“To new relationships,” he says. “And all that they may hold in store.”
We clink our glasses together as I roll my eyes. Gabe gives me a sheepish shrug.
“So,” he says, turning to Pete. “Josie says you’re from Wisconsin?”
Pete nods, easy small talk ensuing about the Midwest, specifically camping and skiing, two passions they share. This, in turn, leads to a conversation about college, work, even politics (Gabe and Pete are both self-proclaimed libertarians). Leslie and I interject along the way, while I make a point to ask her polite sidebar questions, but I try to let Pete and Gabe bond as much as possible. By the time we finish our margaritas, I can tell they genuinely like each other. At least I can tell Gabe likes Pete, which is what really matters here.
“You two are a lot alike,” I remark not so subtly during one lull. “I knew you’d hit it off.”
They both nod and smile, and Gabe says, “Awkward.”
“It’s not awkward,” I say. “I’m just happy you like each other. That’s all.”
“If you’re happy, we’re happy, right, Pete?” Gabe says.
“Oh, she’s one of those?” Pete asks, his brows raised. “If she ain’t happy, nobody’s happy?”
“Oh, yeah,” Gabe says, nodding. “She’s totally one of those.”
“No, I’m not,” I protest, even though I know I kind of am.
At this point, I catch Leslie giving me a critical once-over. Maybe it’s in my head, but I have the feeling that it’s hard for her when I’m the center of attention—at least Gabe’s attention—and I suddenly feel just a tad self-conscious. So I change the subject, open our junk drawer, pull out a deck of cards, and give it a shuffle. “Y’all wanna play Hearts?” I ask, looking up at Pete first.
“Sure,” he says. “But I should warn you—I’m really good.”
“Counting-cards, shoot-the-moon good?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze. “That good.” He then turns to Gabe and says, “She just wants to test my intelligence. The other night she actually quizzed me at the dinner table. With brain teasers.”
“Well?” I say. “I want a smart kid.”
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “She wants to raise the gene pool.”
“I resemble that,” I say, an old joke between us.
Gabe chuckles and says, “Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. You do resemble that.”
I punch him, then turn to ask Leslie if she plays cards. “Other than Uno?”
She hesitates, folding her arms across her flat chest, then says, “A little. But I’ve never played Hearts.”
“We can teach you,” I say.
“If you want…” Leslie says, glancing at Gabe, as if transmitting a private message.
“Nah. I’m not in the mood for cards. Let’s just talk,” he says, deftly interpreting her look to mean that she’s not in the mood for cards.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “It was just a suggestion.”
Gabe clears his throat and says, “Maybe we should order the pizza now?”
“Sure,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll call Blue Moon. What does everyone like? Sausage and mushroom?” I look at Pete, fondly remembering the flatbread from our first date.
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
“Leslie’s a vegetarian,” Gabe says.
“You are, huh?” I say, giving her a closed-lipped smile.
“Yes,” she says, raising her chin a few centimeters.
Here we go, I think, then toss her a softball she can hit from her soapbox. “Because of health or animal rights?”
“Both,” she says.
“Hmm. Then do I have the sperm donor for you,” I say, thinking of Glenn S, the animal rights activist. “If you ever end up needing one.”
She smiles her smug twenty-something smile, then says, “Thanks. But hopefully that won’t be necessary.”
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, after our two pizzas arrive (one sausage and mushroom, the other gluten-free veggie) and Gabe, Pete, and I all eat three slices, and Leslie eats one, minus the crust, I find myself wondering what my beef with her is (vegetarian pun intended). Am I just jealous of her fresh, unlined face and raging fertility? Or feeling territorial over Gabe, selfishly clinging to our status quo, wanting to keep my best friend all to myself, especially as I embark on an overwhelming, downright scary endeavor?
As the evening wears on, I have the feeling it has more to do with Leslie herself—something I can’t quite pinpoint, but that I just don’t like about her. It’s nothing she says or does; it’s more what she doesn’t say or do. She answers all my questions to her, whether how many siblings she has (one sister) or where she studied undergrad (Tufts) or where she grew up (Alexandria, Virginia), but never asks a single question of her own. Instead she just sits there, emitting her smug, artsy vibe. To be fair, maybe Gabe’s already told her all about me. But I don’t think that lets her entirely off the hook.
“So,” Gabe says at one point after I make another reference to sperm donors. “Are you two really serious about this thing?”
I look at Pete, and he looks at me, then smiles. I smile back at him and say, “I am.”
“I am, too,” Pete says. “But it’s up to Josie. I’m sure she can find better.”
My smile grows wider, thinking that his response is generous but humble.
“So how would this work?” Gabe asks. “I mean—not mechanically speaking…but, you know, how would the whole thing work?”
“We haven’t really gotten that far,” Pete replies. “But that would be up to Josie, too.”
“So everything’s up to Josie?” Gabe asks with a measure of skepticism, suddenly sounding like a father interviewing a new boyfriend.
I hold my breath, awaiting Pete’s reply, realizing how much I want him to pass the test.
