Sorry.
Yeah, me too.
An empty, dented soda can rolls past me, coming to a stop in the grass. I scoop it up and drop it in a trash can on my way back. Never in my life have I related to a piece of garbage before, but I can’t help but notice the hollowness in the center of my chest that wasn’t there an hour ago.
Heading back to the conference room, I walk back into a war zone, both sides quarrelling over ethics and legalities, spewing threats and ultimatums.
I tune them out, focusing on the window that showcases the parking lot, replaying the last few minutes’ events in my head on a loop. That hypnotic blue gaze. Those bitten-pink lips. The soft curves. And the sass. All of that and she’s the mother of my child—a part of me grew inside of her.
Whether I know her name or not, we’ll always be connected.
I think about the healthy baby girl who looks like me—the one I’ll never meet.
Rising, I interrupt their quarrel. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to head back to the hotel. Steen, Farber, make sure you negotiate a killer deal for my recipient. It’s the only way I’ll sign a damn thing.”
With that, I head out. And within minutes, I’m driving back in radio silence. By the time I pull into the hotel valet lane, I have no recollection of the drive. My mind was too focused on her.
The beautiful, mystery baby mama who wants absolutely nothing to do with my money, my time, or me.
Chapter 5
Rossi
* * *
“How’d it go?” Carina asks the instant I walk in the door.
I drop my purse and keys on the kitchen island and head to the living room, where my daughter drops blocks into a bucket. Her eyes light when she sees me, and when I take a seat beside her, she hands me a blue wooden cylinder.
“You seem … frazzled.” Carina takes a seat across from me and pages through a soft ballerina book. “What’d they offer?”
I blow a puff of hair between my lips. “Twenty-five grand. Can you believe that?”
“That’s it?”
I nod, rolling my eyes. “Their lawyers claimed they didn’t legally owe me anything because the breach didn’t involve my name—only his. But they were sorry and they wanted to offer this.”
“If they don’t legally owe you anything, why have you sign an NDA?”
Shrugging, I say, “Who knows. Maybe it’s a precaution.”
“The whole thing sounds shady. Did you sign though?”
“Nope.” I reach for a purple triangle and hand it to Lucia.
“So … what are you going to do?”
“Going to find a lawyer of my own, have them go over the contract and just make sure everything’s kosher,” I say. “And then I’m going to act like none of this ever happened.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Probably not—but I’m going to try.” Lucia crawls to the far corner of her blanket to grab a stuffed elephant. Once there she promptly shoves the snout in her mouth. I envy her blissful unawareness, and I intend to keep it going for as long as I can. Her life is so easy, so uncomplicated. And that’s exactly what she deserves.
That said, if there’s one thing I’ve seen in my career that has completely decimated families, it’s secrets and lies. My baby’s not even a year old yet, and already I’m burdened with hiding her father’s identity from her until she’s grown enough to comprehend this.
“So … I met him,” I blurt. The entire way home, I debated bringing it up to Carina. It all happened so fast, our little exchange in the parking lot. And for half the drive home, I wondered if I imagined it.”
“Wait, what? You met whom?” She scoots closer. “Fabian?”
I nod. “By accident. We were both outside at the same time. I tripped and spilled my purse. He handed me my lipstick and sunglasses, and my god, Carina. We locked eyes and it was like someone had used a stun gun on me or something. My entire body went numb. My thoughts were racing in every direction. My mouth went dry. I kept telling myself to keep walking, to get in the car and drive away—but then half of me thought I should thank him because I’m never going to see him again, and I truly am so grateful for the gift he gave me.”
“Rossi.” Her tone is low and her hand clamps over her open mouth.
“He wanted to know why I didn’t want to meet with him. He said something like how did you know I wasn’t going to offer you money or something like that,” I say, “and then the next thing I know, he’s asking if it’s a boy or a girl, if she’s healthy, what she looks like …”
“Seriously?”
“It’s clear he wants to be a part of her life—which was exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Did he say that? Did he explicitly state that?
I shake my head. “He didn’t have to. Why else would he be shoving money in my face and asking questions about her?”
Carina’s brows furrow and she tugs her hair tie out of her dark hair before twisting it into a messy bun.
“He wanted to know my name,” I say. “But I left.”
She winces. “This is tough because … you have his name. Isn’t it only fair he has yours now? And before you protest, hear me out. What if ten years from now he finds out he has an inheritable heart condition and wants you to know for Lucia’s sake?”
“They did extensive hereditary testing on him during the donor process—he’s clean.”
“What if … years from now … he has no other children and he wants to leave his estate to his one and only biological offspring? What if Lucia could inherit hundreds of millions of dollars?”
I laugh. “No one needs hundreds of millions of dollars. I want Lucia to work for what she has, not have everything she’s ever wanted handed to her simply because she won the genetic lottery.”
Carina rests her elbows on her knees, picking at threads of carpet. “Okay, then what if someday, eighteen years from now, when you tell Lucia who her father is, she finds out that he wanted to be a part of her life and you denied her of that?”
I hate that she has a point.
I bury my face in my hands and breathe through steepled fingers. “I’m just scared, Carina.”
