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.”
Nine
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.
“It’s not implausible. You might pick up the baby from day care, realize you left something at the office, and scurry back, the baby in your arms,” she says, and I clench my teeth because she’s fucking right.
But I could handle that. Ryder would be fine with it, too. That’s simply not the sort of scenario that would trip us up. He’s sophisticated and savvy about social situations. Plus, he knows the score. “Perhaps the column should be ‘Reasons Why It’s Wise to Snag Your Friend’s Baby Batter,’” I suggest, a smart little clip to my voice.
“Do share.”
But before I can reel off my five reasons—I have them handy—my phone chirps.
My pulse skyrockets while my stomach flips. I grab my cell from my pocket. His name flashes across my screen in a text, and it feels like my whole future hangs in the balance.
“It’s him,” I whisper reverently.
My mom’s hazel eyes sparkle, and she claps in excitement. Any annoyance I felt is erased by her reaction. She’s in this with me, and I won’t be able to do it without her.
With nervous fingers, I click on the message.
Are you free tonight?
Ten
Ryder
Simone drops my hand and scurries toward a table strewn with paint jars, brushes, and mini easels. Her class starts in two minutes. The nine-year-old skids, pivots, and rushes back to me. She throws her arms around my waist. “Thank you for taking me. I’ll make a Picasso now.”
I ruffle her hair. “Of course you will. His blue period was the best.”
“Do you want a painting of a blue horse for your kitchen, then?”
She’s obsessed with horses and with painting. “Let me tell you a secret,” I whisper. “I’ve been hoping for a blue horse for a long, long time.”
A huge smile spreads across her face. A front tooth is missing. “Then you should have a blue horse. You should always get what you want.”
“Isn’t that the opposite of what they teach you in school? You get what you get, and you don’t have a fit?”
“I think you should get what you want. I should get what I want, too. And I would love for us to have an ice cream sundae after class. If I paint you a blue horse, can I have an ice cream sundae? I mean, can we split one?”
“Ah,” I say, stroking my chin. “Now that I understand you’re only thinking of my ice cream needs, I’ll consider it. But do you really think your daddy will be okay with that?”
“Which daddy?” She points at me. “If it’s your brother, my daddy, no. But if it’s my other dad, yes.”
“Too bad it’s my brother, your daddy, who’s picking you up when he finishes his workout.” Devon’s partner is working all weekend on a big case, so Devon’s single parenting today.
“Uncle Ryder,” she says, grabbing my arm. “You have to convince him. What if we skipped class so we can get ice cream?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, knowing my brother is a health nut.
“We would be in so much trouble.”
“You can’t get in trouble with your own brother.”
“Have you met your father? He would be furious. Plus, you love class. Go paint. I’m going to think deep thoughts somewhere in this store.”
She laughs and spins around, her silky hair like a dark flag trailing behind her as she runs the final few feet to the table and plops herself in a chair.
Her class is only thirty minutes, and even though I’m not artsy, there’s something irresistible about perusing the shelves at this shop. The hip notebooks. The freshly sharpened pencils. The soft bristles of paintbrushes. They whisper of creativity and ideas. I amble through the aisles then stop at the recycled paper notebooks when I spot a collection with cats and dogs in spacesuits on the front covers. The images are familiar. I furrow my brow, then I remember.
Nicole’s notebook that she carries around at work has astronaut dogs on it. The woman hasn’t been far from my mind over the last few days. I pick up the notebook and flip through the blank pages as if I’ll find the answer to her question in there. I’ve thought of little else since she asked me. I promised myself I’d make a decision today, so I texted her an hour ago to ask if she’s free tonight. Whether I’m in or out, I want to give her the courtesy of a decision sooner than later.
The question remains, though—am I in?
I swing my gaze to the art class in the corner, staring at Simone, her long brown hair spilling down her back. The tips of her hair are blue. She asked Devon and Paul if she could dye it. They said if she learned the names of the most famous artists and their most famous works, they’d take her to a salon for a proper blue-ing.
That girl is such a source of joy in their life. She’s sunshine. She’s happiness. And she came from a choice—a choice to open their home to a child who needed one.
I have the power to make that choice for Nicole. I rest my hand against a shelf and stare at the back of Simone’s head till my niece is a blur, and my gaze is elsewhere. It’s on the future. The weight of the request.
It’s awesome and scary. What if I make the wrong choice like I did by marrying Maggie? That decision to mingle my life with Maggie’s seemed so right at the time. What if I choose badly again, even if the decision feels like the right one now?
I set down the notebook and noodle on all the possibilities until my brother texts, asking if I mind if he stays another thirty minutes to lift weights.
* * *
Ryder: You need it, you scrawny bastard. No problem.
* * *
He responds with a raised middle finger emoticon.
When class ends, I inform Simone she’s getting her wish for ice cream. She beams and tells me my wish for a blue horse has come true, and she’ll finish the painting in the next class.
After a chocolate-sauce-drenched sundae, we meet up with my brother outside his building. His dark hair is sweat slicked, and he’s a few inches shorter than me, but still a handsome devil. He’s also ridiculously fit and muscular. Simone gives him a big hug.
“Hey, honey bun, can you head inside? Daddy will meet you upstairs.”
She nods and runs into the building.
Devon lifts his chin. “Have you decided?”
Nothing like an older brother to cut to the chase. I sought out his advice the other day, but this is the kind of issue that bears repeating, so I ask again, “What do you think I should do, Dev?”
“You know what I think,” he says, his tone as no-nonsense as the rest of him. “I want to know what you think.”
I lean against the side of the building. “I think . . . what if. What if I do this and something goes wrong? What if something happens and it all goes belly up?” I’ve tried to develop a rhino’s thick skin since Maggie, but I’ve got some tender spots still. “I don’t want to get blindsided again.”
“I hear you, man.” He claps my shoulder. “But that’s why you sign papers. You seal it airtight. No one is going to get blindsided when you lay out the terms. This isn’t a relationship. It’s a business deal.”
I laugh. He works on Wall Street, so deal-making is his bread and butter.
“I signed a marriage license, too, and then my whole life was a lie. What if this is the next one?” I ask, since I’m a persistent bastard, too.
“This isn’t the same thing. Besides,” he says, nodding toward his daughter, who’s waiting for the elevator, “look at my girl. I wouldn’t have her if someone else—some scared fifteen-year-old girl from North Dakota—didn’t give her up. She knew her girl would have a better life elsewhere, and she made that happen. Nicole’s not asking you to pledge your life to her like Maggie did. What Nicole is asking is, honestly, a lot simpler. It has a beginning and an end. If you think about it, she’s asking you to give her the same gift someone gave Paul and me.”
And my heart threatens to melt. “You little shit,” I tell him with a sneer. “When you say stuff like that, you make it almost impossible to say no.”
“Maybe you don’t want to say no.”
I go home, and after I walk Romeo, toss balls to him in the park, and feed him the most delicious kibble in the universe, so rich in nutrients it makes his handsome brown-and-white Border Collie coat glow, I flop on my bed.
The Knocked Up Plan Page 6