I love that the name Papaya has stuck. That must be a sign he feels the same. I gesture to the thirteen-week picture, when I first heard the heartbeat. “I think Papaya was a fig in that one. Funny thing—when I was so sick, Papaya was only a kidney bean.”
“Kidney beans are known to be troublemakers.” He steps closer, drops a strangely chaste kiss to my forehead, and sets his hands on my belly. “And I think Papaya is almost a mango now, right?”
I nod. “How did you know?”
“I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons. Papaya will be an eggplant in a little while.”
I blink. Holy shit. He really knows his pregnancy fruits. Better than I do. If he was researching pregnancy in that detailed a fashion, he’s not just interested in how I’m doing. He’s interested in the baby.
“When’s your next appointment?”
“A week and a half. But they won’t be doing another ultrasound at it.”
He snaps his fingers in an aw shucks gesture.
Make that very interested. I can’t stop the next words from coming out of my mouth. I need to know something. Something important. “Would you have wanted to come along if they were doing an ultrasound?”
His eyes light up, and he nods. “Yes. I’d love to take you,” he says, and my heart dares to soar for the briefest moment. He’d want to take me. He’d want to be there for me. Everything feels possible. Until he winks. “And if I were there, I could do my damnedest to convince the doc to give you an ultrasound anyway. I’m dying to see it live again. Not just in photos.”
He turns back to the pictures on the fridge.
Taking me for me, and taking me to convince the doctor to snap a pic of the baby are two entirely different things. My heart doesn’t just fall back to earth. It slams to the ground, as everything snaps into place. It’s both beautiful and terrible, what I now know to be true.
“Would you want me to come along?” he asks.
I say yes, then I point to the clock on the microwave and choke out, “I should shower and get to work.”
I need to be alone right now.
He nods. “I should get Romeo. I bet he misses me like crazy. I miss him, that’s for sure.” He cups my cheek. “But can I see you tonight?”
“Yes.”
The door clinks shut behind him, and I gulp for air. I try to breathe, and it’s suddenly the most difficult thing to do. How could I have missed it? How could I have failed to see what’s so clearly happening to this man?
As I shower, my chest aching the whole time, I rewind to all the obvious signs.
He’s not looking for romance. He’s not interested in love. He never has been, and he’s always been upfront about it.
That kind of love is different, but I try not to think about it. Or to let myself feel it.
But he’s grown quite interested in something else—fatherhood.
It really is magical, he’d said of the heartbeat.
Anyway, got pics of the papaya?
I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons.
He nearly cried when he heard the heartbeat. He practically swooned when he felt the baby kick.
There’s no doubt in my mind that his feelings for the baby have completely transformed. He’s all in now when it comes to Papaya.
But as for me, well, I’m still everything I originally was to him—a sexual creature. Sure, he likes sleeping with me, and yes, I’m something else to him now, too—the mother of his child. But the third thing I want to be—his—isn’t in the cards for Ryder Lockhart. He hung up the closed sign on his heart after Maggie ransacked that organ, and he made it clear he doesn’t want to re-open it.
Tears mix with the New York City water.
Who am I to blame him? I went into this ready to raise the baby without a man in my life. I can’t blame him for wanting to help raise the baby he helped make.
He’s in love with the baby, and only the baby.
I sniffle and hold my chin up as water sluices over my body. I tell myself to be tough, to be strong. I have to be, for the baby.
It doesn’t matter that I’m falling in love with him. I can’t let these new and fragile emotions get the better of me.
Besides, you can’t lose something that was never yours to begin with.
“You were right.” I sink down into the booth across from my mom. I’d called an emergency lunch.
“Of course I’m right.” She smiles as she tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “But what am I right about this time?”
I heave a sigh. “It’s become . . . quite complicated.”
She reaches across the Formica table for my hand and clasps it. “Oh, sweetie. What’s going on?”
I breathe out carefully, as if respiration is a bodily function I’m relearning. I lift my chin. Square my shoulders. “I think Ryder wants to be part of the baby’s life.”
My mother nods sympathetically. She takes her time before she speaks. “And how do you feel about that?”
I try to stay strong. What do I have to cry over anyway? The fleeting notion that we might have become an insta-family? How ridiculous was it to even contemplate that? I won’t shed a tear. Instead, I will plaster on a smile. If he wants to be part of his kid’s life, that’s not a bad thing.
In fact, growing up with an involved father could be a very good thing.
How many women who use sperm donors have the chance to offer some sort of involvement to the father? Hardly any. I should count myself as a lucky one.
“I feel like it could be a good thing for the baby. To know his or her . . . father.” My voice catches on that word. “I wish I had known mine.”
My mother’s lips quiver. “He was a good man. Your father loved you so much.”
The fire hydrant cranks on. My eyes leak fat, salty tears. My mother joins me on my side of the table, wraps her arm around me, and squeezes. “I believe in you—whatever you decide. If you choose to have him involved, and if he wants to be involved, it will be for the best.”
I nod as a sob hovers near my lips. “It will,” I say, choking on the words.