“Of what? Of not being a single parent anymore? Of allowing your daughter to know her roots?” She laughs. “You realize how ridiculous this sounds coming from you of all people? You’re the queen of family trees.”
“My whole thing is—what if he wants joint custody? Can you imagine having to ship my baby off on some private jet every other week so she can spend time with her father?”
“You’re forgetting that the man signed away all of his legal rights to this baby the day he made the deposit at the sperm bank …”
“And you’re forgetting he has an insane amount of money and access to the best lawyers in the country,” I say. “There’s not exactly a precedent for this kind of thing. Believe me, I spent a couple hours googling it this morning. In all the custody cases I found, the judge almost always instated parental rights of some kind to the parent requesting it. Courts tend to favor uniting families.”
“You’re catastrophizing,” Carina says. “Let’s flip this. What are all the ways this could be the best thing to ever happen to the two of you? Maybe he wants to be a part of her life, but not legally. They could have a relationship of some kind, whatever that looks like. And maybe nothing would change except you have to let them FaceTime a couple times a week. Maybe he sends her Christmas gifts or visits on her birthday. You’d be okay with that, right?” Her lips inch up at the corners. “Or what if the two of you spend time together and somehow … maybe … accidentally … fall in love?”
Chuckling, I grab a throw pillow off the sofa behind me and pretend like I’m going to toss it at her. “You had me until the love part.”
She straightens her shoulders. “All I’m saying is this can go a million different ways. Right now you’re a ship drifting at sea, waiting for a wave to carry you somewhere. But if you get behind the wheel of that ship and steer i
t yourself, you can get exactly where you want to be.”
“Thanks for the analogy, captain.”
“This is what I’d do,” she continues. “Call the clinic, have them put you in touch with him, and if he’s still in town, invite him over tonight to meet Lucia. Make it clear it’s a once-in-a-lifetime meeting. Maybe take some pictures for Lucia to have when she’s older so she doesn’t end up hating you for keeping him away. And then the two of you can talk about this. At the end of the day, you’re a family. Maybe not a traditional family. But you’re in this together and you can figure this out together. That’s what families do.”
Scooping my baby into my arms, I trace my thumb across her perfect dark eyebrows and sweep a lock of her wispy hair from her forehead.
“You’re thinking with your heart, sis,” she says. “And I know the idea of everything changing is terrifying. But you need to think with your head on this one. Step back and make a rational decision with Lucia’s best interests in mind. I know you can do it.”
My sister says a lot of crazy things. She drives a bright yellow Mini Cooper she lovingly calls Rupert, occasionally highlights her hair various shades of unnatural colors, and dreams of opening a solar-powered greenhouse someday called Plant Parenthood. She’s always marched to the beat of her own drum, and I love her for it. She’s never been one to dole out nuggets of wisdom, but she has a point.
“If you sit back and think about it, there are way more pros than cons here,” she adds.
Dragging in a breath, I slide my phone from my back pocket, close my eyes, and gather my composure.
With sweaty palms and trembling fingers, I dial the clinic and ask for Rhonda Bixby.
Chapter 6
Fabian
* * *
I’m reclined in a leather arm chair, bouncing a tennis ball off the hotel suite wall, when my phone rings.
“Rhonda, hi.” I answer after checking the caller ID.
“Mr. Catalano,” she says. “So glad you answered. I’m calling with good news.”
“If this is about the settlement, I would advise you to call Steen and Farber. They can relay any information to me.”
“No, no.” There’s a rush of excitement in her tone. “I just got off the phone with your recipient—she’s decided she’s open to a meeting after all.”
Never mind that we already met …
Wonder what changed?
Sitting forward, I release the yellow ball, which rolls out of sight. Then I make my way to the expansive windows overlooking a gray Chicago skyline. Just when I was thinking this entire trip was a waste of valuable time, it seems I may be proven wrong.
“She’d like you to call her,” Rhonda says. “Let me know when you have a pen and paper handy.”
Trotting to the writing desk in the corner, I grab a pad of hotel stationery and a monogrammed ballpoint pen. “Ready.”
“Okay, her name is Rossi Bianco and her number is 555-786-8851.”
“Got it.” I end the call and dial her number. There isn’t much in this world that makes me nervous, but pacing the window as the phone rings, a subtle burst of nausea floods my middle.
“Hello?” A soft-sweet voice answers.
“Rossi,” I say, her name foreign on my tongue. “It’s Fabian.”
“That was fast … I hung up with Rhonda not five minutes ago.” She chuckles into the receiver.
“I’m only in town for tonight,” I say, a feeble attempt to cover my enthusiasm. I wouldn’t normally jump at an opportunity to call someone back, but this someone isn’t just any someone. “Rhonda said you were open to meeting?”
“Yeah. I thought about it a little more,” she says. “But before I agree to anything, I wanted to get some clarifications on expectations.”
“Naturally. Go on,” I say.
“Just want to make sure we’re on the same page as far as legal obligations and rights.” She chooses her words carefully and delivers them at a slower-than-normal pace. “I’m okay with you meeting your biological daughter, and if you decide you want to be a part of her life in some capacity, we can discuss that. But I don’t want a dime from you. And I want your word that you’re not going to sue for custody or anything crazy.”
