I break into a big grin, then give him an even bigger hug. As we separate, I tell him he’s officially on the hook, no take-backs, and that I’ll be calling Dr. Lazarus first thing tomorrow morning.
—
“SO HOW WILL this work, exactly?” Sydney asks me the following afternoon as we sit on our usual bench on the playground, supervising the kids during recess. I’ve just told her about the appointment I booked with Dr. Lazarus for later this week—and my decision to use Gabe’s sperm.
“Do you mean the actual procedure?” I ask her.
“Yeah. Will you have to do IVF?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet. My ovarian reserve is on the low side, but we decided to try one straightforward round of insemination first….”
“So no fertility drugs?”
“No,” I say. “Just an injection of hCG to trigger ovulation beforehand.”
“Then what?”
“That’s pretty much it. Then we just wait and see what happens….” I say, the weight of my decision sinking in more with every passing hour.
“So no lawyers, either? Like you were going to use with Pete?”
“Correct,” I say, getting butterflies hearing Pete’s name and thinking about our dinner plans tonight. I push him out of my mind and continue, “They just take the sample from Gabe…then wash and process it to basically concentrate the sperm and maximize the chances of conception….Then they just shoot it up there. It’s a supereasy procedure.” I pat my stomach and smile. “It’s like a normal pregnancy…minus his penis inside me.”
“Oh, yeah. So normal.” Sydney cracks up just as Edie runs over to our bench, calling my name in deep distress, as she does about twice a week. “Miss Josie! Miss Jo-sieeee!”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I ask, pretending to be more alarmed than I am.
“Wesley called me a ‘dumb girl,’ ” she sobs, tears streaming down her face. “He’s so mean.”
I put my arm around her and tell her what I believe to be true based on months of observation. “Sweetie, Wesley teases you because he likes you.”
“No, he hates me,” she insists as I catch Wesley over by the monkey bars, eyeing us with a mischievous smile.
“Trust me….He likes you,” I say, picturing the two of them one day dating and telling the story of how they met, back in the first grade in Miss Josie’s class. Stranger things have happened.
“And guess what?” I continue in my most excited, I-have-a-big-secret voice.
“What?” she asks, wiping away her tears and looking at me with wide, trusting eyes.
“I like you, too,” I whisper in her ear. “A lot.”
Edie’s tears instantly clear. She gives me a big smile before scampering off, happy again.
“Teacher’s pet,” Sydney says, elbowing me.
“Guilty,” I say, smiling. “She’s just so sweet…like her mother, actually.”
“Too bad her dad sucks,” Sydney says.
I shrug, feeling blissfully indifferent to Edie’s dad, then say, “I don’t know. Will’s really not that bad….He’s just a little lame….I’m glad I’m not married to him.”
“Wow. You really have made progress,” Syd says.
“Yeah. I guess I have,” I say, thinking of what a strange but powerful turn my life has taken since the first day of school, back when I feared Edie, despised Will, and pinned all my hopes on some man I might never meet.
—
A COUPLE OF hours before our reservation at Sotto Sotto, my favorite Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Pete calls me, asking if he can come pick me up. I tell him I appreciate the offer, but that it makes no sense for him to drive all the way to Buckhead when he lives in Inman Park, so near the restaurant. “How about I pick you up?” I say.
He starts to protest, insisting that he doesn’t mind the driving, but I cut him off and say, “When will you learn you’re not dealing with a traditional girl here?”
Pete laughs. “Okay. Good point. Do you want to come early for a drink?”
“Sure,” I say. “Seven?”
“Perfect. Eighty-seven Druid Circle…just past Krog Street Market.”
I scribble the address on a notepad and say, “Got it. See you soon.”
“Can’t wait,” Pete says.
—
A FEW MINUTES past seven, I am standing on the front porch of Pete’s charming Craftsman bungalow, ringing his bell. The door swings open immediately, and there he stands, looking cuter than ever.
“Hi,” I say, smiling.
“Hi, you.” He smiles back at me, then steps aside, holding the door. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside.
He gives me a hug. I can’t tell if he’s wearing cologne or if it’s just soap, but I love his scent.
“You smell nice,” I tell him as we separate. “And I like your hair.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” he says, running one hand through it, looking endearingly self-conscious. “I actually meant to get a haircut today….”
“No, I really like it,” I say. “I like a little longer hair on guys….”
“On guys, huh?” Pete says teasingly.
“On you,” I clarify.
He smiles and thanks me, then leads me to his kitchen, where a very basic plate of cheese, crackers, and green grapes awaits us. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine? A beer?”
“I’d love a beer,” I say, sitting at his small round table. I watch him pull two SweetWater beers out of the fridge. He opens them, then pours them into chilled mugs from the freezer. He hands me mine, then sits beside me.
“So how was your day?” he says.
I give him the highlights, as well as a few trivial lowlights, then ask about his day. He reports that it was great, then tells me an inspiring story about one of his favorite clients—a high school tailback recovering from a torn meniscus. As he talks, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him in a bad mood.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” he asks.