“It will be for the best for your child. What a gift for your baby to know such a good man is his or her father.” Her tone is so warm, so loving, so full of motherly wisdom. I know she’s right. I just wish that good man wanted me, too.
But only a fool would think she could have it all.
I bury my face in my mother’s shoulder, and I cry like a baby in the diner. If I get out all the tears now, I can keep calm tonight, and I absolutely must remain calm. If I can’t have all of Ryder, I want to have the part of him in my life that is keen to know his child. It’s such a gift, to be able to know your family. It’s a gift I didn’t think I’d be able to give my child.
Now, it’s possible, and I have to stay strong for Papaya.
Thirty-Five
Ryder
After all my travels, I have the day off.
I spend it with my boy. I take Romeo to Central Park and toss tennis balls to him in the off-leash section until he flops down on his belly, panting in the unseasonably warm March.
We leave, and as I wander through the park, I stop at the bridge over the lake. I stare into the distance, past the water, my eyes landing on the tall buildings framing each side of this oasis in Manhattan.
I’m not here by chance.
I’m here by design.
Maggie and I had our first date in Central Park. Our first kiss on this bridge. As I stand here, I wait for the familiar sensations to pummel me. For the tightening in my chest, the twist in my gut.
It comes, but it fades just as quickly.
“C’mon, boy,” I say to my dog. He trots beside me as I head to the park exit then cut across the brownstones and pre-war buildings toward Lincoln Center.
Tension winds through me as I bound up the steps to the fountain. Maggie and I kissed here after I took her to a ballet, the lights from the fountain like candlelight against the dark night.
But when I let go of thoughts of my ex, and focus on Nicole, the tension flickers away.
Next, my dog and I cut a diagonal swath down the city, walking and walking, all the way to the Union Square Farmers’ Market. It’s open tonight, and I wander around the edges, remembering the times I came here with my ex-wife.
This was our stomping ground, so I brace myself for a slice, a nick, a fresh new cut.
But as I make another lap, I don’t bleed.
I don’t hurt.
I might not enjoy the reminders of Maggie, but they don’t hobble me like they used to. They are part of my past, part of my history.
They don’t have to control my present.
Romeo and I walk to Chelsea, and I park myself on the stoop of my building. Romeo, now exhausted from the long trek, slumps on the steps and rests his snout on my leg.
“What do you think?”
He raises an ear.
“Time to move on?”
He raises his other ear. I cycle back to the night of the hookup seminar that Cal’s son surreptitiously attended, and remember the thoughts that swirled in my head then. Happily ever after is a cycle of bullshit, love is a medley of lies, and marriage is a thing that can only go wrong.
But maybe not.
Maybe love isn’t a collection of falsehoods.
Maybe happiness isn’t a farce.
Maybe being together can go right, if you trust yourself to try again.
I pat my dog’s head, and we go inside.
A cupcake is a good start.
I grab a strawberry one from her favorite bakery, and a bouquet of red tulips from a florist near her home. My heart skitters as I walk along her block.
I’ve traveled this block so many times en route to a night of baby-making, and more recently, to taking her home after the Ping-Pong fall.
But tonight feels different.
Because it is different.
It’s the start of what I hope will be all the things I never thought I wanted from this arrangement and now I can’t imagine living without.
When she opens the door, her smile is so bright it nearly blinds me.
“Hi!” Her voice rises at the end as if she’s been practicing the greeting all day.
“Hey, beautiful,” I say, and dip my mouth to hers to kiss her lips. I catch more cheek than lip.
“Come in.” She shuts the door behind me, and after a proper dog greeting from Ruby, I hand Nicole the flowers. “For you.”
She sniffs them. “They’re lovely.”
After she grabs a vase and fills it, she sets the flowers on the living room table then sits. I join her on the couch. She crosses her legs, and places her hands on her thighs. She seems more proper tonight. Not in appearance—she wears jeans and a sweater—but in demeanor.
“Everything okay? You seem . . . jumpy?”
She shakes her head. “Everything is great.”
“I got you a cupcake.” I hand her the box.
She opens it, her eyes lighting up. “I’m going to save it for later. Too nervous to eat.”
“Why are you nervous?” I ask, hoping it’s for the same reason I am.
She takes a breath, her shoulders rising and falling. She doesn’t speak, and I can’t fucking exist in this in-between state any longer. I didn’t take a journey to the haunts of my broken heart to do nothing.
“I’ve been thinking about us,” I say, ripping off the Band-Aid.
“Me, too.”
Relief floods me. “You have?”
“Yes. A lot.” Her voice rises, and hope rises in me. She’s got to be thinking the same thing. I can’t be so goddamn out of touch with emotions that I’ve misread her.
“At first, I didn’t think I would want this, but now I do.” I clasp her hand, and she threads her fingers through mine. God, it feels so right. All of this feels so damn right.
Her voice is soft and heartfelt as she speaks. “Everything has changed, hasn’t it?”
My heart soars. “Yes. Everything has changed.” I squeeze her hand, take a deep breath, and prepare to tell her I love her, I love our baby, and I want it all.
