The Knocked Up Plan(65)

Tears mix with the New York City water.

Who am I to blame him? I went into this ready to raise the baby without a man in my life. I can’t blame him for wanting to help raise the baby he helped make.

He’s in love with the baby, and only the baby.

I sniffle and hold my chin up as water sluices over my body. I tell myself to be tough, to be strong. I have to be, for the baby.

It doesn’t matter that I’m falling in love with him. I can’t let these new and fragile emotions get the better of me.

Besides, you can’t lose something that was never yours to begin with.



“You were right.” I sink down into the booth across from my mom. I’d called an emergency lunch.

“Of course I’m right.” She smiles as she tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “But what am I right about this time?”

I heave a sigh. “It’s become . . . quite complicated.”

She reaches across the Formica table for my hand and clasps it. “Oh, sweetie. What’s going on?”

I breathe out carefully, as if respiration is a bodily function I’m relearning. I lift my chin. Square my shoulders. “I think Ryder wants to be part of the baby’s life.”

My mother nods sympathetically. She takes her time before she speaks. “And how do you feel about that?”

I try to stay strong. What do I have to cry over anyway? The fleeting notion that we might have become an insta-family? How ridiculous was it to even contemplate that? I won’t shed a tear. Instead, I will plaster on a smile. If he wants to be part of his kid’s life, that’s not a bad thing.

In fact, growing up with an involved father could be a very good thing.

How many women who use sperm donors have the chance to offer some sort of involvement to the father? Hardly any. I should count myself as a lucky one.

“I feel like it could be a good thing for the baby. To know his or her . . . father.” My voice catches on that word. “I wish I had known mine.”

My mother’s lips quiver. “He was a good man. Your father loved you so much.”

The fire hydrant cranks on. My eyes leak fat, salty tears. My mother joins me on my side of the table, wraps her arm around me, and squeezes. “I believe in you—whatever you decide. If you choose to have him involved, and if he wants to be involved, it will be for the best.”

I nod as a sob hovers near my lips. “It will,” I say, choking on the words.

“It will be for the best for your child. What a gift for your baby to know such a good man is his or her father.” Her tone is so warm, so loving, so full of motherly wisdom. I know she’s right. I just wish that good man wanted me, too.

But only a fool would think she could have it all.

I bury my face in my mother’s shoulder, and I cry like a baby in the diner. If I get out all the tears now, I can keep calm tonight, and I absolutely must remain calm. If I can’t have all of Ryder, I want to have the part of him in my life that is keen to know his child. It’s such a gift, to be able to know your family. It’s a gift I didn’t think I’d be able to give my child.

Now, it’s possible, and I have to stay strong for Papaya.





Thirty-Five





Ryder

After all my travels, I have the day off.

I spend it with my boy. I take Romeo to Central Park and toss tennis balls to him in the off-leash section until he flops down on his belly, panting in the unseasonably warm March.

We leave, and as I wander through the park, I stop at the bridge over the lake. I stare into the distance, past the water, my eyes landing on the tall buildings framing each side of this oasis in Manhattan.

I’m not here by chance.

I’m here by design.

Maggie and I had our first date in Central Park. Our first kiss on this bridge. As I stand here, I wait for the familiar sensations to pummel me. For the tightening in my chest, the twist in my gut.

It comes, but it fades just as quickly.

“C’mon, boy,” I say to my dog. He trots beside me as I head to the park exit then cut across the brownstones and pre-war buildings toward Lincoln Center.

Tension winds through me as I bound up the steps to the fountain. Maggie and I kissed here after I took her to a ballet, the lights from the fountain like candlelight against the dark night.

But when I let go of thoughts of my ex, and focus on Nicole, the tension flickers away.

Next, my dog and I cut a diagonal swath down the city, walking and walking, all the way to the Union Square Farmers’ Market. It’s open tonight, and I wander around the edges, remembering the times I came here with my ex-wife.

This was our stomping ground, so I brace myself for a slice, a nick, a fresh new cut.

But as I make another lap, I don’t bleed.

I don’t hurt.

I might not enjoy the reminders of Maggie, but they don’t hobble me like they used to. They are part of my past, part of my history.

They don’t have to control my present.

Romeo and I walk to Chelsea, and I park myself on the stoop of my building. Romeo, now exhausted from the long trek, slumps on the steps and rests his snout on my leg.

“What do you think?”

He raises an ear.

“Time to move on?”

He raises his other ear. I cycle back to the night of the hookup seminar that Cal’s son surreptitiously attended, and remember the thoughts that swirled in my head then. Happily ever after is a cycle of bullshit, love is a medley of lies, and marriage is a thing that can only go wrong.