I look at him, confused, and he quickly clarifies. “When you were in New York…you told me you had something you wanted to talk about?”
“Oh, right,” I say, stalling, thinking how long ago that phone call seems. Although part of me wants to tell him everything, right at this moment, with no filter whatsoever, another, greater part of me simply wants to go to dinner with the guy I like.
“It was a couple of different things, actually…but we can talk about that stuff later,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Should we head out?”
“Sure,” he says. “Are you driving?”
“Yep,” I say, smiling.
“You opening my car door, too?”
I laugh and say absolutely.
—
TWO HOURS LATER, after a lighthearted, yet still romantic dinner, I pull back up to the curb in front of Pete’s house and put my car in park. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. And thank you for dinner,” I say.
“It was my pleasure,” he says, biting his lower lip as he shoots me a serious glance. “Can you come in for a minute? I promise I won’t keep you long—I know you have to get up early.”
I hesitate, feeling torn. As much as I want to end the evening on an easy, high note—and delay the inevitable for just a little bit longer—I know this isn’t fair to Pete. He deserves the truth. So with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I nod and say okay, I can come in for a few minutes. We get out of my car and walk back to his front door, our shoulders touching as he unlocks it.
Once inside, he instantly takes me in his arms, and I can’t resist the amazing, warm feel of him against me. My heart races with attraction and anticipation as our foreheads touch, then our cheeks and noses. I hold my breath as his lips brush against mine, and he whispers that this is our official first kiss, not the one at Johnny’s. My heart breaks a little as I think, more likely, that it is our last. I make myself pull back and say his name.
“Yes?”
he says, staring intently into my eyes.
“Can we sit for a minute? And talk?”
He nods and says of course, then leads me into his living room filled with Packers memorabilia and framed photos of his family—all as happy, wholesome, and midwestern-looking as he. We sit beside each other on the sofa, and he takes my hand.
“So. I did want to talk to you about some things,” I say, my heart pounding with so many competing, overwhelming emotions.
I can feel him staring at me as I take a deep breath, then tell him that I’m not sure where to begin.
“Start anywhere,” he says. “Just talk to me….”
And so I do, the words pouring out of me as I tell him everything about my past. I begin at the hardest part, with the night my brother died, then fast-forward to our dinner with Sophie, and my fight with Meredith, then go back and cover the pivotal middle part, when Will caught me in bed with Gabe and broke up with me. Pete listens intently, asking only a few questions of clarification along the way, mostly about the time line. When I’m finished, I take a deep breath, then say, “So. That’s the last fifteen years in a nutshell.”
He takes my hand in his, holding my gaze. “I’m so sorry, Josie.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thanks for listening to all of that…shit.” I let out a laugh, so that I don’t cry.
“It’s not shit. It’s life,” he says, finally letting go of my hand, but only so he can put his arm around me. “So what now?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know….The only thing I know for sure is that I am ready to move on with my life. I am ready to be a mother. I want my own family. Not as a do-over, but maybe as a way to heal…” I say, wondering if that sounds selfish—if it is selfish. “I want to have a baby.”
He nods and says he understands.
“And I haven’t told you this yet, either—but I got my test results back…and unfortunately, my eggs are a little on the low side for my age….So I have to do this. Now.”
“I understand,” he says again, then swallows. “Did you…did you decide on a donor?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a fresh wave of deep sadness, yet no uncertainty about my decision.
“And?” he asks, with a heartbreakingly hopeful look.
I take a deep breath, then force myself to tell him the rest. “I’ve decided to have a baby with Gabe,” I say.
“Gabe?” he says, looking more than a little surprised. “Are you guys…together?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not at all. We’ll never be together like that. But he’s my best friend, and I know I can always count on him. It’s safer…less complicated….”
“Less complicated? Really?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“Well, less complicated than using you,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt, hoping that I haven’t hurt him—that he doesn’t think I’m being cavalier about his feelings, whatever, exactly, they are. “Was that ever even a real offer?” I ask, unsure of what I want his answer to be.
“Of course it was,” he says, looking into my eyes. “You know it was.”
“Thank you, Pete,” I say, blinking back tears. “You’re an amazing person.”
“So are you, Josie,” he whispers.
We sit in silence for a torturous few seconds, before I tell him I’d better go. He quickly nods, then stands and walks me to the door.
“Good night, Josie,” he says when we get there, giving me an awkward little side hug.
“Good night, Pete,” I say, then lean up and kiss his cheek, my heart fluttering with wistfulness over what could have, maybe, been.
chapter thirty-two
MEREDITH
After an emotional phone session with Amy on Sunday afternoon, we agree that I should spend a final night or two in New York—that it might be the last chance to really reflect on everything in solitude. So I spend the next forty-eight hours thinking, praying, crying, and replaying the events of the last few days, as well as the last fifteen years.
