“Ollie,” I say, my voice tight. It exasperates me that he’s willing to fall back on “internet science” all of a sudden—he’s smarter than that and he knows it. “Please don’t throw around this ‘studies have shown’ stuff as if you’d done the research. You know those headlines are clickbait. Suggesting that things ‘are linked to cancer’ is the internet’s favorite pastime.”

I go through a list of just a few of the things which have been linked to cancer in the last five years. Vitamins. Birth control. Childbirth. It’s true: childbirth has literally been linked to increased rates of uterine cancer, but do you see anyone not having kids because of that?

Of course not. Because the “increased rates” are minuscule; because the science methodology is questionable; and because people need to get on with their lives.

Oliver just shakes his head, like he can’t believe how stubborn I’m being.

“Ol,” I say. “I get why you’re so…non-interventionist about this stuff. I do.” But you’re blowing this way out of proportion. “But tons of women,” I continue, “tons of couples, do IVF.”

“Name someone,” he says. And I can’t, because Rakesh and Lisa are the only couple that actually told us they were going through it. I bet there are plenty of couples we know casually who’ve done it and just haven’t mentioned it to us. There’s a lot the world doesn’t talk about when it comes to women’s bodies in particular.

“Don’t put me in this position, Oliver,” I say.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Put you in this position? Gillian, don’t act like this is just about you,” he says, and I feel my blood rising.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to make this a me versus you thing,” I say. “You’re the one who’s always saying we shouldn’t get adversarial about this.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back.

“Well, you’re the one being accusatory!” I say. “And, and anyway—it is about me more than you, because you don’t care as much as I do. If you did, I’d be pregnant by now.”

He stares at me, then looks away.

“You know what I sometimes feel like?” he says. “I feel like some stud bull on a farm. Like I’m just kept around for the purposes of insemination. Like that’s what I’m for these days.”

My blood simmers.

“How do you think I feel? How do you think last night felt for me; do you think it was particularly affirming, that it did wonders for my ego? Do you think I don’t feel like a barnyard animal myself? Like a walking uterus instead of a human?”

Oliver stares at me. Then he grabs his coat from where it’s slung over one of the kitchen chairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out where?” I say.