The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  But Nicole’s not asking to have kids with me. Her proposition is a horse of an entirely different color. It’s also one I understand to some degree. My brother Devon and his partner couldn’t have kids the old-fashioned way. They chose to adopt, and my niece Simone is the cutest creature alive.

  And so, as I lift the burger, I give Nicole my best Salt-N-Pepa imitation, singing, “Let’s talk about cupcakes, baby.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She holds up her fork to punctuate her statement. “Turns out I’ve become an expert in sperm. Or cupcakes, as some say,” she says with a smile. I wink back. “And the reality is this—there are probably many amazing donors with wonderful traits. But no matter how much testing and interviewing and screening they do, I’d still be getting a sample from a complete stranger. And on top of that, the more I think about it, the more I’d like to know who the”—she pauses as if she’s rerouting words—“the donor is for my baby.”

  As I bite into the burger, I note that she didn’t say father. There’s deliberateness to her word choice, and I suppose that’s understandable. I love Simone in a way that makes my heart feel as if it’s squeezing in my chest, but I also love that she’s my brother’s kid. Not mine. I’m not ready to have one of my own.

  “That makes a lot of sense. You want a better idea of what you’re getting into. You want to take some of the guessing out of the equation,” I say, as I pick off the onions since I forgot to ask the waitress to hold them.

  “Yes. I do,” Nicole says, taking a drink of her water. “And, please forgive me for being so clinical, but you really have everything I’d want in a donor.”

  A burst of pride spreads through me. “Yeah? Tell me what that is. Besides a distaste for onions and an astonishingly good backhand at Ping-Pong.”

  Her nose crinkles slightly as she smiles, drawing my attention to the small spray of freckles there, like a little constellation. “Those are absolutely at the top of my list,” she says, then she picks up her fork and takes a bite of her salad.

  I eye her bowl. “Nicole. You miss the meat, don’t you?”

  She laughs loudly. “Oh yeah, I do miss the meat. And yes, I walked right into that one. But that right there is one reason. You’re easygoing. You’re charming. You’re kind. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re ridiculously handsome.”

  “Oh really? Ridiculously?”

  “Insanely good-looking.”

  “Do continue.”

  “You’re amazingly gorgeous. You’re out-of-this-world beautiful.”

  I’m not often called beautiful. It’s a word reserved more for women or works of art. Oddly enough, I don’t mind it. Maybe because it came with a litany of praise, or perhaps it’s the way she says each word with a particular flare. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but give some back to her when I say, “And your child will have a beautiful mother.”

  “And that,” she says, gesturing to me. “That right there. You’re just . . .” She lets her voice trail off. “You’re good, Ryder. You’re good.”

  I raise an eyebrow skeptically. “Is that like nice? As in he’s a nice guy? Because nice guys finish last.” I’m sure Maggie thought I was a nice guy. A perfectly nice fellow she could cheat on.

  Nicole shakes her head. “I didn’t say nice. I said good because you’re one of the good ones.”

  I don’t see myself that way. I also don’t see myself as donor material. Given how my business nosedived post-divorce, it’s hard to see myself as anything but the man with the ultimate black mark on his record.

  Ryder Lockhart, Manhattan’s so-called love doctor. He could help any man score any woman for life.

  Except himself.

  Hiring me as a dating coach nowadays is akin to hiring a junk-food-scarfing personal trainer to trim down. You just didn’t do it. “I don’t know about that, but I appreciate the thought.”

  “You are a good guy,” she says, emphatically. “You have a good heart. I understand this isn’t a small request. But I hope you’ll consider it because I know I’ll be a good mother, and I want to give my child the best genes possible. I think that’s you.”

  Nicole is showering me with praise. I’m not entirely sure how to receive it, especially since this is a new side I’m seeing of her. She’s always been the cool chick, the bright and bold co-worker. Quick with a quip, but thoughtful and caring, too. I’m reminded of a day last year when Maggie blindsided me with a phone call at work, one of her attempts to win me back. The call didn’t last long, but it unnerved me, got under my skin. I didn’t get into the details with anyone, but Nicole sensed I wasn’t having the best day, so she nudged me with her elbow after my show and said, “Guess what? Two-for-one beers at the Lucky Spot tonight. On me.”

