The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Renshaw, Winter

  Tending to the shotgun dinner at hand, I finish making our meal and set the table while Dan scoops Lucia into his arms and situates her in the high chair at the end of the table. He’s always like this, one step ahead of me. Almost as if he’s reading my mind.

  My ex could’ve used a page from his book …

  He places a couple of toys on her tray before fetching our wines and taking the seat across from me.

  We’ve been doing this for months now, our little weekly dinners. And I enjoy Dan’s company and conversation. Not to mention Lucia adores him. Sometimes I catch myself pretending—in my head—that we’re a little family. And I try to envision what it’d be like to be married to him. I think he’d be the kind of husband who helps with laundry and irons the sheets. Mows the lawn in a crisscross pattern. Sweeps the garage out on the weekends. Plans family vacations down to the last detail.

  And maybe that’d be swell and wonderful.

  But without passion or a connection, everything else is moot.

  Once I pictured kissing him. Like really imagined it. Eyes shut tight. Lips licked and half-open. His hands in my hair. All that jazz. But I felt nothing. And when it was over, I thought I was going to be sick.

  It was like kissing a cousin—unsettling and wrong.

  Not that I speak from experience.

  “This dish is incredible, Rossi,” he says between bites. “I don’t know how, but every week you outdo yourself.”

  For the half hour that follows, I make it a point to enjoy our tedious-yet-sweet little dinner … because after this Friday, something tells me my life will be quite the opposite.

  Chapter 12

  Fabian

  * * *

  “Well, hello there.” A taller, darker-haired, one-off version of Rossi answers her door Friday afternoon. Leaning against the jamb, she scans me from head to toe before flashing an ornery grin. “You must be the baby daddy.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Rossi appears from behind the first woman, gently placing her hands on her shoulders and guiding her out of the way. “Come on in.”

  Lifting my suitcase over the threshold, I step inside her foyer, inhaling the signature blackberry-vanilla scent I’ve come to associate with this place.

  “This is my sister, Carina, by the way.” Rossi points between us. “Carina, this is Fabian.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” The sister extends her hand to me. “I’ll try not to use my death grip on those mitts—I’m guessing they’re insured for millions. I’d hate to cost you Wimbledon.”

  Rossi elbows her, leaning in. “You promised you wouldn’t make this weird …”

  “Think we’re a little past weird, don’t you?” I intervene. “Pretty sure that ship sailed last week.”

  Carina’s eyes widen. “Yes. Exactly.” She turns to me. “See, I like you already.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I say, deadpanning.

  “Carina was just leaving for the day, isn’t that right, Carina?” Rossi checks her watch. “Shift ends at four-thirty and it’s four-thirty-eight, so …”

  “I’m happy to stay if you need me to.” Carina bounces on her heels, hands clasped at her hips.

  “Do you live here as well?” I ask.

  “God, no. I’m just the nanny,” Carina says. “Twelve years of sharing a roof with this Type-A Martha Stewart was torture enough.”

  “Type-A Martha Stewart?” I cock an eyebrow at Rossi.

  “I’ve … relaxed … a bit over the years,” she says.

  “If it could be color-coded or organized, she would color code it and organize it,” Carina says. “Books, CDs, DVDs, sticker collections, nail polish, sweaters, our game cabinet, Mom’s yarn basket, the medicine cabinet, cleaning supplies—”

  “—I think he gets the point,” Rossi interrupts.

  “But her floral arrangements are to die for,” Carina continues, unfazed. “All of her college friends had her do their weddings because she was cheaper and better than most of the local floral places. Honestly, I don’t know why she went into boring genealogy when she could’ve been hanging out with roses and peonies all day.”

  That explains the abundance of flora and fauna outside.

  Someone gave me a succulent once. Told me it was impossible to kill.

  It was dead within a year.

  “Carina, would you mind grabbing Lucia? I think I hear her waking from her nap.” Rossi clears her throat and nods toward the hall before returning her attention to me. “I can show you around if you’d like. Will take two minutes if that.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Following her down the foyer, we take a right down a short hallway.

