As we all begin to peruse our menus, I decide to blurt out my news. “So Pete’s also going to be my sperm donor,” I announce.
Sydney claps and lets out a jubilant yelp. Gabe rolls his eyes and shakes his head. And Shawna, after a glance at Pete confirming that I’m not joking, begins to fire questions at me. Pete and I answer together, as he repeats what he’s said more than once. That he wants to help me—and do something good with his life. That he thinks he has pretty good genes. That he would love to have a relationship of some kind with my kid—but that he will respect my decision regarding his involvement. Shawna listens intently, without a visible trace of judgment or condescension, although at one point, as she murmurs how “absolutely fantastic” it all is, I wonder if she might be overcompensating a little. At the very least, I bet she’s relieved that she’s not in my shoes. Regardless, I appreciate her supportive reaction, and tell her as much, openly contrasting it to Meredith’s. As Gabe chimes in, Sydney jabs me with her elbow and announces, “Shh. She’s coming.”
Sure enough, I look up and see my sister marching toward the table, wearing a big scowl and the most boring outfit imaginable—dark jeans, a plain black tank, and her standard Manolo pumps, which would be okay except she gets them in a too-short-heel height (the only thing worse, the dreaded kitten heel). Her only accessories are stud earrings, her wedding ring, and a watch. Yawn.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says when she gets to the table. She hands me a gift bag stuffed with tissue paper and says happy birthday. She then crouches slightly to give me a stiff, awkward hug, patting my shoulders twice.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bag, then pointing to her chair. “You’re over there.”
She takes a step in that direction, then stops, looks at Pete, and introduces herself. “I’m Meredith. Josie’s sister,” she says, formally extending her hand.
“Hi, I’m Pete,” he says, shaking it.
“Hi, Pete. I think I heard about your heroic efforts at Bistro Niko.” She takes her seat, looking pleased with herself for having this nugget of information, probably because she knows I’m wondering how she heard it.
Pete laughs modestly and says he’d hardly call a “slap on the back heroic.”
“Certainly not like donating sperm.” Sydney tees me up with a big grin, practically rubbing her hands together.
“Oh, yes…I was just telling Shawna that Pete plans to donate his sperm to me,” I say, looking straight at Meredith.
My sister slides her chair in closer to the table and flashes a prim smile, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, Mom told me about your donor. I didn’t realize you were the same Pete,” she says breezily, then looks up at our waiter, who has returned to take our drink orders, and asks for a Coke Zero.
“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask, not trying to hide my annoyance.
She shakes her head and says, “Unfortunately, no. I’m not drinking tonight. We have early church tomorrow. Harper’s singing in the cherub choir.”
Of course any announcement containing the words church and cherub when you’re out to dinner has a fun-sponging effect, and I’m forced to go in the opposite direction, instructing our waiter that we’d love to kick things off with a round of tequila shots.
He smiles, nods, and glances around the table. “So, seven shots?”
“No. Six,” Meredith quickly corrects him.
“No. Seven,” I say. “I’ll take hers.”
—
DESPITE MEREDITH’S BEST buzz-kill efforts, my birthday dinner is a blast. I can tell Shawna and Sydney both really like Pete, and even Gabe seems to put aside our reproductive controversy for the evening. He is loose and happy, cracking jokes and telling stories, which is not his usual style. At one point, Sydney makes this observation, and jokingly asks Gabe if Leslie deserves the credit for his “improved mood.”
He nods with a little smile and says, “Yeah. Maybe so.”
“Totally so,” I say, deciding to throw Leslie a bone. I turn to her and add, “You’re good for him.”
She smiles, reaches for his hand, and says, “You think so?”
“Yes,” I say. “But here’s the real test. Can you get him to go to Johnny’s Hideaway tonight?”
Sydney laughs, knowing of my secret agenda to end up at one of my favorite, and Gabe’s least favorite, venues in town.
“Hellll, no,” he says. “No fuckin’ way.”
“Who’s Johnny?” Pete asks.
“You don’t know Johnny’s Hideaway?” I say. “And you’ve lived in Atlanta for how long?”
“Four years,” he says. “And no. Never heard of it.”
“Me neither,” Leslie says.
“You’re missing absolutely nothing,” Gabe informs them.
“Is it a bar?” Pete asks.
“It’s a nightclub,” I say. “And an Atlanta institution.”
“Please,” Gabe says. “It’s a creepy midlife-crisis meat market where you go to listen to ABBA and Neil Diamond.”