trying to have a baby,” Aimee said, unapologetic.

Even though it wasn’t true, it felt like everyone knew we’d been trying to conceive for almost five years. Five long, painful years.

“I wasn’t aware,” Eden said.

I looked around for Ted at the other end of the table to rescue me, only to see he must have stepped out with Rick.

“The doctors”—Aimee made a face at Farah—“haven’t given them any answers. I’m sure she’s hoping this astrologer will.”

“Who knew I’d be seeing a mind reader too?” I said to Aimee, with no sincerity.

“Astrologers aren’t psychics,” Eden chimed in.

“Astrologers can predict life events in the next year as they view the planetary alignments in certain houses of your chart,” I said.

“And what if she tells you that you won’t have a baby this year?” Eden asked.

“Then there’s next year,” I said, with forced nonchalance. I casually rubbed my thumb on the sweat of my wineglass and wished Eden would stop talking.

“The stigma around intervention is outdated, Margot,” Farah said. “Even for someone as traditional as you.”

Farah was right, of course, and even my own doctor doesn’t understand why I haven’t moved to IVF after five years. Only Rini could understand. Earlier she said I lived in a fantasy world, but I call it a utopia of my own making. And in my perfect world, conception is a miracle that doesn’t require medical intervention. I want to live there a little while longer, even though I know at my age I can’t afford to stay too long.

I smiled at Farah for her genuine input. She had surely faced patients with the same look of desperation I tried to hide.

“Thanks for saying that,” I said.

“Well,” Eden said. “Even with medical help, you aren’t entitled to a child because you want one.”

I picked up my fork and stabbed a cherry tomato drenched in balsamic vinegar. I felt the spew of seeds in my mouth before forcing it down.

“It sounds like you’re mistaking my desire for something else,” I said.

“That you seem to believe you deserve one,” Eden said. “As if deservingness has anything to do with science.”

“How about you, Aimee?” I asked, trying to bring the subject back to the readings.

“Me? I get pregnant every time Adam looks at me.” She laughed, not picking up on my cue.

“You’ve always played by the rules to not get pregnant. Now you flip the switch and don’t understand why it didn’t happen on the first try,” Eden said.

“I have a stable job, a great relationship, and a loving home—the right circumstances to bring a new life into.”

“If you’d acknowledge your entitlement, it could free you. Maybe you’d actually get pregnant,” Eden said.

Adam returned from his reading and walked over to the wet bar. His presence made me bolder. Whatever Eden was trying to do, she was not going to get me to snap. My composure is vital to my career as a lawyer.

“You know nothing about me, or my husband, or my family,” I said.

“Hey,” Adam interjected. I watched him expectantly, waiting for him to back me up. “Settle down, Margot,” he said instead.

I stood and adjusted my dress. “Excuse me,” I said plainly.

Now, I am hiding in the powder room, the bottled-up feelings hanging over me thick and heavy as a storm cloud. Eden should acknowledge her hypocrisy when her entire career plays on women’s body-image issues by forcing pseudoscience wellness crap down their throats. What does she care if I’m desperate enough, after years of trying, to want an astrologer to tell me I’m going to have a baby?

“If you’d acknowledge your entitlement, it could free you,” I say, mocking Eden.

You’re mistaking my desire for something else.

Entitled.