“I don’t know. A once-a-year outing. Maybe an annual Braves game—”
“You’re a Braves fan?” Gabe asks, as if this is pertinent.
“No. Brewers. But since I’m assuming road trips are out of the question, I’d settle for the Braves.” Pete smiles.
“And what if you took your kid to that Braves game…and got attached?” Gabe fires back.
“I’m sure I probably would,” Pete says.
“And? You don’t see that as a problem?”
“Gabe,” I say, finally getting a little angry. “Why are you trying to talk him out of helping me?”
“I’m not,” he snaps back.
“It’s fine,” Pete says calmly. “It’s actually helpful. Go on.”
“Okay,” Gabe says, nodding, then taking a deep breath. “Well, I did a little research.”
I shoot him a pointed look, wondering why he didn’t tell me about his research first.
“And even if you have a legal document in place, courts can sometimes overturn them. Which means”—he pauses dramatically—“there’s a possibility that Josie could sue you for child support.” Gabe points to me but continues to stare at Pete. “And there’s a chance you could sue her for paternity. Even joint custody.” He gives me a hard look now.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, borderline pissed now.
“Neither would I,” Pete says.
“But you both could,” Gabe says. “It happens. It’s a risk.”
“Not if we used a licensed doctor,” Pete retorts. “In those cases, agreements are almost always upheld.”
I look at him, surprised, and he gives me a slight but adorable smile. “I did some research, too.”
I smile back at him, touched. “You did?”
“I did,” he says, nodding.
For a few seconds, I forget that Gabe and Leslie are in the room until Gabe clears his throat and begins his closing argument. “Look, guys,” he says. “I have to be honest here—I just don’t think this is a good idea. At all.”
“Well, I do,” Leslie suddenly chimes in, completely unexpectedly.
Everyone stares at her as she continues, “Josie wants a baby. And Pete wants to help her. So why not?”
Her words are nice enough, but her body language, tone, and entire demeanor are loaded. She shifts on the sofa, drops her head to Gabe’s shoulder, then yawns wearily, clearly ready for this portion of the evening to end.
Pete ignores her, directing his reply to Gabe. “We obviously have to give it some more thought. There’s a lot to discuss. And we’d have to talk to professionals in this field. A doctor and probably a lawyer.” His voice is steady, strong, reasonable. “Most likely, I think I would donate, then disappear. That would probably be best for everyone involved.”
I feel a wave of disappointment before he adds a but. I wait, feeling hopeful, though not sure what for.
“But Josie and I can make our own rules,” he says, meeting my eyes with a tenderness that makes me catch my breath. “Right, Josie?”
“Right, Pete,” I say with a big smile, feeling almost as lucky as a girl in love.
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, while I’m still in bed scrolling through my Instagram, Gabe returns home from Leslie’s and knocks on my door.
“Come in,” I say, putting my phone down and sitting up.
He opens the door, looking disheveled and tired, but extremely animated.
“It’s a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea,” he says, referencing my favorite children’s book, which I keep on my nightstand, along with Harold and the Purple Crayon and The Five Chinese Brothers.
I play dumb and calmly reply, “What is?”
“This thing with Pete. It’s a complete and utter disaster waiting to happen.” He glances around my room, looking suspicious, then says, “Did he spend the night?”
“No!” I say, sounding aghast. “Of course not.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, crossing his arms.
“He didn’t!” I say. “God. What’s your deal?”
“It’s a disaster,” he says again.
“You don’t like him?” I say.
“I like him just fine,” he says, sitting on the foot of my bed. “But this is truly one of your all-time worst ideas.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because it is,” he says, then starts to enumerate all the things that could go wrong, several rehashed from last night. He could get too attached and sue for partial custody. My husband could resent him. His wife could despise me. I could end up with my kid’s half siblings living in town. I finally interrupt him, during a completely far-fetched hypothetical about my daughter being torn over who should give her away at her wedding. “She can’t decide between her sperm donor father and the man you married….”
“But I’m not even married—and you’re already marrying my daughter off?” I say. And then, before he can get started again, I add, “There are always risks in relationships. Look at you and Leslie. You could have knocked her up last night. Then what?”