When I arrive home, late Tuesday afternoon, I find Nolan and Harper in our disastrously messy kitchen, making cookies and listening to “The Little Drummer Boy.” Their backs are to me, and for a moment I watch the two of them, undetected. As he lifts her up to preheat the oven, I am mesmerized by the cozy scene set to the rhythm of pa rum pa pum pums—so much so that I nearly forget how much I dislike Christmas carols before Thanksgiving. I nearly forget everything, in fact, other than the love I feel for my daughter. Then, as Nolan puts her back down, they both turn and see me and my trance is broken. To my enormous relief, Harper’s eyes immediately light up, pure joy on her face.
“Mommy!” she shouts, running toward me, falling into my arms, melting me.
“Harper,” I say, holding on to her for as long as she’ll let me.
Finally, she squirms away, returning to her step stool at the counter, talking a mile a minute, telling me that they’re making sugar cookies with red and green sprinkles, as a “practice run” (one of Nolan’s expressions) for the batch they’ll make for Santa next month. I listen and nod, hanging on her every word, wondering how she could look older after only a week and a half, vowing to never be gone from her this long again. Determined to be more present, patient, grateful. All the while, I avoid eye contact with Nolan, and can feel that he’s doing the same with me.
“Oh, Mommy. Guess what?” Harper asks, her trademark preamble.
“What?” I say, walking over to the counter and watching her awkwardly wield a wooden spoon, her tiny arm not strong enough to cut through the still-floury mixture.
“Daddy says we are allowed to eat raw cookie dough.” Her eyes sparkle with victory.
I start to protest, pointing out the risks of salmonella in raw eggs and batter, the way I always do. But instead I nod and say, “Okay. This once.”
“Living on the edge,” I hear Nolan mumble.
I finally glance his way, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, my heart twisting with so many competing emotions. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says back, smiling back at me just as tensely. “How was your trip? Fun?”
I try to interpret his tone, wondering if it’s more flippant or furtive, but can’t tell for sure. “The trip was fine…but I wouldn’t call it fun….I missed Harper too much to have fun,” I say.
“And you missed Daddy, too?” Harper asks.
I look into her eyes, wondering if she is really this intuitive and insightful—or if the question is simply part of her constant stream of babble.
“Yes. I missed Daddy,” I lie, although a very small part of me actually did miss him. At least the part of him that is inextricably tied to our daughter.
“Will you help us make cookies?” Harper asks.
“I’d love to,” I say, rolling up my sleeves, preparing to wash my hands.
Harper beats me to the punch, pointing at me with her spoon, her face stern. “Wash your hands first, Mommy,” she says. “Airplanes are filthy.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nolan smile. “That’s your daughter, all right.”
“Yes,” I reply on my way to the sink. “She most certainly is.”
—
THREE DOZEN BAKED and decorated cookies later, Nolan and I have barely exchanged as many words, at least not directly with each other. We stick to breezy statements, using Harper as our conduit, such as “Tell Mommy about your visit to the dentist” and “Can you and Daddy guess who came to visit me in New York?”
With the latter question, I stare at Nolan, feeling certain that Josie has already tipped him off and that he knows that I now know the truth about the night Daniel died. When he shoots me a remorseful glance, my hunch feels confirmed.
“Aunt Josie,” Harper either states or guesses.
I tell her yes, watching Nolan prod at an oversize cookie with a spatula. It has clearly not cooled long enough, but he continues anyway, breaking it. He throws one half in his mouth and finally addresses me directly. “So how did the visit go?” he a
sks.
“Don’t you already know how it went?” I say, my anger bubbling to the surface.
Nolan opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He might as well have just pleaded the Fifth, and I tell him as much.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” he says, gesturing toward Harper, now making her way to the family room with cookies in both of her hands.
I shake my head. “Not with Harper awake,” I say, thinking that there is no way we can have this conversation without raising our voices. At least I can’t.
“My parents are coming to get her,” he says, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “In about an hour.”
“What?” I say. “Why? I just got home. I want to spend time with her.”
“Yeah. Well, you didn’t inform us of your itinerary. And I already asked if they would babysit for me.”
“So you could do what, exactly?” I blurt out, not meaning to sound quite as accusatorial as I do. At least not on this particular topic.
Nolan squints at me. “Um. So I could get a little break, maybe?” His voice is calm, but laced with bitterness. “You know, Meredith…I’ve been a single parent for two weeks here….”
“First of all,” I say, crossing my arms, the animosity building. “It’s been eleven days—not two weeks. Second of all, I’d be more than happy to take her for the next eleven days. Starting now. Tell your parents we won’t be needing them.”
“Yeah, we do need them, actually. We need to talk. And my parents are going to take Harper while we do,” he says with rare and absolute authority.
I stare at him a beat, then shrug. “Fine,” I say, letting him win this one, thinking that we might as well go ahead and rip the Band-Aid off our sham marriage. “But I’m putting her to bed tonight.”
A short time later, I get in the shower to avoid seeing Nolan’s parents, taking my time drying my hair, dressing, putting on makeup. Part of me is stalling, but part of me is going through my usual confidence-building ritual before I walk into any adversarial scenario. One thing’s for sure—I am not primping for my husband, and I certainly don’t anticipate Nolan’s reaction, which is to give me a conspicuous once-over when I walk into the family room.