The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “I doubt Ruby minds, but Lorenzo might be mad at you for days,” James remarks. My mom’s greyhound mix raises a disdainful snout in our direction then huffs as he plops his long nose on his soft, downy dog bed. Ruby, meanwhile, smiles shamelessly.

  “Lorenzo is jealous. Be careful, James.”

  “Oh, I am well aware of his jealousy.”

  My mom points to my stocking. “Now, I know we’ll start working on your closet/nursery redo in the third trimester so you’re ready, but I’m not getting anything for the baby until he or she is born.” I nod, understanding. She doesn’t want to tempt fate. “So this is for you.”

  I dip my hand inside and grab a wrapped envelope. I slide my thumb under it and take out a homemade gift certificate. I laugh. It’s for dog babysitting services. Redeemable anytime.

  “I’ll practice my babysitting with your dog. Whenever you need a break, you call on me,” she says.

  “I will.”

  The lump returns once more as I think about someone else I want to call on.

  That afternoon, I join the crew for a few hours. Delaney and her boyfriend, Tyler, invited me for Christmas cookies, hot chocolate, and hot toddies. Tyler’s best buddy, Simon, is hosting the soiree with his wife, Abby, at his swank East Side home.

  I’ve gotten to know them a bit, but I haven’t seen them in a few months, so I’m surprised to find Abby has a little belly, too, though she’s clearly further along than me. With the amount of time I’ve spent studying pregnancy, and with Abby’s small stature—she’s a pipsqueak—I’m guessing she’s five and a half months.

  I ask her if she is.

  “Five months and three weeks.” Abby holds up her hot chocolate and clinks mugs to mine. “Very impressive pregnancy radar.”

  I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “I’m only slightly obsessed about pregnancy. I’m eleven weeks.” She beams and congratulates me, and I add, “And I can’t wait to get out of the first trimester. I finally got my appetite back.”

  Abby scans the room as if she’s making sure no kids are around then says, “That’s not the only appetite you get back in the second trimester.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She runs a hand through her honey-colored curls. “Some days, it’s like all you want to do is jump on him and climb him like a tree.” She casts a glance at her handsome husband across the room.

  I laugh. “Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s like you’re walking around in this state of constant arousal. He’ll touch your shoulder when you’re getting out the pasta to make dinner, and you grab him, and he takes you right then and there. Who cares about the penne?”

  “God, that sounds heavenly,” I say, and if I wasn’t missing Ryder before, I am now. A lot.

  “And the orgasms,” she says quietly. “Better than any I’ve ever had before, and it’s not like they were mediocre to start with.”

  I whimper. “I know what I’ll be doing tonight. A little online Christmas shopping for some new vibrators.”

  “Get extra batteries, too. You’ll need them.”

  When I hop on the Internet later, I do just that. I’m like a bear, stocking up for the winter.

  A few weeks later, I take Frederick shopping for an iron. Then, I teach him how to use it. Later that night, he sends me a pizza as a thank-you gift. It’s delicious.

  The next day I get an even better gift. At my thirteen-week appointment, the doctor brandishes an ultrasound wand and squirts some gel on my belly.

  “Don’t tell me the sex,” I warn.

  Dr. Robinson laughs. “You’ve only told me twenty times not to tell you the baby’s gender.”

  “Yes, I’m what’s known as a repeater,” I say.

  I lie on the table, my purple sweater tucked under my breasts, my jeans undone as she travels across my stomach, peering at the ultrasound screen.

  She nods as if she’s pleased. The look on her face makes me relax even more. There’s nothing better than a satisfied doctor when you’re the patient. “We’re looking good,” she says, then she meets my eyes. “Do you want to hear your baby’s heartbeat?”

  “Yes,” I say breathlessly.

  As she positions the wand just so, searching for the right spot, I hold my breath, waiting.

  I hear galloping horses, thunder across the sky, and I know the meaning of the word joy. It floods my entire being as tears streak down my face. “That’s amazing,” I whisper, as if we’re in church.

  I feel as if I’m in the presence of something holy. Something greater than I’ve ever experienced before.

  New life.

  The smile that spreads across my face is like wings, and I’m soaring with happiness.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the doctor asks.

  “The best music ever.”

  We listen for a few more seconds, the heartbeat the only noise in the otherwise quiet exam room. It’s the only sound in my entire world.

  I wish Ryder were here to share this moment with me.

  “You can record the sound on your phone if you want to play it later,” she offers.

  For a moment, I’m tempted to take her up on it. But I shake my head. I’ve no idea if Ryder would even want to hear the heartbeat, and for me, I want to just live in this moment, not on my phone.

  “That’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “I like experiencing it live better.”

  The doctor continues her travels over my belly, away from the heart, checking everything else one more time.

  As I lie here, I think of the man who made this happen—his kindness, his goodness, his humor. I swallow back another round of tears and try to shove away these scary new impulses.

  It’s wishful thinking to long for him to be a part of this phase. He didn’t sign up for this role. He didn’t ask to be by my side. He gave me the part of him I needed most.

  Just because I might want more right now doesn’t mean I can expect it.

