I stand in my bathroom, counting the seconds.
24
Ryder
“Cupcakes. You need cupcakes.”
The caller sounds intrigued by my statement, but happy, too. I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Cupcakes? Tell me more.”
I lean back in my chair, park my hands behind my head, and give him my best advice. “There’s just something about cupcakes. They make you happy. When you’re tasting cupcakes, you can flirt with your woman, you can get to know her—you can find out what makes her tick and what ticks her off.”
The caller laughs. “Cupcakes are like a universal lubricant, then?”
I tense for a second, worried Cal will freak the fuck out if anything is remotely dirty on the show. Across from me, Jason widens his eyes in concern.
But I’ve learned that dirty isn’t entirely the problem my boss has with my work. It’s the heartless dirty he abhors. He doesn’t mind a sex joke if it’s mingled with a wish for intimacy. “Cupcakes sure do seem to pave the way for good things. I’ve concluded that it’s the frosting, man. Frosting is everything.”
“Awesome. I think I’ll find a cupcake shop for my date tonight.”
Jason shoots me a thumbs-up as we say good-bye to our caller.
It’s just me and the mic now as I close out the show. “But the real frosting is this—it’s listening to the woman. When she wants to talk, you listen. When she opens her heart, you listen. When she tells you her fears, you listen. Make her feel cherished, and that’s how you win a woman, whether with cupcakes, mini golf, geocaching, trapeze, an afternoon hotel hijacking, or a night at the arcade.” For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a fraud when I talk about intimacy and emotions.
That doesn’t mean I want those things in my life. I’m just glad I can do my job again without hating it. I’ve learned through this time with Nicole—maybe because the boundaries are safe and clear-cut—that getting to know someone doesn’t mean giving them your heart to drop into a Cuisinart. Nicole hasn’t chopped and julienned one of my favorite organs.
I suspect that’s because of the nature of our arrangement. The terms and conditions we set in place created a test lab of sorts. A safe zone for dating. In our test lab, we didn’t launch the rocket of romance into space, but we learned it can withstand the pressure of the atmosphere.
When we sign off, Jason offers a palm for high fiving. “Great show. Did I ever tell you I took Lizzie geocaching?”
“Oh yeah?” The geocaching column went viral, and we’ve heard from tons of men and women about their very own treasure hunt dates.
“Best time ever,” he says as we leave the studio. “Followed your column to a T, even the Whispering Arch.”
“How’d that go?”
Jason shrugs sheepishly. “Told her I loved her there.”
“Wow,” I say, smiling. “What did she say?”
“Said she loved me, too. I’m a lucky bastard.” He points at me. “And you’re the master. You know your shit.”
“Glad I could help.”
As Jason turns the other way, Cal marches down the hall, his long legs eating up the carpet. I draw a deep breath like I can protect myself from his ire. He stops and fixes me with an intense stare. “More. Of. That.”
I relax. “Thanks.”
He claps my shoulder. “Keep it up.” He resumes his pace, and finally, the leash he’s had on me loosens.
I turn the corner in the hall, and when I reach my office, I do a double take. A small box is perched on my desk. It’s blue with a white bow on top. I furrow my brow, but then the color registers. Blue like the Katherine’s jewelry store. Why on earth would someone send me a Katherine’s box?
But even as I pose the question, the answer arrives, fully formed in my head. This box can only mean one thing. I fight off that tiny wish in the back of my mind that I’m wrong.
I tug at the ribbon, letting the white fabric fall on my desk, then I park myself in my chair, staring at the box as if it’s a moon rock, an artifact from another planet. Or maybe a relic from another time in my life. Because I suspect that this box marks the end of the best two months I’ve spent with anyone.
I flick my finger against the robin’s egg-blue cardboard, reminding myself that it may be an end, but it’s the beginning of something else. Something Nicole has always wanted. Her heart’s true desire.
That’s all that matters. Not that I might miss her.
