“Sounds good to me,” he says.
“Leslie’s a vegetarian,” Gabe says.
“You are, huh?” I say, giving her a closed-lipped smile.
“Yes,” she says, raising her chin a few centimeters.
Here we go, I think, then toss her a softball she can hit from her soapbox. “Because of health or animal rights?”
“Both,” she says.
“Hmm. Then do I have the sperm donor for you,” I say, thinking of Glenn S, the animal rights activist. “If you ever end up needing one.”
She smiles her smug twenty-something smile, then says, “Thanks. But hopefully that won’t be necessary.”
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, after our two pizzas arrive (one sausage and mushroom, the other gluten-free veggie) and Gabe, Pete, and I all eat three slices, and Leslie eats one, minus the crust, I find myself wondering what my beef with her is (vegetarian pun intended). Am I just jealous of her fresh, unlined face and raging fertility? Or feeling territorial over Gabe, selfishly clinging to our status quo, wanting to keep my best friend all to myself, especially as I embark on an overwhelming, downright scary endeavor?
As the evening wears on, I have the feeling it has more to do with Leslie herself—something I can’t quite pinpoint, but that I just don’t like about her. It’s nothing she says or does; it’s more what she doesn’t say or do. She answers all my questions to her, whether how many siblings she has (one sister) or where she studied undergrad (Tufts) or where she grew up (Alexandria, Virginia), but never asks a single question of her own. Instead she just sits there, emitting her smug, artsy vibe. To be fair, maybe Gabe’s already told her all about me. But I don’t think that lets her entirely off the hook.
“So,” Gabe says at one point after I make another reference to sperm donors. “Are you two really serious about this thing?”
I look at Pete, and he looks at me, then smiles. I smile back at him and say, “I am.”
“I am, too,” Pete says. “But it’s up to Josie. I’m sure she can find better.”
My smile grows wider, thinking that his response is generous but humble.
“So how would this work?” Gabe asks. “I mean—not mechanically speaking…but, you know, how would the whole thing work?”
“We haven’t really gotten that far,” Pete replies. “But that would be up to Josie, too.”
“So everything’s up to Josie?” Gabe asks with a measure of skepticism, suddenly sounding like a father interviewing a new boyfriend.
I hold my breath, awaiting Pete’s reply, realizing how much I want him to pass the test.
“I’m not going to say everything’s up to her,” he says.
Gabe raises an eyebrow, and I half expect him to exclaim aha! But instead he waits as Pete crosses his legs, looking contemplative, then continues, “I guess what I’m saying is…I’m not offering her everything. Just…my sperm.” He lets out a nervous laugh.
Gabe doesn’t smile back, but I can’t tell if he’s disapproving or just worried. “So not…financial support, for example?”
“Correct,” Pete says. “Though I might help out here and there. I really don’t know….We haven’t figured the whole thing out…but it wouldn’t be traditional. I wouldn’t be the baby’s father….”
“You wouldn’t?” Gabe says.
“I mean, I would be the biological father…but not the father father.”
“So what if she got pregnant—then never wanted to see you again?”
“We talked about that….”
“And?”
“And I’d understand.”
Gabe stares at him for a few seconds, then says, “So what’s in it for you?”
“Does something have to be in it for me?”
“I guess not.” Gabe shrugs. “But people usually act in their self-interest.”
“Yes. But not always…Don’t you give blood?”
“Blood and sperm are kind of different, don’t you think?” Gabe asks.
I interject, feeling defensive of Pete. “Gabe. You argued the opposite just a few weeks ago. You compared this to organ donation. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Gabe fires back. “And you said it wasn’t the same at all. Remember?”
I start to answer, and he keeps going. “Besides. This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what Pete thinks. I’m trying to understand how he feels.” Gabe swallows, still looking tense as he turns back to Pete. “So. Describe your ideal scenario.”
“My ideal scenario…” Pete starts, then stops. “Let’s see…my ideal scenario—”
“You’re putting him on the spot,” I say, half expecting Pete to get up and walk out. Why should he put up with an interrogation?
Pete shakes his head and says, “No, he’s fine. I’m just thinking.” He tries again. “My ideal scenario is that I donate my sperm…and Josie gets pregnant…and then gives birth to a beautiful, healthy baby….Her child…but…”
“But what?” Gabe says, pouncing.
“But maybe she’d allow me to be involved in some limited way.”
“Define limited,” Gabe says.