“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine….It just went down the wrong pipe,” Will sputters, before taking a long drink of water. As he puts his glass back on the table, I watch his expression of relief morph into one of mortification.
“You can sit down now,” he mumbles to his wife, as I think how much he’s always hated a scene. Andrea takes her seat, still profusely thanking Pete.
I watch as Will tries to discreetly scoop the glob of meat into his napkin. It takes two tries and to my secret satisfaction, leaves a telltale stain on the tablecloth, almost as red as the hue of Will’s neck and ears. Only then does Will reach up to shake Pete’s hand and thank him for the first time.
“No problem, buddy,” Pete says. “Happy to help.”
—
LATER THAT EVENING, after Will and Andrea send a bottle of wine over to our table, Pete begins to laugh.
“What?” I say.
“That guy really dumped you and married her?”
“Yes,” I say. “What, exactly, is so funny about that?”
“Well, talk about revenge. You almost made him choke to death.”
I smile, shrug, and say, “No. Happiness is the best revenge.”
“Trite but true,” Pete says, nodding. “So are you? Happy?”
“I’m working on that,” I say. Then, lest he get the wrong idea, I give him the update on my single motherhood research, telling him all about my checklists on issues like finances, childcare options, health insurance coverage, and maternity leave. I then go on to tell him about the essays by sperm donors that Gabe and I spent hours reading together. “Of course, we narrowed it on the basis of health first…only considering donors with a stellar medical history.”
Pete listens intently, then says, “Do you have a front-runner?”
“Maybe,” I say, then reach into my purse and hand him the essay by a donor named Glenn S. that I printed last night.
I watch as he unfolds it, raises his brow, and begins to read:
I am a 27-year-old straight male, documentary filmmaker. I attended Cal Berkeley for my undergraduate degree where I majored in communications and ran track—mostly middle distances. I am fit, slim, healthy, and eat a completely plant-based diet. My eating habits are a result of three factors: first and foremost, a compassion for animals and a desire to avoid contributing to their suffering; secondly, a lifelong interest in health and nutrition; and finally, for environmental reasons, as meat and animal products are the number one cause of destruction of our planet. My recipient need not share my beliefs, but should be happy to know that her donor is both compassionate and healthy. Currently I am working on a documentary film about the visceral reaction most humans feel when they see animal suffering, and the disconnect and rationalization they engage in when continuing to eat and wear those same animals. I decided to be a donor because I do not believe in the societal norms that mandate that I raise a family, nor do I want to contribute to the further destruction of the resources of our planet by having my own child. However, I do have a great deal of compassion in my heart for women who want to be a mother and cannot, for whatever reason. If someone is determined to bring a new life onto our planet, I would rather that life come from intelligent, compassionate genes.
Pete finishes reading, his brows raised. “That’s from a sperm donor?”
“Yes,” I say, taking the paper from him and putting it back into my purse. “My friend Gabe helped me select him.”
Pete nods, then asks if I know what he looks like.
“His baby picture was cute. That’s the only photo you get,” I say. “But his description sounded good….Blue eyes, light hair, athletic, six feet tall.”
Pete smiles and says, “Sounds great.” Something about his voice sounds fake, though—or at least hesitant.
“You think it’s weird, don’t you?” I say, wondering why I want his approval.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not at all.”
“Do you like the sound of his essay?” I ask a bit eagerly.
“Well, sure. He sounds nice…very compassionate and principled….” He takes a sip of his wine, then adds, “Maybe a little extreme, though?”
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I admit, because Gabe and I thought so, too. “But he was the best of the bunch….And I like that he’s not donating for money. Many seem to be, though they try so hard to disguise it….”
“Money? Or an egotistical need to spread their seed across the planet?” Pete asks, smiling.
“Gabe said the same thing. Is that the way you guys really feel?”
“I guess. Kind of,” Pete admits. “Not enough to donate my sperm, though.”
We stare at each other an awkward beat before he cracks up.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing…I was just thinking that your ex choking on red meat might be a sign to go with the raging vegetarian.”
“Maybe so,” I say with a smile.
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, Pete and I leave the restaurant in a shared Uber car. When we pull into my driveway first, he leans over to kiss me on the cheek.
“That was fun. Thanks.”
“It was,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you were persistent.”