  “This first door is my office,” she says. “I work from home. This second room is Lucia’s.”

  Peering in, I spot Carina scooping the baby up from a white oak crib. A giant giraffe is propped in the corner, next to a pale pink rocking chair and a gold floor lamp. On the table beside the chair is a stack of books, a pacifier, and a couple of rattles.

  “On the left is the hall bath.” Rossi reaches into the dark room and flicks on a light. “This is technically Lucia’s bathroom, but you’ll be using it while you’re here.” Turning the light out, she ducks back to the opposite side of the hall. “The room next to Lucia’s is the guest room. It’s probably a little smaller than what you’re used to …”

  Swinging the door open, she reveals a room easily the size of my walk-in closet—for comparison’s sake. A queen bed covered in a million pillows anchors the far wall and a single window with navy curtains offers a view of the front yard.

  “I put your sheets and pillows on here,” she says. “The ones your assistant sent.”

  “Thank you.” I wheel my suitcase to the foot of the bed, which is a narrow two feet from the dresser. It’s tight, that’s for sure. But I’m not here to be pampered.

  “Someone wanted to see her mama,” Carina appears in the doorway, Lucia on her hip.

  Rossi reaches for her daughter, a smile engulfing her entire face, one matched only by the one on the child’s face.

  “Okay, I’m out,” Carina says with a wave. “See you next week, baby daddy.”

  “Can’t wait,” I tease.

  “Look at this bedhead, silly girl,” Rossi coos, running her fingers through Lucia’s silky dark tendrils. “You had a good nap, didn’t you?”

  The thought of talking to someone who can’t talk back—hell, who can’t even understand you, has always struck me as funny and unnecessary. Like people who talk to their pets. Or their plants.

  Repositioning the baby toward me, Rossi says, “Look who’s here?”

  I’m fully prepared to offer an awkward, appeasing semblance of a smile when out of nowhere the baby reaches for me.

  Frozen in place, I study her then Rossi.

  “She wants you to hold her,” Rossi says, nodding and moving closer.

  “She remembers me?” I ask.

  “She must.” Gently, Rossi hands her to me. “Here.”

  Taking her in my arms, I attempt to make this the least amount of awkward as possible, but I have no fucking clue how to hold a baby. It was different last week when I was already sitting on the sofa and she could just sit on my lap, but now I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing or if I’m doing it right.

  “Am I supposed to support her head or something?” I ask.

  Lucia chuckles. “No, she’s past that stage. You’re doing great.”

  The baby squirms, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m holding her too tight, so I loosen my grip and relax my stance.

  Now what do I do? Rock back and forth? Bounce? Stand here like an idiot?

  “You want to go for a walk or something?” Rossi asks, much to my relief. “Get some fresh air? I can give you a tour of the neighborhood …”

  “Yeah.”

  “Awesome.” She takes Lucia back, and I grab a ball cap from my luggage along with the pair of sunglass
es I’d hooked onto the neckline of my polo.

  “Does that really keep people from recognizing you?” she asks when we head out to the garage. A second later, and with Lucia on her hip, she impressively unfolds a black and yellow stroller using only one arm and one foot.

  “Sometimes,” I say. “If people aren’t paying attention, they’ll walk right by me.”

  “Can you hit that garage door button over there?” She points behind where I’m standing.

  I get the button and we wait for the door to grind open.

  “I’ve always thought it was funny how movie stars would wear those huge, enormous sunglasses because they wanted to hide,” she says. “But all it does is draw more attention to them because normal people don’t wear sunglasses that take up half their face, you know?”

  “It’s a false sense of security,” I say.