I stifle a laugh at the idea of me palling around the world with a baby in tow. I would never subject a child to my lifestyle, nor would I compromise my lifestyle by adding a kid into the mix.
“Rest assured, Rossi, that custody is the last thing I want from this situation,” I say.
“Good. Sounds like we’re on the same page then …”
“Same word of the same line of the same paragraph.”
Some people visualize their futures and instantly know they want to be a parent. They picture the kids. Make a mental list of names. Envision themselves at baseball games or dance recitals. There’s no doubt that’s what they want. They don’t question it twice. At thirty-seven, I keep waiting for that paternal urge. I find myself glancing at strangers’ babies in passing, wondering if or when it’ll finally hit me. But that desire never comes. There’s never been an itch to scratch there. Never an inkling of longing.
“I’m not trying to be a burden,” I tell her. “I’ve got no plans to disrupt what you have going on. Honestly, I’ve never wanted children and I’m the first to admit I’d be a terrible father. But knowing I have one out there … I’d be remiss if I didn’t use the opportunity to meet her just once, especially if I’m here.”
If I didn’t, it could haunt me the rest of my life. All I’d have is that five-minute exchange in the parking lot with her beautiful mother. It’d be one of those memories that come at random, that take up residence in the back of my mind. It’d feel like a movie I never finished and never will. An unsettled incompleteness.
“I appreciate this more than you’ll ever know,” I tell her.
Dragging my hands through my hair, I finger comb it back into place, ignoring the niggling voice in my head wondering if this is all some kind of extortion ploy. In my earlier, more naïve days, I met a sweet, unassuming Mary Sue type. Shy in a sexy way. She happened to be in my path when I was plastered at a hotel bar after a grueling tournament in London. We screwed for hours like a couple of sex-depraved animals, and I left before the sun came up the following morning to catch a flight. A month later, she’d reached out to my PR rep claiming she had a sex tape of us as well as a handful of compromising photos she was going to leak to the press if I didn’t give her half a mil in cash.
I didn’t give in to her, and my attorneys were able to get to the bottom of her blackmail scheme, but I learned early on to keep even the nicest people at arm’s length. Money tends to draw in the crazies like flies to honey.
“I thought we could do this at my home,” Rossi says. “It’d be private, which I’m sure is important to you—it’s important to me, too.”
It’s like we’re speaking the same language.
I’d almost go so far as to stamp this as too good to be true.
“Just the three of us,” she adds.
“Perfect.”
“Is this your cell? I can text you my address. Where are you staying?”
I pace the hotel suite, one hand in my pocket. “In the city. West of downtown.”
“So you’re about an hour away from me then. Lucia goes to bed around eight. Would six work?”
“Lucia?” I ask. “Is that her name.”
I’m met with deafening silence on the other end. Followed by a small, “Yes.”
Lucia.
I have a daughter and her name is Lucia.
That one little detail does nothing more than add weight to the gravity of this situation, to make the reality of all of this a little more … vibrant.
I let it sink in for a few seconds, and then I pull my shit together.
“Six o’clock?” Pulling the phone from my ear, I check the time. It’s four thirty now. “I’ll make it work.”
We hang up and a minute later, my phone chimes with a text containing h
er address. I copy and paste it into a search window to make sure it’s legit—because stranger things have happened—and I’m met with an expired real estate listing for a three-bedroom bungalow. White with a lacquered yellow door, bright like daffodils and sunshine—not quite the electric color of a tennis ball, but close enough. With a deep front porch, hanging ferns, and flower bushes lining the driveway and sidewalk—just like my parents had at my childhood home.
I scroll through fifteen listing pictures. The house was built in the seventies, but the inside has been completely updated. White kitchen. Pale gray walls. Light wood floors. There’s a fireplace in the family room and a little covered deck off the dinette. The back yard is encased with a wooden picket fence painted in a shade that matches the fluffy clouds in the blue-sky background.
Clicking away from the movie-scene house, I shoot Taylor a text. I’d brought her along on the trip in case I needed someone to run errands to handle any miscellaneous inconveniences that might’ve come up, but tonight she’s off the clock.
She responds within seconds, asking where I’m going.
Heading to the en-suite bath, I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and freshen up. While we’re past the first impression phase, making myself presentable is a part of who I am.
I don’t reply to Taylor—where I’m going tonight is a private matter, and since she’s off the clock, it’s no longer her concern.
Grabbing my keys, I make my way to the elevator, grab my SUV from valet, type her address into the nav and start my journey.
An hour later, I’m pulling into the floral-encased driveway of the same little white house from the pictures—but before I so much as shift into park, I’m overtaken by the very same wild, adrenaline-fueled frenzy that normally fills my chest right before a match. A sensation so strong, it pulls me out of my body for a second, to somewhere else completely.
Strange.
This has never happened outside the court before.
Shoving it down, I kill the engine, put my best game face on, and climb out so I can meet my daughter. The sooner I do, the sooner I can put this entire thing to bed and get back to life as it was always meant to be.
The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance Page 5