I remove the top, fish around in the wrapping paper, and pull out a silver key chain.
This is no dime-store key chain. It’s not a knick knack you’d leave behind in a geocache. It’s silver and real, and I grin wildly as I hold it up, watching the emblem dangle. I let my happiness for her blot out any unexpected, bittersweet emotions.
She’s given me a key chain of a tadpole. It’s engraved. “I am eternally grateful for your gift.”
I swallow past the dry, scratchy feeling in my throat, and let out a quiet whoop of excitement for my girl. I mean, for the woman I knocked up. She’s not my girl. She’s not my woman. She’s not mine.
I pick up the phone and call her. When she answers, she’s like a whole new woman. “It worked!” she shouts.
“So I gathered. That’s fucking awesome.”
“I am so unbelievably happy.”
“You are going to be one hot mama.”
She giggles. “And you are one sexy . . .” She stops herself from saying dad. “Sexy man. Do you want to come join us? I’m with my mom, and we’re having lunch.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
There’s a rustling sound, then another voice, older and confident. “Ryder, I hereby command you to meet us for lunch. I’m becoming a grandmother, and I must thank you in person.”
Her tone brooks no argument.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk into a nearby cafe and scan the tables for Nicole. Her back is to me, and she’s in a booth, seated across from a handsome older woman who looks like what I suspect Nicole will look like in twenty-five years.
I zoom in on Nicole’s mane of red hair—hair I’ve had my hands tangled in, hair I’ve pulled and yanked, hair I’ve stroked when comforting her.
That red hair is her signature. She could have a child with that hair color. Or, I think as I drag my hand through my own hair, with mine. The life in her belly, the size of a chickpea or a fingernail or however those things are measured, already has our DNA—my genes twisted with hers to create the blueprint for another human being.
It’s staggering.
It floors me.
I grab hold of the hostess desk. A young woman with a sleek ponytail asks how many in my party. I don’t answer. My world comes to a standstill. Everything’s a blur. I’m not sure how to speak. How to walk. How to talk. The enormity of what we’ve done slams into me, and this must be what shock feels like.
Like a vibration in your body.
Like your blood slows.
Nicole is going to have a baby, and I’m the father.
But I’m also not the father at all.
Not in the least.
Nicole’s mother spots me and says something to her daughter. The woman I’ve spent so many nights with jerks her gaze around. When she sees me, her eyes dance, even from all the way across the cafe.
She jumps up from the booth.
I snap out of my slow-motion haze as Nicole rushes across the cafe, weaving through the tables. When she reaches me, she ropes her arms around my neck.
“Thank you,” she says, breathlessly. “Thank you so much.”
I bring her closer, hug her tighter. I can feel the happiness radiating off her in waves. It’s a palpable thing. It has its own energy, its own temperature.
When she lets go, she takes my hand and guides me to the table.
“So, this is the man who’s making me a grandmother.” Her mother greets me as if I’m some kind of conquering hero.
I join them, and it’s like I’m me, but I’m also not m
e. I don’t know how I fit into this scenario. My part is over, like a character in a play who was killed off in the first act.
My role in the story of her life has ended.
25
Nicole
There’s a new member of my life.
I’ve gotten to know her quite well during the last five weeks. Her name is Grace, short for “saving grace.” I hug her, resting my cheek against the porcelain bowl.
We’re so tight these days that I just shared my dinner with her. Though, to be fair, dinner is a rather generous term to describe the meal I had tonight.
An apple and peanut butter.
By my rough estimate, there is about ten percent of it still left inside me. I wait for my Rosemary’s Baby to heave it out of me. I picture her or him down in my belly, having a conniption fit, tossing furniture, bureaus, whatever he or she can get her baby claws on.
When I saw my doctor earlier this week, she assured me this level of morning sickness is normal.
I told her we might have different definitions of the word “normal.”
