The Knocked Up Plan

by Lauren Blakely

“I didn’t mean for help. I meant as business for you, asshole.”

  A little later, as I walk Romeo around the block, my phone rings. Nicole’s name flashes on the screen, and it’s as if a light flashes in my chest.

  I answer it. “All Day Sickness Solutions, at your service.”

  She laughs. “Grape Gatorade is my favorite. How did you know?”

  “Took a wild guess.”

  “It tastes like heaven. Thank you.”

  “Is it helping?”

  “If tasting good helps, then yes.”

  “I wish there was something I could do for you.” My heart feels like a compass pointing uptown. It aches with the need to go help her.

  “Me, too. But seriously. This drink is the bomb.”

  “I looked up how to treat morning sickness. I figured you had tried most things, but it couldn’t hurt to send reinforcements.”

  “I do feel better now. And I plan to dive into the crackers later. And the ginger ale.”

  That’s all I can ask for. “I’m glad to hear that.” I raise my gaze to the sky. “Looks like snow is coming tonight.”

  “I love snow in Manhattan when it’s falling. It’s so peaceful,” she says as Romeo sniffs a bush by the stoop of a brick building.

  “Me, too. It’s the one thing that transforms New York entirely. It’s like this blanket of white, and the whole city is hushed as it comes down.”

  “One of my favorite things is waking up in the middle of the night as the snow falls. You look out the window and New York has become an idyllic snow village where everything is soft and white, before the city wakes up.” She sighs dreamily.

  I crane my gaze heavenward. “I think you’ll get that tonight, Nicole.”

  “I want it tonight, and if I’m allowed to be greedy, I’d like a white Christmas, too. Preferably, one without any Christmas morning, Christmas day, or Christmas night sickness.”

  I laugh lightly. “I’ll ask Santa to bring that to you. Seems you’ve been a good girl this year, and you deserve it.” I turn the corner onto my block. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

  “I’ll go to my mom’s. My brother will be in town, so he’ll want to spend most of the holiday making fun of me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s a big brother. It’s in his DNA. Plus, he now gets to make pregnancy jokes nonstop.”

  For a moment, I wish she’d invite me to join her. Not because I want to hear pregnancy jokes, but because I want to be the guy who gets to defend her and volley back, maybe even say something a little off-color about how I got her that way. I want her family to know the pregnancy jokes are because of me. Yeah, they know I gave her the DNA and all that jazz, but they don’t know me.

  Though, I thought I knew Maggie, but it turned out I didn’t know her at all. I might have met her family, might have made jokes with them, but in the end, none of that saved me from the hurt.

  I don’t bother inviting myself over.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “I’m going skiing with Devon, Paul, and Simone, and our sister Claire, who’ll be in this neck of the woods for the holidays.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “We try to go every year.”

  “Lots of snow bunnies probably,” she says, her tone tight, and I detect a note of jealousy in her voice.

  “I doubt there will be any snow bunnies.”

  “I think if we were taking bets, I’d win this one.”

  I’m about to dispel that notion when she groans. “Are you feeling sick again?”

  Ask me over. Ask me to help. I’ll do it.

  “No. Ruby is pacing. She has to go out. And it’s late and cold.”

  I could offer to walk her dog right now. But she’s sixty blocks away, and the dog only needs to whiz. If I offer to haul ass uptown for a five-minute pee break, that’d sound like I didn’t pay attention to the contract I signed. No commitments.

  I don’t make the offer. But I offer the grape Gatorade equivalent. “If I were there, I’d walk her for you.”

  “If you were here, I’d take you up on that.”

  When we hang up, I’m standing in front of my building, holding my keys with the tadpole charm, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do about the whole no expectations part of the arrangement.

  Right now, I want expectations.

  Twenty-Seven

  Nicole

  I don’t erase the photos he sent me of the falling snow.

  I don’t delete the ones he sent me a few days later when it snowed again.

  And I don’t delete the pics he sent last night when it flurried, because the caption made me laugh. “It’s barely a blanket. More like a Saran Wrap of snow. But maybe you’ll have your white Christmas. May it be free of barf.”

  On Christmas morning, my wish comes true.

  Snow, and a peaceful belly.

  Happy almost-end-of-the-first-trimester to me.

  My appetite is back, too, and its timing couldn’t be better since my mom made us chocolate chip pancakes. Ruby and Lorenzo wait in the living room like good little Christmas elves as we eat in the kitchen. My mother’s gentleman caller, James, will join us shortly.

  My brother, Aiden, digs in then points at me with his fork. “No more morning sickness?”

  I twist my index and middle fingers together. “Seems that way.”