  A simple solution, but it had done the trick.

  “How does it work?” I ask. “The whole donation process.”

  She stabs a carrot slice, chews, and swallows. “Well, there’s this thing guys do when they’re horny. It’s called”—she glances furtively from side to side—“jacking off.”

  “I’m well aware of how the protein shake is made. What I mean is, are we talking about one of those little rooms you go into?” I ask, since what man doesn’t have an image of a jerk-off chamber? “With magazines or porn or whatnot?”

  “Yes, they schedule the donors for forty-minute sessions in them.”

  “I’m more efficient than that, but that’s good to know.” I take another bite and chew. I set down the burger. “So, a nurse or orderly would escort me to a special room, and then I’d need to drop my drawers and whack off. Into a cup, right?”

  “A plastic sample cup. With a top,” she says, and I’m kind of amazed that she’s answering every question like a champ. No blushing, no stammering.

  “What do they provide for entertainment? Laptops? Computers? Or is it old school with Playboy?”

  “They provide pornographic material in printed form as well as video on a TV screen.”

  “Awesome. So I just choke the chicken in a room with a ton of other dudes going at it in their own rooms, too. Hand a cup to the nurse. She seals up the goods. Then, what’s next?”

  “They do tests on your swimmers.”

  “They’ll pass. Then you come in, maybe the same day, maybe a few days later?”

  “Same day. We’d have to time everything to my cycle and when I’m ovulating.”

  “Fine, so they undress you, prop you up on an exam table, and stick a turkey baster into you?”

  “You paint a lovely picture of the process.”

  I hold up a hand, waving her off. “Wait. I’m not done. You’re in nothing but a hospital gown. The doc tells you to put your cute little feet in stirrups, and they stick that baster up inside what I am sure is an absolutely gorgeous and heavenly home,” I say, because if she can compliment my tadpoles, I can say something nice about the paradise between her legs. She mouths a thank you. “After the boys make the upstream trip, they send you home.” I mime patting her on the rear and then sending her out the door.

  “I think you’ve got the basic idea.”

  “And after that?”

  “That’s all,” she says. “That’s all I’d want you to do. I don’t expect or want any involvement. I’d have all the paperwork drawn up in advance saying there are no legal rights, responsibilities, or expectations of parenting, and no financial commitments required.”

  I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but that’s the clincher for me—the lack of involvement. If I’m ever going to raise a child, I’m damn well going to do it right. The whole nine yards, two parents, just like my mom and dad raised my brother, my sister, and me.

  Nicole isn’t asking me to sign up for daddy duty, though. She doesn’t want me to help with diaper detail or midnight feedings.

  She’s a friend asking for the help she needs so she can then do those things on her own.

  And helping a friend seems like something I should consider.

  Fine, she’s asking for a hell
of a lot more than a dude to put together an IKEA TV stand, and those things are beyond Da Vinci Code-level cryptic. I’d like to see Robert Langdon decipher some IKEA assembly instructions. Good luck with that, Harvard symbologist.

  I like Nicole. I respect the dickens out of this woman. I want to take her request as seriously as she’s asking it. “Can I have a few days to think about it?”

  “Of course. Take all the time you need,” she says, then glances at an imaginary watch on her wrist. “It’s only my biological clock ticking.”

  I laugh, and she adds, “I’m just teasing. And if the answer is no, I’ll still be your Ping-Pong partner.”

  “We’ll always have Ping-Pong.” I pick up my burger and take another bite.

  She digs back into her salad then stops. “I almost forgot you had something you wanted to ask me, too.”

  I laugh and slouch back in the booth, giving her the lowdown on Cal’s assignment. Admittedly, it sounds like such a simple favor by contrast, but I still need to ask. “I was hoping you’d be willing to take a trapeze lesson with me. As well as go on a few other dates. For the column, that is,” I say, because I don’t want her to think I’m hitting on her. “I would be grateful if you could help me out.”