She said it was perfectly reasonable to barely keep a thing down, and that my body was producing all the nutrients my Rosemary’s Baby needs, even if crackers and bread are the only food items my body will accept. She laughed when I used the name of the spawn-of-Satan baby from a famous horror flick for my unborn child. Obviously, my baby is truly an angel, but sometimes the behavior in my belly is devilish.
I asked my doctor how long morning sickness lasts.
“Till about the twelfth week,” Dr. Robinson told me with the cheery smile on her face that never seems to disappear. I surmised she’s never been a host for a parasite baby, but then she went on to inform me she had morning sickness for all four of her pregnancies.
“Four? You had three other ones after the first?”
She patted my hand. “Just wait till you get to labor, honey.”
She sent me on my merry way, and here I am, with three more weeks left of morning, noon, and night sickness. It’s the worst at night.
But even as Rosemary’s Baby mercifully holds on to the remaining ten percent of my dinner, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because the baby is healthy and that’s all that matters.
I pull myself up from my new worship zone and pat Grace on the seat. “You did well tonight. We will meet again soon.”
In fact, we spend breakfast together the next morning before I leave for work.
When I step into the hallway, my neighbor calls out to me as he walks to the elevator.
“Hey, Nicole! Your plunger is awesome,” he says as if he’s never experienced anything better than that household device.
“Glad to hear,” I say as I lock my door.
“Any chance you could loan me an iron sometime?”
I shoot him a look. “Frederick, I can’t loan you an iron. But do you need me to take you shopping for an iron?”
His eyes light up. “You would do that?”
I laugh. This poor guy. He’s so helpless. I bet his mother did everything for him. Time for his neighbor to fix that. “I would. Let’s go iron shopping soon.”
When I reach the office, my stomach flips, and I bring my hand to my mouth.
Dear God, let me make it to the bathroom.
But then, the sensation fades away, and maybe it’s actually nerves, because there’s Ryder’s office at the end of the hall. I’m not nervous to see him, per se. After all, I’ve seen him most days in the five weeks since learning I’m pregnant. We’ve pulled off the slide back into just-friends as seamlessly as we migrated into friends-with-benefits. We’ve grabbed lunch a few times, we’ve made a few dirty jokes, and I’ve done my darnedest to glide into this new phase without a hiccup.
The fact that he’s done with his dating guide and I’m done with—well, with needing his sperm—has eased the re-entry. We don’t have to spend time together like we did, so keeping our hands off one another has been doable.
But mostly, this new phase has been manageable because my morning sickness had the audacity to appear in week five and send my sex drive to Pluto.
Sometimes, though, the nerves show up when I see him. Perhaps because he’s still handsome, and he’s still kind, and we still made this Rosemary’s Baby together.
I shove aside the nerves and pop in to say hello, as I do every day.
“Hey.” I give a faint wave.
He swivels his chair around and smiles, a magnetic smile that nearly sends my stomach flipping once more. Maybe from butterflies this time, but I can’t tell anymore. Too much is happening in my body. “Hey. How are you doing today?”
“Fabulous.” I mime retching.
He grabs his waste bin and pretends to catch. “I’ve got barf bags from my last cross-country flight. Need one for the trip to your office?”
I manage a small laugh. “I think I’ll make it, but I can’t speak for whether I’ll need one for this assignment. I have to write a column today on how to tell if the guy you met online is catfishing you. Several readers shared their horror stories with me. I’ll probably retch from that.”
“I might join you in the yakking. Catfishing curdles my stomach.” He lifts his chin with a question. “Does Cal know yet?”
“About the column?”
Shaking his head, he swirls his finger in the direction of my belly.
“Not yet. I’m waiting till the first trimester ends before I share the news.”
He nods. “Makes sense. Gotta make it past that point. The doctor still says everything is good?”
I detect a hint of concern in his voice, and it’s endearing. So sweet, in fact, that I want to curl up in his lap and mope and whine and cry and then demand he bring me crackers and juice, and stroke my hair. Clearly, this pregnancy has warped my mind. My body is so out of whack that I’m picturing things I shouldn’t be picturing.