“I’m not going to say everything’s up to her,” he says.
Gabe raises an eyebrow, and I half expect him to exclaim aha! But instead he waits as Pete crosses his legs, looking contemplative, then continues, “I guess what I’m saying is…I’m not offering her everything. Just…my sperm.” He lets out a nervous laugh.
Gabe doesn’t smile back, but I can’t tell if he’s disapproving or just worried. “So not…financial support, for example?”
“Correct,” Pete says. “Though I might help out here and there. I really don’t know….We haven’t figured the whole thing out…but it wouldn’t be traditional. I wouldn’t be the baby’s father….”
“You wouldn’t?” Gabe says.
“I mean, I would be the biological father…but not the father father.”
“So what if she got pregnant—then never wanted to see you again?”
“We talked about that….”
“And?”
“And I’d understand.”
Gabe stares at him for a few seconds, then says, “So what’s in it for you?”
“Does something have to be in it for me?”
“I guess not.” Gabe shrugs. “But people usually act in their self-interest.”
“Yes. But not always…Don’t you give blood?”
“Blood and sperm are kind of different, don’t you think?” Gabe asks.
I interject, feeling defensive of Pete. “Gabe. You argued the opposite just a few weeks ago. You compared this to organ donation. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Gabe fires back. “And you said it wasn’t the same at all. Remember?”
I start to answer, and he keeps going. “Besides. This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what Pete thinks. I’m trying to understand how he feels.” Gabe swallows, still looking tense as he turns back to Pete. “So. Describe your ideal scenario.”
“My ideal scenario…” Pete starts, then stops. “Let’s see…my ideal scenario—”
“You’re putting him on the spot,” I say, half expecting Pete to get up and walk out. Why should he put up with an interrogation?
Pete shakes his head and says, ??
?No, he’s fine. I’m just thinking.” He tries again. “My ideal scenario is that I donate my sperm…and Josie gets pregnant…and then gives birth to a beautiful, healthy baby….Her child…but…”
“But what?” Gabe says, pouncing.
“But maybe she’d allow me to be involved in some limited way.”
“Define limited,” Gabe says.
“I don’t know. A once-a-year outing. Maybe an annual Braves game—”
“You’re a Braves fan?” Gabe asks, as if this is pertinent.
“No. Brewers. But since I’m assuming road trips are out of the question, I’d settle for the Braves.” Pete smiles.
“And what if you took your kid to that Braves game…and got attached?” Gabe fires back.
“I’m sure I probably would,” Pete says.
“And? You don’t see that as a problem?”
“Gabe,” I say, finally getting a little angry. “Why are you trying to talk him out of helping me?”
“I’m not,” he snaps back.
“It’s fine,” Pete says calmly. “It’s actually helpful. Go on.”
“Okay,” Gabe says, nodding, then taking a deep breath. “Well, I did a little research.”
I shoot him a pointed look, wondering why he didn’t tell me about his research first.
“And even if you have a legal document in place, courts can sometimes overturn them. Which means”—he pauses dramatically—“there’s a possibility that Josie could sue you for child support.” Gabe points to me but continues to stare at Pete. “And there’s a chance you could sue her for paternity. Even joint custody.” He gives me a hard look now.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, borderline pissed now.
“Neither would I,” Pete says.
“But you both could,” Gabe says. “It happens. It’s a risk.”
“Not if we used a licensed doctor,” Pete retorts. “In those cases, agreements are almost always upheld.”
I look at him, surprised, and he gives me a slight but adorable smile. “I did some research, too.”
I smile back at him, touched. “You did?”
“I did,” he says, nodding.
For a few seconds, I forget that Gabe and Leslie are in the room until Gabe clears his throat and begins his closing argument. “Look, guys,” he says. “I have to be honest here—I just don’t think this is a good idea. At all.”
“Well, I do,” Leslie suddenly chimes in, completely unexpectedly.
Everyone stares at her as she continues, “Josie wants a baby. And Pete wants to help her. So why not?”
Her words are nice enough, but her body language, tone, and entire demeanor are loaded. She shifts on the sofa, drops her head to Gabe’s shoulder, then yawns wearily, clearly ready for this portion of the evening to end.
Pete ignores her, directing his reply to Gabe. “We obviously have to give it some more thought. There’s a lot to discuss. And we’d have to talk to professionals in this field. A doctor and probably a lawyer.” His voice is steady, strong, reasonable. “Most likely, I think I would donate, then disappear. That would probably be best for everyone involved.”
I feel a wave of disappointment before he adds a but. I wait, feeling hopeful, though not sure what for.
“But Josie and I can make our own rules,” he says, meeting my eyes with a tenderness that makes me catch my breath. “Right, Josie?”
“Right, Pete,” I say with a big smile, feeling almost as lucky as a girl in love.
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, while I’m still in bed scrolling through my Instagram, Gabe returns home from Leslie’s and knocks on my door.
“Come in,” I say, putting my phone down and sitting up.
He opens the door, looking disheveled and tired, but extremely animated.
