The Knocked Up Plan(13)

“You do?”

“I sure do.”

We leave the bar and head to the diner around the corner.

She slides into a booth. “Do you want to go first?”

I shake my head as I sit across from her. “Ladies first.”

“You’re such a gentleman.” She places her shaking hands on the table.

Before she can speak the waitress arrives. I order a burger and fries, and expect her to do the same, but Nicole opts for a salad and water.

“Salad, water, iced tea?” I point at her, making a circle with my index finger. “Are you on a diet? Because you don’t need to be. You know that, right? Your body is spectacular.”

She blushes then shakes her head. “Thank you,” she says, and I’ve never known her to be shy about a compliment. But then, I suppose I’ve never blurted out precisely what I think of her physical appearance. For a second, I hope I haven’t said something inappropriate. But then, this is Nicole. I told her the meow tale. We’ve long since done away with pretenses.

“But I’m not on a diet.”

“Good. Because the burgers want you to eat them, and you’d look sexy eating a burger,” I add, since evidently I’ve become a fire hose of compliments now that I’ve unleashed the spectacular body one.

She tells me she’s trying to eat healthier. When she tells me why, I freeze.





Seven





Nicole

I was raised by a single mother.

Amanda Powers is absolutely kick-ass amazing.

After my father died when I was young, she didn’t remarry, but in the last few years she’s met a widower named James who romanced her like I suppose only a silver fox can do—dancing, dinners at expensive restaurants, nights out at the ballet.

When I’ve asked if she plans to marry him, she simply laughs and in her husky Faye Dunaway voice says, “I prefer to have a gentleman caller.”

But she loves her gentleman caller, and he loves her, too.

Her grief over my father was intense but not debilitating. A police officer, Robert Powers died a quarter century ago in the line of duty. One night when my father responded to an armed robbery, he didn’t come home.

My mother was devastated. My brother and I were, too.

But I don’t remember how much or for how long. That’s the thing about being five. My dad died when I was too young to have memories of him. My mother’s told me stories of my father, too, her high school sweetheart, a brave, honest, and handsome man.

Faced with raising two kids alone, my mother remade herself. She took real estate classes, learned the ins and outs, and started selling apartments in New York City to support her family.

After several years, she became one of the top brokers in this town, and she still is. That’s what she focused on as we grew up—mastering her trade and raising her kids. She did it with grace, confidence, and an unwavering faith in her ability to soldier on after the love of her life was killed.

That’s why my plan seems perfectly reasonable.

I don’t need to wait for Mr. Right when I have a model from my childhood for how to be Mrs. and Mr. Mom, all in one.

But lest anyone think it’s easy-peasy lemon squeezy to ask a man to whack off in a small room for your future mommy dreams, it is most assuredly not.

I am a cyclone of emotions right now. They storm and bluster inside me, nerves and fear and excitement all at once. But I batten down the hatches and march on. We Powers ladies know how to get shit done.

I square my shoulders, take a steadying breath, and confess.

“Here’s the thing. I’m suffering from a case of baby fever,” I say, and holy shit, my voice sounds borderline normal.

Ryder furrows his brow. “Say that again?”

“Baby fever. You know this thing women get sometimes?” I say, going for humor. That’s our shared language, Ryder and me. We joke, we tease, we play. “Apparently, I have a very serious case of wanting to have a baby, and it can only be cured by getting knocked up.”

He blinks, and yup, I’ve won.

I’ve now officially become the person who’s asked him the strangest thing ever.

And I’m messing it up.

That was the wrong approach. I grab the controls and try to steer the plane out of this impending crash. I wave my hands in front of my face, the universal sign for I need a do-over on account of being a ding-dong. I drag my fingers through my hair and breathe. Breathe again. Holy shit, when did inhaling air become so hard? Oh, right. When I had the harebrained idea to ask my coworker for a cup of baby batter.

When I raise my face and meet his eyes, I see the same confusion etched in them as a few seconds ago. But there’s kindness and patience, too, in his sky-blue irises. He’s waiting for me to keep going. He gives an easy nod that says it’s okay, I’m listening, even if I don’t get it yet.

“What I’m trying to say is that I want to have a baby. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now, and I’m ready to become a mom. A single mom.” Once I’ve said those last two words, I feel emboldened. Bravado surges through me. This is my calling in life. The heart knows what the heart wants, and mine craves the pitter-patter of little feet. “I’ve been researching all the options, from adoption to sperm donation, and this might seem crazy, but I hope it sounds like the compliment I absolutely mean it to be.” I clasp my hand to my heart as the balding man in the booth behind Ryder raises a bottle of ketchup to pour some on his plate. “Would you help me?”