  Nicole is the perfect woman for this project. She has no interest in the part of me that causes pain—my heart, that damn organ I’ve locked up in a steel cage.

  “I’m asking you for DNA, and you’re asking me to go on ten test dates?” she says, laughing. “The answer, obviously, is yes.”

  9

  Nicole

  Ruby is shameless.

  The second she lays her big brown eyes on Lorenzo, she wags her tail, drops to the downward dog pose, and begs him to play with her.

  The Italian Greyhound rescue pup is above it all. With his snout held high, my mother’s skinny beast proceeds to inspect my apartment, sniffing every corner, nook, and cranny.

  “He’s like a Niffler,” I say to my mom, referring to the Harry Potter fantastical creature that sniffed out shiny things. She read the first few books out loud to my brother and me when we were in middle school. Naturally, I picked them up on my own and finished the series in high school and college.

  “Perhaps he’s found buried treasure under your couch,” she says, pointing to her dog, who’s now stuffed his whole head underneath the couch.

  I remember something that’s gone missing—my ten-speed purple vibrator with the dual-action butterfly.

  Uh-oh.

  My face flushes beet red, and I call off the dog. “C’mon, boy. There’s nothing under there,” I say as cheerily as possible. What if he locates the missing purple butterfly? My mom is cool, but I do not want her lover-dog turning my missing personal pleasure device into a chew toy.

  Lorenzo burrows further. His bottom half sticks out. He is all butt and legs and tail now. Ruby barks, cheering him on. Traitor.

  “Maybe he’s finally found your lost diamond.” She winks. “Or a slice of pizza.”

  I force out a laugh. Pizza, a precious gem, or a pleasure perpetrator. “Let’s hope it’s the ring.”

  Then again, that purple tool was a damn good vibrator, and I miss it fiercely. Would it be such a bad thing if Lorenzo found it?

  Honestly, I’m not embarrassed that my mother knows I engage in ménage à moi. She does read my columns and listen to my radio show. “Love, I have to agree,” she’d said after a recent bit on deal-breakers. “I would draw the line, too, on men who want to wear my panties. La Perla is not meant to be shared.”

  When Lorenzo emerges, he’s victorious. He brandishes my red and white polka dot umbrella between his teeth and wags his tail proudly. “That’s been missing forever!” I march up to the boy. “Give it to me.”

  He obeys and drops the umbrella into my open palm. This is the perfect umbrella—it fits in a purse but can withstand a strong downpour. I suppose all things being equal, I’m grateful he located a device for keeping dry, not getting wetter.

  I set the umbrella on my coffee table.

  “Ready for Project Closet Metamorphosis?” I ask my mom, who is perfectly coiffed, as always. Her shoulder-length hair is blown straight and pristinely styled. Not an auburn strand is out of place. She wears blue jeans and a light zip-up vest over a long-sleeved shirt. The ever-present Bluetooth dangles on her ear like a wedding band.

  She pats the tape measure in her palm. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  We head to my bedroom, which adjoins one of the most wonderful closets in all of Manhattan, thanks to my mom. She hunted down this place in the East 80s for me. It was a total steal, and I’m a lucky gal to call it my own. As she surveys my closet, she yanks the metal ribbon and begins measuring.

  “You do know I could have done that,” I point out.

  She laughs, a throaty sound. “You are many things, my love. But good at measuring is not one of them. Besides, we need to make absolutely sure there’s enough space to turn this into a nursery.”

  When she says those words, my heart flutters with hope, even though I’m still in limbo. It’s been fifty-six hours since I presented Ryder with my request. Each passing second is endless, and I’ve become a pathetic clock-watcher, like a high school student staring at the ticking hand on the wall, desperate to escape the purgatory of class. Every time my phone makes a sound, a charge zips through my bloodstream in case it’s him with a yes. I’ve even brought my phone with me to the shower. Well, I leave it on the vanity. I’m not that pathetic.

  Yet.

