The Knocked Up Plan(17)

I laugh, and she adds, “I’m just teasing. And if the answer is no, I’ll still be your Ping-Pong partner.”

“We’ll always have Ping-Pong.” I pick up my burger and take another bite.

She digs back into her salad then stops. “I almost forgot you had something you wanted to ask me, too.”

I laugh and slouch back in the booth, giving her the lowdown on Cal’s assignment. Admittedly, it sounds like such a simple favor by contrast, but I still need to ask. “I was hoping you’d be willing to take a trapeze lesson with me. As well as go on a few other dates. For the column, that is,” I say, because I don’t want her to think I’m hitting on her. “I would be grateful if you could help me out.”

Nicole is the perfect woman for this project. She has no interest in the part of me that causes pain—my heart, that damn organ I’ve locked up in a steel cage.

“I’m asking you for DNA, and you’re asking me to go on ten test dates?” she says, laughing. “The answer, obviously, is yes.”





Nine





Nicole

Ruby is shameless.

The second she lays her big brown eyes on Lorenzo, she wags her tail, drops to the downward dog pose, and begs him to play with her.

The Italian Greyhound rescue pup is above it all. With his snout held high, my mother’s skinny beast proceeds to inspect my apartment, sniffing every corner, nook, and cranny.

“He’s like a Niffler,” I say to my mom, referring to the Harry Potter fantastical creature that sniffed out shiny things. She read the first few books out loud to my brother and me when we were in middle school. Naturally, I picked them up on my own and finished the series in high school and college.

“Perhaps he’s found buried treasure under your couch,” she says, pointing to her dog, who’s now stuffed his whole head underneath the couch.

I remember something that’s gone missing—my ten-speed purple vibrator with the dual-action butterfly.

Uh-oh.

My face flushes beet red, and I call off the dog. “C’mon, boy. There’s nothing under there,” I say as cheerily as possible. What if he locates the missing purple butterfly? My mom is cool, but I do not want her lover-dog turning my missing personal pleasure device into a chew toy.

Lorenzo burrows further. His bottom half sticks out. He is all butt and legs and tail now. Ruby barks, cheering him on. Traitor.

“Maybe he’s finally found your lost diamond.” She winks. “Or a slice of pizza.”

I force out a laugh. Pizza, a precious gem, or a pleasure perpetrator. “Let’s hope it’s the ring.”

Then again, that purple tool was a damn good vibrator, and I miss it fiercely. Would it be such a bad thing if Lorenzo found it?

Honestly, I’m not embarrassed that my mother knows I engage in ménage à moi. She does read my columns and listen to my radio show. “Love, I have to agree,” she’d said after a recent bit on deal-breakers. “I would draw the line, too, on men who want to wear my panties. La Perla is not meant to be shared.”

When Lorenzo emerges, he’s victorious. He brandishes my red and white polka dot umbrella between his teeth and wags his tail proudly. “That’s been missing forever!” I march up to the boy. “Give it to me.”

He obeys and drops the umbrella into my open palm. This is the perfect umbrella—it fits in a purse but can withstand a strong downpour. I suppose all things being equal, I’m grateful he located a device for keeping dry, not getting wetter.

I set the umbrella on my coffee table.

“Ready for Project Closet Metamorphosis?” I ask my mom, who is perfectly coiffed, as always. Her shoulder-length hair is blown straight and pristinely styled. Not an auburn strand is out of place. She wears blue jeans and a light zip-up vest over a long-sleeved shirt. The ever-present Bluetooth dangles on her ear like a wedding band.

She pats the tape measure in her palm. “Let’s see what we can do.”

We head to my bedroom, which adjoins one of the most wonderful closets in all of Manhattan, thanks to my mom. She hunted down this place in the East 80s for me. It was a total steal, and I’m a lucky gal to call it my own. As she surveys my closet, she yanks the metal ribbon and begins measuring.

“You do know I could have done that,” I point out.

She laughs, a throaty sound. “You are many things, my love. But good at measuring is not one of them. Besides, we need to make absolutely sure there’s enough space to turn this into a nursery.”

When she says those words, my heart flutters with hope, even though I’m still in limbo. It’s been fifty-six hours since I presented Ryder with my request. Each passing second is endless, and I’ve become a pathetic clock-watcher, like a high school student staring at the ticking hand on the wall, desperate to escape the purgatory of class. Every time my phone makes a sound, a charge zips through my bloodstream in case it’s him with a yes. I’ve even brought my phone with me to the shower. Well, I leave it on the vanity. I’m not that pathetic.

Yet.

I’m prepared for his no, though. A girl needs a backup plan, so in case he turns me down, I’ve prepped my list of second choices—a few other tall, smart, and hopefully handsome strangers with deposits at the cupcake bank. Just in case.