“No, you are,” he says. “And you smell like an ashtray.”
He gives me a knowing look, leading his witness, as always. When I don’t respond, he adds, “I heard you were smoking cigars tonight.”
“Paul Jolly was there. You know—our old neighbor? I took, like, one puff of his cigar. Who’s your informant?”
“I talked to Leslie.”
“She called you already?” I say, thinking that she left only about twenty minutes before the rest of us.
“No. I called her.”
“Failed attempt at a booty call, eh?” I say.
“I never fail at my booty calls,” Gabe says, which is probably close to the truth.
“Well, then, why isn’t she here?” I ask.
“Because I didn’t invite her. I was just starting to worry about where you were….I called you first….Check your phone.”
“It died….I took a lot of videos. I caught Leslie in some hot girl-on-girl action,” I say, thinking of the impressive grinding she and Sydney did to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Granted, it was all initiated by Syd, but still.
“Yeah. Well, I hear you were caught in some girl-on-boy action,” Gabe says. “Makin’ out on the dance floor, huh?”
“Holy fuck, she’s a snitch,” I say, taking another bite of beef.
“Oh, so you wanted to keep it a secret from me?”
“No, it’s not a secret,” I say, with my mouth still full. “But she’s exaggerating.”
“Right,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You know what, Josie?…Johnny’s Hideaway is bad. But making out at Johnny’s Hideaway is on a whole other level.”
“I did not make out at Johnny’s,” I say, scraping up the last bite.
His arms still crossed, he cocks his head to the side. “So you didn’t kiss Pete tonight?”
“Yeah, I kissed him,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But that’s a far cry from making out.”
Gabe gives me a disapproving stare.
“What? Don’t give me that look,” I say, then add, “You know…if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”
It is the sort of thing I would never say sober, which begs the question—is it really what I deep down think?
“Jealous of what?” Gabe retorts. “I mean, if you want to choose his mediocre sperm, go right ahead. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’ll be sorry.”
“Mediocre sperm!” I laugh. “Wow. You are jealous. That’s really cute.”
“I’m not jealous,” he says. “I just think it’s a really bad idea to be making out with your sperm donor. If you want to date him, date him, but then put this project on hold.”
“I don’t want to date him. I just want a baby—and some sperm.”
“Okay. Well, then, frankly speaking…I think you could do better than Pete.”
“That’s mean,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy.”
“I know. But in the world of sperm? He’s your top pick? C’mon, Josie…”
“Well, who’s better?” I say, grateful that I switched to water when I did, that I can at least hold my own in the debate. “The vegan runner? Gabe, c’mon, read that essay again. He sounds like a freak. Besides…I just don’t like the idea of using a stranger. I’d rather go with a known quantity.”
He stares at me, nodding, then uncrosses his arms and presses both palms onto the counter. “Okay, well, how about a really known quantity?”
I deposit the beef container into the trash and start in on the rice. He snatches it away from me and throws it in the trash, too.
“Hey!” I say.
“You told me to never let you eat white food late at night. I’m trying to be your friend here….So. Back to the known quantity…What about using a close friend instead of some guy you just met on Match?”
I narrow my eyes, confused. “How close of a friend?” I ask. Surely he can’t be suggesting what he seems to be suggesting.
“Like…I don’t know…a best friend?” he says, averting his eyes, looking distinctly nervous.
“You’re kidding, right?” I say with a laugh.
He meets my gaze and shakes his head, stone serious.
My heart flutters even more than it did on the dance floor when Pete and I kissed. “I thought you didn’t like messy?” I say.
“I don’t,” he says. “I still think you should go with a complete stranger. But if you won’t do that…you should go with someone you can trust. Someone who would always have your back. And your kid’s back.”
“You mean you?” I confirm.
“Yes. I mean me.”
“And what would that make you?” I ask, my mind racing.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Would you be just the donor? Or, like…the father?”
He swallows, then says, “Well. Both, I guess.”
“So more than a donor?”
“Yes,” Gabe says. “More than a donor. More than you’d get with Pete. I’d be the dad, too.”
“And what about us?” I ask, fleetingly wondering if he isn’t about to reveal some sort of crush on me—like Andrew McCarthy in St. Elmo’s Fire.
“What about us?” he asks.