Instead, I hold my chin high. “I’m the spitting image of health, she tells me.”
Ryder smiles, though it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. I wonder if he thinks of me differently now. Maybe that’s the reason his smile isn’t the same. Perhaps I’ve been sorted into some other class of woman now. I was once a sexual being; now I land squarely in the miserable pregnant woman section. I still see him the same way, though. When I look at him now, I think about how handsome he is with those jeans and that shirt. Other times, my mind wanders to how devastatingly gorgeous he looks without a stitch of clothing on.
But I can’t even hold on to those thoughts in my mind because my body is a rebel. My stomach yanks all dirty images from me and blends them up with toast and crackers.
“Gotta go.” I make it to the bathroom, and I’ve named this room Mercy because some sweet soul designed this building with single bathrooms, instead of stalls. It makes it that much easier to keep my little baby all mine.
When my stomach is empty, I dive into the tales of catfishing, and I want to throat-punch every man who ever did this.
I’m confident Rosemary’s Baby agrees.
At the end of the day, Ryder knocks on my office door. He stands in the doorway, looking cool and relaxed. I catalog his clothes this time, since I’m not about to heave. He wears dark jeans that fit him so damn well I bet they gossip to other jeans about how good it feels to hug his legs. The dark blue Henley makes his eyes look even more like the sky, and that damn black leather jacket reminds me how sexy he is. It’s such an edgy look for a man who’s so goddamn good. I want to stare at his beauty all night. Revel in his hotness. Freeze this moment when I feel good, and I can spend the night staring at him.
That’s not weird at all.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say as I zip my bag and toss a scarf around my neck. December has fallen in Manhattan.
“Are you up for Ping-Pong tonight? Match against LGO.”
My eyes widen, and that oh shit I totally forgot feeling sweeps over me.
“You forgot,” he says, his lips twitching as if it’s cute I can’t remember anyth
ing.
I grab my coat from the back of the door. “Baby brain. I can start using that excuse already, right?”
“If you ask me, this is your chance to milk it. Use it for everything. For the next thirty-one weeks, right?”
I stop, with one arm in a sleeve. “You know exactly how far along I am?”
“I counted. Conception was mid-October, so that was two weeks. You were four weeks when you found out you were pregnant on November second. Now it’s five weeks later, and you’re nine weeks along.”
Endearing doesn’t cover it anymore.
Ryder steps behind me and finishes the job with the other sleeve, putting my coat on me. He faces me, adjusting the scarf and the collar. “Stay warm.”
“Wait! I’ll play tonight.”
His eyes twinkle. “You will?”
I hold up a hand. “Unless Rosemary attacks me again with another bout of nighttime sickness.”
“You named the baby? Are you having a girl?” His voice rises at the end with a touch of excitement.
I wave that off. “No. Rosemary’s Baby. Like the movie.”
“Ah. Got it. But Rosemary is a cute name for a girl.”
“It is.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, turn off the light, and lock my door.
We leave together, and before I know it, he’s walked me all the way to my home, twenty blocks away. At the entrance to my building, a pang of sadness darts through me. I desperately want to invite him upstairs. But for what? I’m not in the mood for sex, and I can’t stomach food, and besides, I’m seeing him in a few hours for Ping-Pong.
Still, I wouldn’t mind just hanging out with him, watching one of my favorite flicks. Gone With the Wind or Talladega Nights.
I part my lips to speak, but I yank the words back in. I might miss him in moments like these, but we had a deal. We had an arrangement. He did his part so damn well. He put the bun in my oven in a mere two months, and now I’ve got to do my job and bake it without being a psycho emotional pregnant freak who invites the baby donor upstairs for no reason other than she’s a weeble-wobble of out-of-control hormones. I remind myself that he was in it for the hot sex with a horny woman trying to get knocked up, and for the companionship on a work project. The work project is done, and now I’m anything but a horny woman.
The One Love Collection Page 50