The Knocked Up Plan

“If you were here, I’d take you up on that.”

When we hang up, I’m standing in front of my building, holding my keys with the tadpole charm, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do about the whole no expectations part of the arrangement.

Right now, I want expectations.





Twenty-Seven





Nicole

I don’t erase the photos he sent me of the falling snow.

I don’t delete the ones he sent me a few days later when it snowed again.

And I don’t delete the pics he sent last night when it flurried, because the caption made me laugh. “It’s barely a blanket. More like a Saran Wrap of snow. But maybe you’ll have your white Christmas. May it be free of barf.”

On Christmas morning, my wish comes true.

Snow, and a peaceful belly.

Happy almost-end-of-the-first-trimester to me.

My appetite is back, too, and its timing couldn’t be better since my mom made us chocolate chip pancakes. Ruby and Lorenzo wait in the living room like good little Christmas elves as we eat in the kitchen. My mother’s gentleman caller, James, will join us shortly.

My brother, Aiden, digs in then points at me with his fork. “No more morning sickness?”

I twist my index and middle fingers together. “Seems that way.”

He chews then stares at me with his intense green eyes. He has our father’s eyes. “Ever thought about what it would be like if men were the ones who got pregnant?”

Our mom answers right away. “Maternity leave would last for two years with full pay, for one thing.” She reaches for her orange juice. No Bluetooth today. Even hardworking brokers take Christmas off.

Christmas music plays from her sound system. “Let it Snow.” It’s the perfect soundtrack for today. Her home smells of nutmeg and pine, and I want to spend the day savoring the scents that delight me once more.

“And morning sickness would rank as the nation’s number-one health problem,” Aiden adds. He lifts his chin toward me, switching gears lickety-split. “How’s the baby daddy with all this?”

“Aiden,” my mother chides with a sharp look.

“What? We don’t call him that? Baby daddy?” Aiden is genuinely surprised.

I cut in. “He’s fine with everything.”

“No, seriously,” my brother says, adamant. “What do I call him?”

“He’s not here. You don’t have to call him anything,” I say, irritation starting to bubble up.

“Donor, then?” Aiden presses.

“Donor will be fine,” my mother says. “Now, what was your question?”

Aiden puts his fork down. “So, he’s good with all this. He’s a friend, you said?”

I nod, my shoulders tensing. “He’s a friend.”

“And he’s good with just firing off and . . . boom,” Aiden says, thrusting one arm far in front of him as if he’s demonstrating what it means to take off.

“They have an agreement, Aiden. Everything is fine,” my mom says, her tone crisp and her meaning clear. Shut the fuck up, son.

He holds up his hands, such the innocent. “Hey, whatever works. It’s the Modern School of Relationship Theory, right?” my brother says, quoting one of my column topics back to me. The theory goes like this—who is anyone on the outside to judge? Maybe a woman has two partners because they’re all cool with polyamory. Perhaps a couple decides to be swingers and maintain an open marriage. Or possibly, two lesbians ask their gay best friend to donate sperm for a baby that one of the women will carry. If everyone is happy and consenting, why should anyone on the outside decide what’s right or wrong?

“Yes, I suppose it is, and he’s completely fine with it,” I say, unable to breathe Ryder’s name in front of my brother. Maybe because I feel judged, and I feel Ryder is being judged, too. Even though I know in my heart that my brother isn’t condemning anyone, I will defend Ryder no matter what.

“Good,” Aiden says, stabbing another bite of the pancake. “And you look good. You’re . . . what do they say?” He gestures to my face. “You’re glowing.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same kind of glow you’d have if you were getting some regularly.”

Getting some. For the first time in ages, the thought of sex is mildly appealing. But not while I’m at the table with my brother.

My mother glares at him again. “Aiden. Not at the table.”

“So I can make randy jokes anyplace else? Excellent.”

“Ignore him,” my mother says to me. “If you feed the wild animal, he’ll keep coming back.”

Aiden flashes a gleaming grin. “Too late, Mom. You’re stuck with me. Also, these pancakes are awesome.”

When breakfast is over, Aiden cleans up, telling us to sit by the tree and relax. My mom says she’s going to freshen up, so I settle into the couch alone, tucking my feet under me as Ruby rests her snout on a cushion. A nutcracker stares at me from the table, and the music shifts to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Such a melancholy song for the holidays, happy and sad at the same time. As I wait for my family to join me, the words about muddling through somehow echo in my mind, and my eyes land on a photo of my father on the end table. My mom took the shot—my dad is walking down the street, his back to the camera, one hand holding mine, the other one Aiden’s.

I must have been three, my brother four. I’ve seen this image so many times, but this morning, on this holiday, the twenty-fifth without him, I miss him more than I have in a long time.

Absently, my hand slides to my belly. It’s softer, and I feel the first sign of a little baby bump.

The lump in my throat turns into a hard, sharp pain. I try to swallow past it, but it stays there because I’m happy and I’m sad at the same time. I’m hopeful for the future, and yet I long for the people I miss so much.

My mom returns to answer the door, letting James in. He wears a Santa hat.

“Ho, ho, ho!” He hangs his coat by the door before he gives me a hug, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles and waves to my belly. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. Good to see you, James.”

My mother beams as he compliments me. She chose well with him.

“Time for stockings,” she declares, and she unhooks four from the mantel, handing a silver one to James, a red and white one to Aiden, and a cranberry knit one to me.

The stocking with the paw print on it is in her hands. “This one is for the dogs,” she says, then stage-whispers, “Ruby and Lorenzo won’t mind sharing a stocking, will they?”

“I doubt Ruby minds, but Lorenzo might be mad at you for days,” James remarks. My mom’s greyhound mix raises a disdainful snout in our direction then huffs as he plops his long nose on his soft, downy dog bed. Ruby, meanwhile, smiles shamelessly.

“Lorenzo is jealous. Be careful, James.”

“Oh, I am well aware of his jealousy.”