“It’s a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea,” he says, referencing my favorite children’s book, which I keep on my nightstand, along with Harold and the Purple Crayon and The Five Chinese Brothers.
I play dumb and calmly reply, “What is?”
“This thing with Pete. It’s a complete and utter disaster waiting to happen.” He glances around my room, looking suspicious, then says, “Did he spend the night?”
“No!” I say, sounding aghast. “Of course not.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, crossing his arms.
“He didn’t!” I say. “God. What’s your deal?”
“It’s a disaster,” he says again.
“You don’t like him?” I say.
“I like him just fine,” he says, sitting on the foot of my bed. “But this is truly one of your all-time worst ideas.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because it is,” he says, then starts to enumerate all the things that could go wrong, several rehashed from last night. He could get too attached and sue for partial custody. My husband could resent him. His wife could despise me. I could end up with my kid’s half siblings living in town. I finally interrupt him, during a completely far-fetched hypothetical about my daughter being torn over who should give her away at her wedding. “She can’t decide between her sperm donor father and the man you married….”
“But I’m not even married—and you’re already marrying my daughter off?” I say. And then, before he can get started again, I add, “There are always risks in relationships. Look at you and Leslie. You could have knocked her up last night. Then what?”
“First of all, I actually couldn’t have knocked her up last night. Because we didn’t have sex.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, thinking of that gross hmmm sound he made when he kissed her. “You guys never stopped touching each other all evening.”
“Well. If you must know, we got in our first fight last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, resisting the urge to ask him about it. Then I say, “But at some point, you could end up getting her pregnant—or just marrying her—and then realizing that she completely sucks.” I say the last word with as much fire as I can muster.
“That’s totally different,” he says as I notice dark circles under his eyes and a massive underground zit emerging on his forehead. “And you know it.”
“Well, every situation is different,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “And this one is way, waaay too messy and complicated and fraught with dangers and pitfalls. If I got just one veto in your life, this would be it.”
I picture Leslie’s uppity little nose, then ask if I get a veto in his life, too.
“And you know what the biggest problem here is?” he asks, ignoring my question. “In a sea of really big problems?”
“What?” I ask at my own peril.
“Dude likes you.”
I stare at him, confused, and he clarifies. “Pete.”
“I know who ‘dude’ is,” I say. “But I don’t get your point. Of course he likes me. He wouldn’t do this for me if he didn’t like me.”
Gabe shakes his head. “No. He likes you. As more than a friend. As more than a ‘hey, let me loan you some sperm.’ He wants to sleep with you. Date you. Maybe marry you.”
“You’re nuts!” I say, laughing and throwing a pillow at his face. “No, he does not.”
He lofts the pillow into the air, and we both watch as it falls neatly in place. “I’m a guy,” he says with calm certainty. “I can tell. I know. And I promise you—this would be an absolute fucking disaster. As in…the biggest disaster you’ve ever put in motion. And that’s saying a lot.”
His face falls as soon as the words are out. “You know what I mean,” he says, looking guilty.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling crushed, knowing that we both know that there will always be a far worse and much darker disaster in my past.
chapter eighteen
MEREDITH
In true Nolan ignore-the-issue style, he returns from his run several hours later (after I’ve cried and showered and dressed and cried some more) and tells me he thinks we should just enjoy the weekend.
The coward in me is relieved, but at the same time, I am incredulous, frustrated, and worried that nothing is going to change—in my heart, our marriage, my life.
And that feeling grows larger when, that evening, we exchange anniversary cards, have another long, romantic dinner, and then return to our room, where I reluctantly initiate guilt-driven but resentment-filled sex.
While it’s actually happening, I make my mind as blank as possible, which in turn makes me realize just how much of sex is mental. In other words, it’s virtually impossible to make it a purely physical act. It is always more than that.
Afterward, Nolan curls his body around mine and says, “Did you…?”
“You couldn’t tell?” I murmur.
“Just confirming,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
“Good,” he says, tightening his embrace. His arms are strong, warm, comforting—and the feeling that washes over me is a complete contradiction to everything I told him this morning.
I kiss the side of his elbow, the only thing I can reach, and say, “I’m sorry, Nolan. For earlier.”
Then, as I get ready to backpedal, he shushes me and says, “Let’s just go to sleep, Mere.”
I close my eyes, deciding that for now, I’d rather doubt myself than doubt my marriage.
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, right after breakfast, we drive back to Atlanta, heading straight to my mother’s house to collect Harper. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since we dropped her off, but it feels like much longer, and I can tell Nolan misses her as much as I do, both of us practically running into the house. He gets to her first, picking her up out of her chair to give her a big hug. I hover beside them, waiting for my turn as I inhale her strawberry Lip Smacker scent. But before I can hug her, she scrambles back down to the table, returning to her elaborate art project incorporating crayons; rubber cement, tape, and paste (because you can never have too many adhesives); and copious amounts of purple glitter.
“I want a hug and kiss, too,” I say, stooping down to her eye level.
She turns her head a few degrees and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.