“Ryder?” In her voice, I hear all the hope in the world. “I would love for you to be involved in the baby’s life. Would you like that?”
The floor falls out from under me. My jaw comes unhinged. The room topples, turning upside down.
Yes, I want to shout.
No, I want to shout.
I want you, too.
But she didn’t offer herself.
She only offered the child.
“I can tell you’ve fallen for the baby,” she says, squeezing my hand again. “And it melts my heart. If I’m wrong, tell me, and I won’t be offended. But if I’m right, I would be so happy to have you as part of the baby’s life.”
I can’t answer her. Her words sound foreign to my ears, garbled and muddy. I want to find the rewind button. The redo option.
I blink, trying to make sense of this flipped-around reality. But when I replay her words in my head, they’re not muddy. They’re crystal clear. She doesn’t want love from me. She wants her baby to have a father.
My chest hurts. My heart literally fucking aches. I want to grab her shoulders, stare into her eyes, and ask her to be mine for-fucking-ever.
I open my lips to tell her she’s the one, and I want it all with her, but something catches inside of me.
An ancient hurt. Old fears. Or perhaps the stone that blocks my voice is the stark reality that life isn’t a fairy tale.
I think back on my chats with Simone, the things I try to teach her. You get what you get and you don’t have a fit.
Sometimes, you don’t get all you want. In fact, you rarely do in life. I don’t have all my business back. I have enough of it. I don’t have my marriage, but I have the dog. And I don’t get the woman. I get the kid.
The kid I desperately want.
I’m being given a great and wonderful gift, and you don’t turn away from that.
When I finally speak again, the words sound as if they’re coming from someone else. “I would love to be part of Papaya’s life.”
“We should probably focus on that, then. Do you agree?”
Her meaning is crystal clear. Last night was a last hurrah.
Thirty-Six
Top Five Signs You’re a Pathetic, Mopey Idiot
* * *
By Nicole Powers
* * *
1. You microwave your tea for five minutes instead of one.
2. You drink it anyway, burning your tongue.
3. You put your underwear on inside out.
4. You don’t care enough to change them to the correct way.
5. You can’t for the life of you figure out how to write a decent column.
Top Five Ways to Pretend You’re a Badass, Even When You’re Not
* * *
By Nicole Powers
* * *
1. Wave when you walk past his office, like you only think of him as your hot-as-fuck co-worker.
2. Make a joke about the Wheelbarrow position. Even if it falls flat and he stares at you like How could you possibly joke about sex when we’re not having it anymore?
3. Don’t let that shit go. Pat your belly and pretend you’re the wheelbarrow now because it’s the only way to manage the absolutely awkward situation you’re in of BEING FUCKING CO-WORKERS WITH THE FATHER OF YOUR CHILD WHO YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH BUT WHO ISN’T IN LOVE WITH YOU.
4. Casually mention the next doctor’s appointment and ask him if he wants to go, since you’re totally cool with this new arrangement. When he says of course, say “awesome” and head to your office, shut the door, and lock it.
5. Bawl into your double-ply aloe-vera-infused tissues because you miss him so much it hurts.
Top Five Reasons You’re Not Picking Up the Phone and Admitting You Love Him
* * *
By Nicole Powers
* * *
1. Your fingers are broken.
; 2. Your phone is broken.
3. Your brain is broken.
4. Your heart is broken.
5. You’re scared.
* * *
I drag a hand through my hair and toss that last sheet of paper into the trash can along with my other miserable attempts to write a column. I miss the can by a mile. Sighing, I drag myself from the desk chair like it takes the strength of ten thousand men to walk, then bend and grab the crumpled-up paper from the floor. If my life were a rom-com movie—Emma Stone would play me, thank you very much—I’d miss the trash can with the last wad, but I wouldn’t realize it. I’d leave my office with that ball of paper parked on the floor, unbeknownst to little old me.
Ryder would pop in later to ask me a question about his upcoming show. He’d spot the paper on the floor. Being the helpful guy he is, he’d pick it up to toss in the trash. But he’d notice the word love, and he wouldn’t be able to resist unfolding the balled-up wad. He’d read it, and the camera would pan in on his face, on the slow shift from bemused to thrilled. He’d race out of the office, skid on a street corner, dodge a cab—hell, he’d leap over the hood in a mad rush to find me—then vault over a hot dog cart vendor closing up shop for the night, and arrive at my front door, ready to profess his love.
But this is life.
It’s not a movie with a giddy happy ending. I stand by the trash can, rip the page to shreds, and stuff the remains in the bottom of the can.
Thirty-Seven
Ryder
“And that’s the field guide to dating and winning the heart of a modern woman.”
I deliver the last line of my new seminar with the best smile I can manage. With business picking up, I refuse to fall into old habits. I won’t let one loss slow me down. One big, monstrous, painful loss of the woman I love.
But still, Nicole and I remain friends, colleagues, co-parents. I do my best to remain positive, avoiding the trap of my once jaded ways. “Any questions?”
The Knocked Up Plan Page 20