  I’m prepared for his no, though. A girl needs a backup plan, so in case he turns me down, I’ve prepped my list of second choices—a few other tall, smart, and hopefully handsome strangers with deposits at the cupcake bank. Just in case.

  I’ve been working out of the office the last two days, so I can’t even stalk him at work and try to read his expressions, body language, or secret notes.

  Just kidding. I’d never do that.

  I mean, not unless he left me no choice.

  My mother yanks and measures, then records the intel in her phone. “There. I’ll give my handyman the numbers, but I think you should be able to make it work. But I don’t think we should schedule the project till you’ve got a baby in there.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “And that means we just need to get you in the family way,” she says, patting my belly. She bounces on her toes and shrieks.

  I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve turned into a screech owl, Mommy dearest.”

  “I’m just so excited that you’re doing this. I know there are no guarantees, but you literally have no idea how much I want to be a grandmother.”

  I adopt a serious look. “Judging from your howl, I have a pretty good idea. I’d say you want it as much as you wanted that bottle of Cabernet you bid on at auction a few weeks ago.”

  “Shame on you. I wanted that wine more.” She winks and hugs me. “Just kidding. I want this for you, and I want it more than anything. But you know, no pressure.”

  “Right. None at all,” I say, drily.

  “You’ll be knocked up like this,” Mom says, then snaps her fingers. “You do know I got pregnant the first time your father and I tried, with both you and your brother?”

  “That’s because you and Dad only had sex twice, right?”

  “Ha. Yes, of course. We were so chaste otherwise.”

  “Also, how do you know it happened the first time you tried to get pregnant?”

  “A woman just knows these things,” she says as we breeze out of the closet.

  “I hope I’ll know, too, since I’ve found the donor I want.”

  “Is that so?” She lifts a curious eyebrow. “Tell me more about Donor 4621.” We’ve taken up the habit of assigning random numbers to potentials.

  As we leash up our dogs and head out into the crisp fall afternoon, I give my mom the lowdown on Donor 4621. Lorenzo walks by my mom’s side while Ruby gamely tries to engage him in dog conversation the entire way. His snout is
fixed sternly forward as my girl lolls her tongue and paws at his chest.

  “Hmm,” Mom says when I finish and we reach Fifth Avenue. Buses grunt and groan, and horns honk from cabs.

  “What is the hmm for? Just tell me.”

  She tilts her head as we wait for the light to change. “Hmm means that seems like a potentially complicated situation.”

  “I can handle this. He’s a colleague, he’s a friend, and he’s a Ping-Pong partner. He’s a dating expert, too. He’s precisely the type of man to ask.”

  “Maybe,” my mom says, not buying it.

  “Elaborate.”

  “What I mean is—it’s complicated. Please just make sure he signs on the dotted line. Contracts are critical.”

  “He’s not going to suddenly want daddy duty. He’s not that type of guy. That’s yet another reason he’s perfect. He doesn’t want a relationship. He’s been burned. He’s not interested in any type of commitment. I’m sure he’s allergic to commitment, in fact.”

  The light changes and we cross.

  “That’s all well and good, but the thing I like with anonymous donors is they can’t get anything from you even if they change their mind,” she says as we walk along the edge of the park. “This almost feels like the type of thing you’d write a column about. ‘Top Five Reasons Not to Ask a Coworker to Donate His Happy Juice.’” She raises her right index finger, displaying a perfectly manicured, plum-colored nail as she counts off. “One, you see him nearly every day. Two, what will you tell the kid? Three, how incredibly awkward will it be when you bring your child to a work event? Four, will your friendship be tested? Five, what if he changes his mind about wanting to be involved?”

  Holy shit. She has my job down to a science. I’m ridiculously impressed, but I also must dispute her. “For starters, what work events am I taking a kid to? Even if I wasn’t a sex and love columnist, do you honestly think I’d drag along a toddler or grade schooler to the office Christmas party?” I tighten my grip on Ruby’s leash. I adore my mother, but she’s still a mother. Sometimes she can’t help being a giant buttinski.