by P. Dangelico
“Whatever. Spreadsheets are awesome. It wouldn’t kill you to use one to keep track of who you’re dating.”
“Nah, they’re color coded in my phone.”
We both start laughing. God, I love her.
Long story short, Delia has been busy making up for all the adolescent years she spent being scorned and ridiculed by the opposite sex. In other words she’s a love ’em and leave ’em kind of girl. And I won’t lie, I love nothing more than to live vicariously through her. She’s completely unapologetic about her lifestyle, which I admire and envy.
If only I had a tenth of her courage when it comes to men. Ask me to make a split-second decision that hangs millions of dollars in the balance and I don’t flinch. Ask me to get naked with a stranger and I have a massive existential crisis.
I wasn’t a wallflower in high school. Wallflower implies cute girl that no one notices until everyone does. In other words, implausible fiction perpetuated by Hollywood.
I was more the dull gray wall. I didn’t exist. Not because I was shunned, but because I was so busy trying to escape my life that high school felt like a speed bump, something I had to get over to get to the good stuff.
For as long as I can remember, we were poor. My mother worked full time at the local supermarket and it was still never enough. We depended on the scraps my father sent home to make ends meet. When those stopped coming, she started working days cleaning houses and nights at the supermarket.
This was hardly conducive to a thriving social life. The only time I can remember really cutting loose was at my quinceañera, celebrated at Applebee’s with my mother, brother, and Tina.
I didn’t become class valedictorian, or win multiple scholarships, or earn a near perfect score on my SATs because I was smarter than everyone else. Not even close. I accomplished all those things because I worked harder than anyone else. Hard work was a Sunday at my house.
Which in turn left no time for anything else. I didn’t care. Poverty was the disease we suffered and the cure was money, so money became my objective. Boys came later. Much later. My junior year as an undergrad at Princeton later. And even then, I wasn’t all that impressed.
“Moving on. I was doing research on my next novel and came across something interesting. It’s called communal parenting, or co-parenting.”
My interest wakes up at the word parent.
“It’s the newest thing apparently. Websites and organizations devoted to bringing people together that are interested in raising a child in an unconventional family system.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, the rules are written by two parties coming to a legal agreement. Gay couples and singles looking for a second or third party to father or mother a child. Older couples that are no longer able to conceive with a younger single woman. You get the picture. The possibilities are endless.”
Mind blown. Mind totally blown. The hair on my arm stands on end.
“People like me.”
Nodding, she continues, “It’s all very tidy. Lots of legal paperwork, but everything is negotiated and agreed on up front.”
“You’re a genius, you know that, right?”
“I’ll remind you of that next time we go to hot yoga.”
Like any important endeavor, this one needed meticulous planning. In other words, I started a new spreadsheet. I did extensive research, sought legal counsel, weighed the pros and cons. I started taking massive amounts of prenatal vitamins. If I had a gag reflex before, there isn’t one now.
I called my mother.
“Communal parenting. It’s all done by a legally binding contract,” I tell her while nervously wearing out the brand-new Swedish wide-plank flooring I had recently installed in my Gramercy Park condo. Looking out the window, I spot a stroller in the park, a young mother pulling her baby out of it. I watch them with the same totally absorbed, unwavering attention Delia gives carbohydrates and fried foods.
“Legally binding contract?” I can practically hear her arching an eyebrow through the phone. “Stella––”
“We share custody and parental responsibility. Everything is negotiated beforehand.”
And when I say everything, I mean everything from greater to smaller. Holidays to orthodontist appointments. Private school or public. Religion. Organic vs. conventionally grown. Circumcision or no circumcision. The list is endless.
For some, this might seem tedious. To me, however, this has all the earmarks of a good time. I live for negotiating details.
“Stella, this is not a stock or bond or whatever you do with your investing. You don’t think you will grow feelings for this man? Life is not lived in absolutes. Life is lived in between absolutes.”
My mother fancies herself an amateur philosopher. I indulge her. It should also be said that most of the time she’s right. Not this time though. I let my silence speak for itself.
“Raising a child by yourself…this is crazy.”
“Crazy? You did it with no money. I have the means to hire people to help me.”
“Do you think I wanted to? Do you think I would have chosen that life for myself? I prayed every day for your father to come back.”
Fury rips through me faster than a wildfire. My father would’ve only been more of a burden. After all these years, she still can’t see him for what he was––a beautiful, charming loser.
“My mind’s made up. Call me when you’re ready to be supportive.”
The next morning, my cell phone rings a little past 5 am. It’s my brother FaceTiming me, and the eye roll cannot be helped.
“Did you speak to Mom?” I grumble.
“No, why? Is she okay?” Alex snaps, immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion. One of the many pitfalls of his job I guess.
“She’s fine. I didn’t mean to worry you. Where are you?”
I rub the sleep out of my eyes, noting that my brother looks like his usual gorgeous self.
It is beyond explanation how the man can live in the desert with practically no sleep and still manage to look as fresh as a daisy while I look like a tweaker after a two-day bender if I don’t get at least seven hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The running joke in the family is that Alex got the height, the charm, the eyelashes and I got the leftovers. He even came out first.