  Later, when I go home, I let myself linger once more on that wild idea of Ryder sharing this with me. Then I dismiss it, because the sky fills with dark clouds, as if agreeing with me that nothing good can come of it.

  28

  Ryder

  I see it from one hundred feet away.

  Adrenaline takes over as Simone crashes on the slope, a hot pink blur tumbling around the curve in the run.

  Jamming my poles into the packed snow, I ski as quickly as I can to her, stopping abruptly and bending to offer a hand. “You okay, sweetie?”

  She winces but nods bravely. “Just a crash. I’m fine.”

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “Are you sure?”

  She looks at me, and even with the ski goggles on, I can see her brown eyes twinkle. She laughs. “I fell on my butt, and you’re freaking out.”

  I am.

  She’s right.

  I’m completely freaking out.

  I huff and act indignant, going with it. “Oh, that’s nice. Make fun of the caring, considerate uncle.”

  “It’s cute. You’re sweet,” she says and takes my hand as I yank her up. “I’m totally fine. Falling is normal.”

  “It still worries me when I see you do it, especially since you’re my responsibility.”

  Devon and Paul are racing the black diamonds today, so Simone and I have tackled the easy to medium runs. She’s a snowboarder, and I prefer to kick it old-school on skis. This is our ski weekend trip over the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. We already skied during Christmas and had an absolute blast.

  In the last few weeks, I’ve spent more time with Simone and Devon on the weekends than usual, grabbing any chance I can to join them for ski trips, movies, and dinners out. I was so damn occupied in the fall that if I don’t keep busy now, I’ll be like one of those lonely lions in a cage at the zoo, pacing back and forth all day long.

  Simone pretends to whisper, “Since I’m your responsibility, do you want to sneak off and get a hot chocolate?”

  “I love the way y
ou think. But let’s make it down the hill first.”

  She nods, as she readjusts herself on her board. “Race ya.”

  She pushes off, shushing down the slope with ease, and I follow as I’ve done the whole day, watching as I go. I don’t let her out of my sight. Lately, I’ve felt even more protective of her. Every time something might happen to her, my heart feels as if it’s beating outside my body. The other day when I walked her to art class in the city, I kept her even closer to my side when we neared the crosswalk. That’s just smart in New York, of course. But I was like a fucking hawk the way I kept my eye on her.

  That evening after the day on the slopes, my brother and I hang in the lodge while Paul and Simone get ready for dinner back in the cabin.

  Devon lifts his glass of Scotch and takes a drink as we lounge in big wooden chairs by a roaring fire. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about a woman we chatted with while skiing.”

  “You chatted with a woman? Has hell frozen over?”

  He rolls his eyes. “We shared a fucking chair lift with her, dickhead.”

  “Oh. For a second I thought you were switching to my team.”

  “The likelihood of that is about the same as you switching to my team.”

  “About a ten million below zero chance?”

  Devon winks. “You got it. Also, I talk to women all the time, on account of not being a sexist asshole.”

  I raise my glass. “Good point.”

  “Anyway, this woman was fun, smart, and I suppose she was pretty, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “Pretty ladies are definitely my sort of thing,” I say, sticking out my tongue and flicking it at him.

  He gazes at the ceiling. “Why do I bother to help him?”

  I rub my ear. “I’m sorry, did I need help for something?”

  “Yes,” Devon says adamantly, leveling me with his big brother stare. “Do you want me to invite her to dinner so you can meet her?”

  I nearly choke on my whiskey. “Are you setting me up?”

  This is so not my brother.

  “I’m trying to. It’s been more than a year since Maggie, and you and Nicole are done with your project, so it seems like a good time.”

  “I just never thought you had any matchmaking bones in your body.”

  Devon waves me off. “Forget I said it.”

  I lean forward in the chair. “No, seriously. I appreciate it. But . . . I don’t know.”

  He takes a swig of his drink. “You’re not ready to date yet?”

  I drag a hand across my jaw as I sigh. His assessment is spot on. “That sounds right.”

  “Maggie, still?”

  I don’t answer him at first. I take a swallow of the whiskey, letting it burn in my chest while the fire warms my back. There was a time not so long ago when I would have answered quickly with a yes. But my ex-wife isn’t front and center in my mind anymore. She might still be my roadblock, my “danger ahead” sign. But she’s not preventing me from wanting to go on a date.

  Someone else very much is, and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me. I barely comprehend it myself. “No. It’s not about Maggie.”

  Devon raises an eyebrow in question. The answer dawns on him. “Because of Nicole?”

  I heave a sigh and nod. “Yeah, turns out I kind of like her.”

  “Well, isn’t that a humdinger?”

  “You can say that again.”

  I get my Ping-Pong partner back, but no greater clarity on my humdinger of a quandary. February flurries into town, bringing with it another epic chill, and a rounder belly to the woman at the epicenter of my thoughts. The month also means Valentine’s Day, and Cal tells me my show is going on the road for a few weeks.

  “Ratings are improving,” he says as he tells me the plan. “Your columns and field guide were a hit. And the crazy thing is, you’ve got female listeners and readers now, too. We want to do some live shows and talk to the crowds about their ideas of love, relationships, and what it takes to have several great dates. The best part? We’ve got a brand-new sponsor for it.”

