The Knocked Up Plan(18)

I’ve been working out of the office the last two days, so I can’t even stalk him at work and try to read his expressions, body language, or secret notes.

Just kidding. I’d never do that.

I mean, not unless he left me no choice.

My mother yanks and measures, then records the intel in her phone. “There. I’ll give my handyman the numbers, but I think you should be able to make it work. But I don’t think we should schedule the project till you’ve got a baby in there.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“And that means we just need to get you in the family way,” she says, patting my belly. She bounces on her toes and shrieks.

I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve turned into a screech owl, Mommy dearest.”

“I’m just so excited that you’re doing this. I know there are no guarantees, but you literally have no idea how much I want to be a grandmother.”

I adopt a serious look. “Judging from your howl, I have a pretty good idea. I’d say you want it as much as you wanted that bottle of Cabernet you bid on at auction a few weeks ago.”

“Shame on you. I wanted that wine more.” She winks and hugs me. “Just kidding. I want this for you, and I want it more than anything. But you know, no pressure.”

“Right. None at all,” I say, drily.

“You’ll be knocked up like this,” Mom says, then snaps her fingers. “You do know I got pregnant the first time your father and I tried, with both you and your brother?”

“That’s because you and Dad only had sex twice, right?”

“Ha. Yes, of course. We were so chaste otherwise.”

“Also, how do you know it happened the first time you tried to get pregnant?”

“A woman just knows these things,” she says as we breeze out of the closet.

“I hope I’ll know, too, since I’ve found the donor I want.”

“Is that so?” She lifts a curious eyebrow. “Tell me more about Donor 4621.” We’ve taken up the habit of assigning random numbers to potentials.

As we leash up our dogs and head out into the crisp fall afternoon, I give my mom the lowdown on Donor 4621. Lorenzo walks by my mom’s side while Ruby gamely tries to engage him in dog conversation the entire way. His snout is fixed sternly forward as my girl lolls her tongue and paws at his chest.

“Hmm,” Mom says when I finish and we reach Fifth Avenue. Buses grunt and groan, and horns honk from cabs.

“What is the hmm for? Just tell me.”

She tilts her head as we wait for the light to change. “Hmm means that seems like a potentially complicated situation.”

“I can handle this. He’s a colleague, he’s a friend, and he’s a Ping-Pong partner. He’s a dating expert, too. He’s precisely the type of man to ask.”

“Maybe,” my mom says, not buying it.

“Elaborate.”

“What I mean is—it’s complicated. Please just make sure he signs on the dotted line. Contracts are critical.”

“He’s not going to suddenly want daddy duty. He’s not that type of guy. That’s yet another reason he’s perfect. He doesn’t want a relationship. He’s been burned. He’s not interested in any type of commitment. I’m sure he’s allergic to commitment, in fact.”

The light changes and we cross.

“That’s all well and good, but the thing I like with anonymous donors is they can’t get anything from you even if they change their mind,” she says as we walk along the edge of the park. “This almost feels like the type of thing you’d write a column about. ‘Top Five Reasons Not to Ask a Coworker to Donate His Happy Juice.’” She raises her right index finger, displaying a perfectly manicured, plum-colored nail as she counts off. “One, you see him nearly every day. Two, what will you tell the kid? Three, how incredibly awkward will it be when you bring your child to a work event? Four, will your friendship be tested? Five, what if he changes his mind about wanting to be involved?”

Holy shit. She has my job down to a science. I’m ridiculously impressed, but I also must dispute her. “For starters, what work events am I taking a kid to? Even if I wasn’t a sex and love columnist, do you honestly think I’d drag along a toddler or grade schooler to the office Christmas party?” I tighten my grip on Ruby’s leash. I adore my mother, but she’s still a mother. Sometimes she can’t help being a giant buttinski.

“It’s not implausible. You might pick up the baby from day care, realize you left something at the office, and scurry back, the baby in your arms,” she says, and I clench my teeth because she’s fucking right.

But I could handle that. Ryder would be fine with it, too. That’s simply not the sort of scenario that would trip us up. He’s sophisticated and savvy about social situations. Plus, he knows the score. “Perhaps the column should be ‘Reasons Why It’s Wise to Snag Your Friend’s Baby Batter,’” I suggest, a smart little clip to my voice.

“Do share.”

But before I can reel off my five reasons—I have them handy—my phone chirps.

My pulse skyrockets while my stomach flips. I grab my cell from my pocket. His name flashes across my screen in a text, and it feels like my whole future hangs in the balance.