“Germany. We just landed and I got the feels.” That’s twin speak for “a nagging feeling to hear your voice.” Nothing out of the ordinary for us.
“I’m having a baby.”
Cue the pregnant pause––pun intended. On the other side of the pond, my brother’s confused expression says it all.
“With who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus, you don’t know who the father is? How many people are you dating?”
“Shut up. I’m not pregnant yet. I’m searching for a man to share parental responsibility.”
“What?”
“Co-parenting. We legally share a child.”
“Like a sperm donor?” He looks unhappy with this turn of events. As much as I love my brother, and I do, he’s a total caveman when it suits him.
“I’ll volunteer my sperm,” a deep voice shouts in the background.
Alex turns in the direction of the voice. “Not if I stuff your nuts down your throat first, Hayes. That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.”
“By a minute,” I feel the need to clarify.
“You’re still my baby sister.” He looks behind him again. “I gotta go. I’ll see you in a few weeks and we’ll talk about it.”
“My mind is made up.”
“Being a single mother is the hardest job on the planet, Stel. You know this.”
“Al––I’m rich, remember?”
“It takes more than money,” he quickly rejoins.
And that’s where he and I have always disagreed. Alex has never cared for money either way. He’s forgotten how hard it was. I sometimes wonder if he was brainwashed in a paperback thriller style government bl
ack op. Then his memory loss would make sense.
When I brought up the time I found him crying because he couldn’t play little league because he felt bad about asking our mother for money for the uniform and fees, he had no recollection. Or when he couldn’t take the girl he liked out on a real date because the money he earned shoveling snow all winter went to a new set of tires for the old Ford Fiesta my mother drove to work, he didn’t remember. Alex has somehow forgotten it all. I haven’t.
“I’ll probably be pregnant by the time you get back. Just sayin’.”
“Stel…” he huffs.
“Stay safe. Love you.”
“Love you too,” he mutters sullenly.
The screen goes dark. A newfound sense of relief spreads through me. Now that the family has been notified and reassured I am not playing around, all that’s left is to find a suitable candidate. How hard could that possibly be?
Two completely demoralizing weeks later, I am no closer to finding the father of my child, and my choices are dwindling by the minute. Literally by the minute. In the last ten minutes, I received two more rejections via one of the many co-parenting websites and forums I’d joined. Panic has officially become my middle name.
“Can I have your sperm?”
“Umm, no,” says my very handsome friend. He’s standing in the doorway of his stunning Upper East Side townhouse, wearing a completely bewildered expression. Who can blame him? It’s 10 p.m. and I’m in my pajamas, my bunned-up hair hanging askew off my head.
“Before you say no, hear me out––”
“No,” he repeats as if I haven’t just given him instructions. He eyeballs my pjs with the pigs with wings pattern on them. A joke gift Delia bought me when she told me she sleeps naked and I said I would do that when pigs fly. They’re very comfy.
“Are you in your pajamas?”
“Yes.” I push past him to get inside. “I’m prepared to assume all cost,” I rush to say, my voice high and marked with desperation. “You know my financial situation. You know I don’t need help in that regard. And you can participate as little or as much as you want in raising our child––”
“Slow down, Stella––”
“Jeff said no.”
One of the few perks of having dated Jeff was that he introduced me to Ethan who to this day remains one of my closest friends. It was Ethan who informed me that his best friend needed a property manager. A position that required discretion. My mother was hired by the number one draft pick of the NY Titans, quarterback Calvin Shaw, and the rest is history. She’s been working for him ever since, long after she stopped needing to work because of the exponentially massive improvement of my financial situation.
I walk directly into his living room and come to an abrupt stop. Stacks of cardboard boxes are everywhere.
“Are you moving?”
“Yes.” Ethan brushes a hand over his gorgeous face. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I want a baby and the gays said I was too structured. And we’re friends, right? We respect each other, right?”
“Wait? What gays?”
“The architect, and the professor of economics at Columbia. Keep up, will you.”
Ethan chuckles and I glare back. This wasn’t supposed to be this hard. And it’s poking at all my sore spots.
“I really liked the professor. He’s the one that said I was too structured. The architect said he found a more geographically suitable candidate, but I’m pretty sure he was lying because I would’ve moved uptown if that was the only issue.”
“Okay––” he says, taking a deep breath, his hands on his hips. “You want a baby.”
“Yes.”
“So go to a sperm bank.”
“Too anonymous.”
“I’m not giving you my sperm, Stella. I’m moving to Los Angeles in less than two weeks and I’m getting married. I don’t think she’d be too keen on me handing over my sperm.”
Stunned, I rock back on my heels. “What?! To who?”
“To a woman I’m in love with.” He smiles then, the sweetest of smiles, and I know he’s serious. “Camilla’s friend.” At my blank response he continues, “The actress––we haven’t talked in months.”
“I called.”
“To tell me my investments are up thirteen percent.”