  Sponsorship means the leash has loosened another few feet. A quick tour might also mean I can rebuild my credibility as a dating coach. Plus, I’ve nabbed my first consulting client in months in Flynn’s buddy.

  All in all, I can’t complain about work anymore.

  Nicole seems happier, too, now that her miserable days are behind her. She’s the picture of health and vitality, from the reddish tint in her cheeks, to the spring in her step, to the smile she’s been sporting a helluva lot more around the office. She told Cal she’s pregnant, and while she hasn’t said a word about who the father is, no one has pressed her, even our boss.

  “He didn’t try to get the nitty-gritty out of you?” I asked over lunch a few weeks ago.

  She shook her head. “HR rules. He can’t.”

  Ironic, since he had no problem getting personal with me when it came to bringing up my ex-wife. But I do understand that Nicole’s situation is different—seeing as how she’s baking a person inside her. A few years ago, a gal in advertising who has a female partner was pregnant. She never breathed a word about where the other half of the DNA came from. I have no doubt our co-workers are whispering and wondering who knocked up Nicole. But this is Manhattan, and everyone seems to know someone who’s gone into parenthood in an unconventional way.

  As we play tonight against our long-time rivals, I watch her more closely than I have before. Not just because her ass still looks great. It does. Oh yes, does it ever look bitable. But because I understand that worry I felt for Simone much better. It’s doubled with Nicole, given what she carries inside her.

  Make that tripled, since our opponents are Crazy Swing Steve and his regular partner.

  Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet, paddle in hand, determination etched in her eyes. Steve juts his arm out as he slams a ball to me. I stretch for it, smashing it back across the table to his teammate.

  The other guy smacks the white ball in a neat diagonal to Nicole, who sends it screeching to the other side.

  Steve lunges for it, his teammate leapfrogging out of the way. The ball comes to me, and we volley like that until Steve’s swing seems to exhaust his teammate so much that the guy curses loudly as he runs for the ball, swatting it wildly across the table in Nicole’s direction.

  Ever the competitor, she races to the far corner, slapping the prize with a crisp backhand that sends her reeling. She’s all forward momentum, and it topples her, taking her down.

  The paddle tumbles from her hand, and she has no place to go but the floor. Her arms shoot out in front of her, and she breaks the fall with a loud smack of her hands.

  A rush of harsh breath.

  A crack of her knee on the hard surface.

  Falls are not uncommon in Ping-Pong. I’ve hit the floor a number of times. So has Steve. So has Flynn. So has Nicole.

  But none of that matters. My stomach plummets and dread ices my bones the instant the pregnant woman I’m crazy for hits the floor.

  29

  Ryder

  “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

  Nicole says those words over and over again, like a mantra.

  Or like she wants me to shut up because I can’t stop asking if she’s okay. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her lower back, I gently help her to her feet.

  “Are you okay?” I ask again. My heart screams in my chest. Nerves skate up the back of my neck. If I was worried when Simone fell on her butt, that was nothing compared to now.

  Once she’s upright, I set a hand on her belly, feeling the small curve for the first time. I flinch inside, but not because I’m freaked out. My reaction is because she feels so different, of course, than she’s ever felt before. Gone is that flat belly. In its place is this blooming roundness that’s unexpectedly . . . attractive. But the awareness of what’s behind this curve brings an even sharper reminder of the stakes. A life. I have no
clue what I’m doing with my hands on her stomach. I’m not a doctor. I can’t feel if the baby is okay. But I’ve got to do something.

  “I’m fine, Ryder. I swear.” She shakes out her wrist, wincing. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  She sucks in a breath as if she’s in pain. “My wrist really hurts.”

  “We’re going to the ER. Now.”

  Steve strides over. “You okay?”

  “I’m totally fine,” she says.

  “She’s not,” I snap. “Her wrist is sprained.” I have no clue if that’s the case, but it feels true, and I’m taking her to the hospital.

  I grab our coats and guide her through the bar, my arm wrapped around her like a shield.

  We make it to the doorway, and I slide her coat onto her arms then put my leather jacket on. Once outside, I hail a cab and tell the driver to take us to Mercy Hospital.

  All I can think about is her and the baby, and if the baby’s going to be okay. But I don’t want to say that out loud. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to know my mind is zipping to terrifying conclusions. On the drive to the hospital, I chatter on about Steve and his swing, and I smooth her hair, and I stroke her arm, and I tell her that we’re just being cautious by going to the ER.

  “You’re crazy,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re worried for nothing.” She’s trying to reassure me, and I will have none of that. It’s my job to take care of her.

  “You fell on your wrist and can barely move it.”

  And I’m terrified about our baby.

  I catch my breath, inhaling sharply.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I’ve never thought of her baby as mine.

  Not till now.

  But there it is. I’ve thought it. It’s moved from a shapeless, formless concept to the concrete way I see the life growing in her belly. Ours. Now that the new possessive pronoun is in my head, it won’t exit. It echoes as we reach the hospital.

  Our baby.

  “Are you okay?” she asks when I’ve gone quiet.