  “Exactly.” She punches in the code on the outdoor panel once we hit the driveway, and the door screeches closed behind us. “So this neighborhood is called Magnolia Hills and it was established in the seventies. It’s one of the more walkable areas in town. There’s a jogging path. A little park with a fishing pond a few blocks that way.” She points to the left. “Down this way is a playground. And the elementary school is about four blocks from here. There’s a little strip of businesses and restaurants about half a mile away. Sometimes we like to walk to get coffee or dinner or check out the farmers’ market in the summertime. It’s a very livable area. Great place to raise a family.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Just about everyone here has young kids, except for a handful of residents. Last year there was a bit of a baby boom, so Lucia should have plenty of little playmates as she gets older,” Rossi continues. “Once a month, we try to get the babies together to let them play—and so us moms can socialize with other adults. It’s crazy—I thought being a mom … and a single mom at that … would’ve been pretty isolating, but I’ve met some of my closest new friends because of this little angel.”

  Up ahead, a green painted sign points us toward the playground Rossi was talking about.

  “Lucia loves to swing in the baby swing here—you mind if we make a pit stop?” Rossi asks.

  “By all means.”

  A minute later, she’s buckling the baby into some kind of safety swing contraption and giving her a gentle push. Lucia claps, giggles, and bounces.

  I wait next to the stroller, hands in my pockets as I take it all in. A small handful of families are here, all of them in other parts of the expansive park. Monkey bars. Tunnels. Slides. Everyone is spread out, running, laughing, not having a care in the world.

  If I had to guess, it’s been twenty-five years since I last set foot in a park.

  “I watched your game the other day,” Rossi calls from the swing. “That grunting thing you do when you hit the ball, is it on purpose or …?”

  Chuckling, I say, “It helps with rhythm, helps hit the ball harder. Hard to explain, but there’s a science behind it.”

  I didn’t always grunt—it was one of the things Coach taught me in the early days. At first, I refused, telling him I didn’t want to sound like a fucking zoo animal. And I couldn’t watch other guys do it without busting out laughing. But like all things, a little time, a little maturity, a little bit of pulling my head out of my ass, and I was able to see the light.

  Rossi gasps, hand cupped over her mouth as she stares toward the slides. “Oh my god.”

  “What?” I follow her gaze, searching for something epic based on her reaction. “What is it?”

  Ambling toward me, her eyes on whatever prize lingers in the distance, she says, “That’s Melanie Saint James … over there. On that bench by the slide.” Sucking in a breath again, she adds, “And that’s her son, Maddox.”

  “I’ve never heard of either of those people …”

  “She’s a mommy influencer.” Rossi keeps her voice low. “Millions of followers. She’s a single mom, did IUI like I did. She even wrote a book about it. Huge inspiration to me. You have no idea.”

  Shrugging, I say, “Go and introduce yourself. I’ll stay here with Lucia.”

  Her brows knit as she turns her focus to me. “You sure? I just … I knew she lived around here, but I’ve never seen her in person … I’m just … this is … I don’t really get starstruck but I—”

  “Go. Say. Hi,” I tell her. Heading toward the baby swing, I take over pushing duties as Rossi makes her way to the woman with blonde waves down to her waist, a preppy striped sweater and tight jeans.

  With Rossi’s back to me, I have no idea what’s being said and have no way of gauging how their little exchange is going—but whatever is said, it doesn’t last long. Within seconds, Rossi’s returning to our post.

  “That didn’t last very long,” I say. “You should’ve got a selfie or something.”

  Swatting her hand, she exhales. “She didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told her I was a huge fan, that I followed her on Insta for years and before I could say anything else, she sort of snapped at me and said, ‘Can’t you see that I’m busy?’ Then she pointed at her kid.” Rossi tucks her hair behind her ear and folds her arms across her chest.

  I’ll admit, I’m not always in the mood to be approached by fans, but if I was a mommy influencer—whatever the fuck that means—and another mom came up to me at a park, I’d think it’d be fair game.

  It’s not like she was at the gyno’s office or a goddamned funeral.

  “I must’ve caught her on a bad day,” Rossi says. Her voice is light but her eyes are heavy with disappointment—a look I grew to know far too often in my earlier days, when I didn’t appreciate the importance of taking three seconds out of my day to give someone a once-in-a-lifetime photo op.