  He chews then stares at me with his intense green eyes. He has our father’s eyes. “Ever thought about what it would be like if men were the ones who got pregnant?”

  Our mom answers right away. “Maternity leave would last for two years with full pay, for one thing.” She reaches for her orange juice. No Bluetooth today. Even hardworking brokers take Christmas off.

  Christmas music plays from her sound system. “Let it Snow.” It’s the perfect soundtrack for today. Her home smells of nutmeg and pine, and I want to spend the day savoring the scents that delight me once more.

  “And morning sickness would rank as the nation’s number-one health problem,” Aiden adds. He lifts his chin toward me, switching gears lickety-split. “How’s the baby daddy with all this?”

  “Aiden,” my mother chides with a sharp look.

  “What? We don’t call him that? Baby daddy?” Aiden is genuinely surprised.

  I cut in. “He’s fine with everything.”

  “No, seriously,” my brother says, adamant. “What do I call him?”

  “He’s not here. You don’t have to call him anything,” I say, irritation starting to bubble up.

  “Donor, then?” Aiden presses.

  “Donor will be fine,” my mother says. “Now, what was your question?”

  Aiden puts his fork down. “So, he’s good with all this. He’s a friend, you said?”

  I nod, my shoulders tensing. “He’s a friend.”

  “And he’s good with just firing off and . . . boom,” Aiden says, thrusting one arm far in front of him as if he’s demonstrating what it means to take off.

  “They have an agreement, Aiden. Everything is fine,” my mom says, her tone crisp and her meaning clear. Shut the fuck up, son.

  He holds up his hands, such the innocent. “Hey, whatever works. It’s the Modern School of Relationship Theory, right?” my brother says, quoting one of my column topics back to me. The theory goes like this—who is anyone on the outside to judge? Maybe a woman has two partners because they’re all cool with polyamory. Perhaps a couple decides to be swingers and maintain an open marriage. Or possibly, two lesbians ask their gay best friend to donate sperm for a baby that one of the women will carry. If everyone is happy and consenting, why should anyone on the outside decide what’s right or wrong?

  “Yes, I suppose it is, and he’s completely fine with it,” I say, unable to breathe Ryder’s name in front of my brother. Maybe because I feel judged, and I feel Ryder is being judged, too. Even though I know in my heart that my brother isn’t condemning anyone, I will defend Ryder no matter what.

/>   “Good,” Aiden says, stabbing another bite of the pancake. “And you look good. You’re . . . what do they say?” He gestures to my face. “You’re glowing.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same kind of glow you’d have if you were getting some regularly.”

  Getting some. For the first time in ages, the thought of sex is mildly appealing. But not while I’m at the table with my brother.

  My mother glares at him again. “Aiden. Not at the table.”

  “So I can make randy jokes anyplace else? Excellent.”

  “Ignore him,” my mother says to me. “If you feed the wild animal, he’ll keep coming back.”

  Aiden flashes a gleaming grin. “Too late, Mom. You’re stuck with me. Also, these pancakes are awesome.”

  When breakfast is over, Aiden cleans up, telling us to sit by the tree and relax. My mom says she’s going to freshen up, so I settle into the couch alone, tucking my feet under me as Ruby rests her snout on a cushion. A nutcracker stares at me from the table, and the music shifts to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  Such a melancholy song for the holidays, happy and sad at the same time. As I wait for my family to join me, the words about muddling through somehow echo in my mind, and my eyes land on a photo of my father on the end table. My mom took the shot—my dad is walking down the street, his back to the camera, one hand holding mine, the other one Aiden’s.

  I must have been three, my brother four. I’ve seen this image so many times, but this morning, on this holiday, the twenty-fifth without him, I miss him more than I have in a long time.

  Absently, my hand slides to my belly. It’s softer, and I feel the first sign of a little baby bump.

  The lump in my throat turns into a hard, sharp pain. I try to swallow past it, but it stays there because I’m happy and I’m sad at the same time. I’m hopeful for the future, and yet I long for the people I miss so much.

  My mom returns to answer the door, letting James in. He wears a Santa hat.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” He hangs his coat by the door before he gives me a hug, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles and waves to my belly. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Good to see you, James.”

  My mother beams as he compliments me. She chose well with him.

  “Time for stockings,” she declares, and she unhooks four from the mantel, handing a silver one to James, a red and white one to Aiden, and a cranberry knit one to me.

  The stocking with the paw print on it is in her hands. “This one is for the dogs,” she says, then stage-whispers, “Ruby and Lorenzo won’t mind sharing a stocking, will they?”

  “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.

  Twenty-Eight

  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.