“You’re up fourteen for the year now. And you said you were too busy for a drink.”
“You canceled the last time.”
Totally dejected, I slump down on the armrest of his couch. “You were the last name on my list.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I’m so bummed I may start to cry and I am not a crier.
Ethan chuckles softly. “Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Why not a sperm bank?”
“I want my kid to know his or her father. I don’t want to tell them I bought their father.”
Ethan’s face goes unnaturally still. Then it does something strange. The smile stretching across his face is strange, that is. “I think I may have a solution for you.”
Chapter Four
Stella
He’s ten minutes late. I check my phone. Nope, no text or calls. And why would he pick this restaurant? It’s one of those obnoxiously trendy and overpriced places in SoHo. The only reason I haven’t paid for my drink and walked out is because of Ethan. Ethan vouched for him, swore up and down that this guy is a good man and a worthy candidate, so I’m allowing him a grace period of two more…
The roar of tail pipes gets my attention. Actually, it gets everyone’s attention. The people sitting at the outside tables crowd my line of sight. I shift left and right until I spot a man on a Harley pull up to the restaurant and park right in front of a fire hydrant.
How obnoxious.
Secretly, I hope a traffic officer drives by to disabuse this guy of his sense of entitlement. Passersby begin to stop and stare. That’s when I get a sinking feeling. Oh balls, this is probably my wayward lunch companion.
He takes off his helmet and runs a big hand through his hair, after which he greets his fan club with a wide bright grin. It seems out of place here in New York. It’s too much. We just don’t smile like that here.
He finally gets off the bike and I realize how tall he is in comparison to everyone around him. I’m talking freakishly tall. The pictures online, of him on the football field, do not do this guy justice. He’s proportionate, though. Which is probably why he didn’t look like a freak in pictures.
I run a perfunctory assessment of his other attributes. Messy, dark-blonde hair. A deep tan. Firm jaw. A straight nose. Bulging chest muscles pushing against a gray t-shirt. He meets all the requirements for Beefcake of the Year. I’ll reserve judgment for now.
Five minutes later, he’s still grinning. At the people that have swarmed the bike. At the women that are putting their hands on him to get his attention. At himself probably. A nagging suspicion tells me he may be the type. This does not bode well for our future.
The crowd around him grows bigger. From my research and what Ethan’s told me, I know he’s a retired football player but these people are acting like he’s the second coming.
Two more minutes pass and it doesn’t look like he’s made much progress so, getting impatient, I go fetch him. I push, I shove, I even step on toes to get through the mass of bodies. Finally, I reach my intended target.
“Mr. Wylder?”
I get nothing. He’s still smiling at a brunette who’s extending an arm to be signed. I guess I should be grateful it isn’t a more intimate body part.
“Mr. Wylder!” I shout and tug on the hem of his t-shirt. His attention finally swings my way. “I’m waiting.”
“Sorry, Shorty. No more autographs.”
He holds up a hand, his big-ass palm inches from my face, and pushes past me without glancing my way again.
It takes me a while to process what just happened. By then he’s already walked into the restaurant while I remain standing on th
e sidewalk shell-shocked.
I watch him talk to the maître d’, flirt with the hostess. I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s like watching reality TV, totally cringeworthy and yet I can’t look away in fear I may miss what cringeworthy thing he might do next.
He looks at our table and notes the empty chairs. His head swivels right, then left. Finally he looks straight ahead. His gaze lands on me. Our eyes meet. Here we go.
The surprise on his face turns to…he’s smiling––again.
In all honesty, I’ve already made up my mind. I need to get back home and stalk the forums and websites for new potential candidates. With that in mind, I march into the restaurant, and back to the table.
“What are the chances?” he says with a crooked grin and a heavy Southern accent. He thinks this lazy country boy routine is cute. It’s not cute, and I’m not smiling. I’m not even close to smiling.
“What are the chances?” I parrot back. “Stella Donovan,” I say, holding out a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Stella.” The sticky sweet way he says my name has my gut churning. Par for the course.
“Dane Wylder.”
I tip my head, no smile included. My cold response has no visible effect on him. He’s not chastened in the least. He pulls out my chair and waits, a smile still in place. As soon as I sit I retrieve an iPad and a manila folder out of my tote bag.
“What’s that?” he asks, his tone curious with a dash of amusement. It seems this guy is easily amused.
“The research I’ve compiled. Only the essentials. Should we decide to proceed––” In my mind I’m snickering as the words leave my lips. “Then a more exhaustive vetting process will follow.”
Fat chance.
Looking up, I take in the disheveled bed head, the two-day stubble, and last, although by no means least, the black eye. I don’t even want to know how that happened.
There’s a strangely alert look in his heavily lashed, hazel eyes, the tips so long they’re tangled at the ends. For a hot moment I wonder if it’s a dominant trait. Which I really shouldn’t since there isn’t a single chance of this guy becoming anything other than a funny story I tell at cocktail parties. Therefore, as strangely fascinated by those lashes as I am, I don’t linger in case this egomaniac gets the wrong impression.