  Glancing back at the blonde, I catch her texting on her phone. It’s not like she’s interacting with her kid. She isn’t even watching him for crying out loud.

  I push Lucia in the swing, keeping my attention trained on the fake, pseudo-celebrity by the slide, hotness bubbling inside of me with every passing second. It takes all the strength I have to stay planted, to refrain from marching over there and giving her a quick lesson in being a public figure.

  “It’s going to be dark soon,” Rossi says after a few more minutes. “We should head back.”

  I slide my sunglasses off my face and fold them into my collar as she hoists Lucia from the swing and buckles her back into the stroller. We’re halfway down the block, heading back, when the unmistakable sound of sneakers scuffing against sidewalk grows louder behind me.

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice calls out.

  I keep walking, focusing on Rossi and Lucia.

  “Hey, sir, excuse me,” she calls louder.

  Rossi glances back from the corner of her eyes. “Oh, shoot. It’s her …”

  Turning around, I’m faced with the blonde in the preppy sweater, her face all smiles as she fixes her hair.

  “Oh my god.” She jumps, clasping her hands over her perky chest. “It’s you. It’s actually you.” Taking a few steps closer, she adds, “I am such a huge fan. You have no idea. I was actually at the Rosemont Open last week—third row. I swear we made eye contact at one point …”

  “Doubtful.”

  Her smile fades, as if she’s confused for a fraction of a second.

  But still, she prattles on.

  “Anyway, I hate to bother you, but would you mind if I got a selfie with you?” Sliding her phone from her skintight pocket, she pulls up her camera, readying it.

  “Yes, actually. I would mind.” Placing my palm out before she can step any closer, I say, “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

  She tries to respond, but apparently the cat’s got her tongue.

  “Fabian,” Rossi whispers.

  The woman looks to me—then to Rossi, before stepping backwards and nearly tripping on a crack on the sidewalk.

  “Oh,” she says whe
n she makes the connection. If karma’s a bitch, then I’m her faithful sidekick. “I, uh … I should get … sorry to bother you …”

  She points back toward the playground.

  “Yes, go watch your kid before he hurts himself,” I add.

  “Fabian,” Rossi says again, sterner this time.

  Turning, the blonde trots away. I can only hope the sting of humiliation haunts her the rest of the night—and I pray the next time one of her loyal fans approaches her, she’ll indulge them with a photo and a few kind words.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Rossi says as we head to her home.

  “Yes,” I say. “I did.”

  The mother of my child deserves the utmost respect.

  Chapter 13

  Rossi

  * * *

  I toss and turn in bed Friday night, listening to the sounds coming from the guest room across the hall and wondering what the hell Fabian’s doing in there. He’s probably still on LA time. And maybe he’s unpacking. I swear I heard drawers sliding open and close. I think he made a phone call at one point, too. And he gets texts all the time—all those random dings.

  Sitting up, I switch on my bedside lamp and grab a book from my nightstand in hopes it’ll relax—and distract—me. But first, I pluck my phone off the charger, log into IG, and unfollow Melanie Saint James before I forget. Only first, I scan through her photos for old times’ sake.

  I realize social media is fake. It’s all filters and posed photo ops and sponsored ads masquerading as sung praise. But I thought Melanie was different. She reminded me so much of myself. Failed marriage. Mid-thirties. Ambitious and hard-working. Family oriented. Natural, motherly instincts. She made the impossible look like a cakewalk, and she wrote a book about it, too.

  In the seconds before I hit the unfollow button, I laugh under my nose thinking about the gobsmacked look on her face when Fabian rejected her request for a selfie and fed her her own lines.

  I only hope she’s kinder to the next person who approaches her.

  Flipping my book open to a bookmarked chapter, I read until my eyelids turn to paperweights—and the next thing I know, I wake to the smell of ink on paper and the book splayed out across my face.