The Knocked Up Plan

In the early pink light of the dawn, with Ryder still sound asleep, I contemplate what I would advise a caller who approached me with this dilemma.

Hey there! I asked a man to donate his swimmers to make me a baby and guess what? Oops! I fell for him, too.

Yeah, I’ve got nothing to tell that crazy caller.

I choose the age-old method of dealing with complicated stuff. I fall back asleep.

When I wake a little later, I pull on a loose T-shirt, visit the bathroom, brush my teeth, and wander into my kitchen. Ryder stands at the fridge, and Ruby’s curled up in a little dog ball at his feet. She’s not pacing. He must have walked her.

He took care of my dog. Dear Lord, I’m falling in love in a big way. This is it. I’ve no antibodies to him, and there’s no question I’m feeling all the zings. Oh God, I hope he feels the same. Please, please, let him be zinging, too.

Ryder’s in jeans and his shirt from last night, and he’s staring at the fridge. When I pad closer, I see he’s not just staring at the door. I’ve hung my various ultrasound pictures to the silvery surface, and he’s studying them. His index finger is poised over my recent twenty-week one, and he’s tracing the outline of the baby’s legs.

“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat.

He straightens and then smiles. It’s a sheepish look, as if he’s been caught. “Just checking out Papaya.”

I love that the name Papaya has stuck. That must be a sign he feels the same. I gesture to the thirteen-week picture, when I first heard the heartbeat. “I think Papaya was a fig in that one. Funny thing—when I was so sick, Papaya was only a kidney bean.”

“Kidney beans are known to be troublemakers.” He steps closer, drops a strangely chaste kiss to my forehead, and sets his hands on my belly. “And I think Papaya is almost a mango now, right?”

I nod. “How did you know?”

“I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons. Papaya will be an eggplant in a little while.”

I blink. Holy shit. He really knows his pregnancy fruits. Better than I do. If he was researching pregnancy in that detailed a fashion, he’s not just interested in how I’m doing. He’s interested in the baby.

“When’s your next appointment?”

“A week and a half. But they won’t be doing another ultrasound at it.”

He snaps his fingers in an aw shucks gesture.

Make that very interested. I can’t stop the next words from coming out of my mouth. I need to know something. Something important. “Would you have wanted to come along if they were doing an ultrasound?”

His eyes light up, and he nods. “Yes. I’d love to take you,” he says, and my heart dares to soar for the briefest moment. He’d want to take me. He’d want to be there for me. Everything feels possible. Until he winks. “And if I were there, I could do my damnedest to convince the doc to give you an ultrasound anyway. I’m dying to see it live again. Not just in photos.”

He turns back to the pictures on the fridge.

Taking me for me, and taking me to convince the doctor to snap a pic of the baby are two entirely different things. My heart doesn’t just fall back to earth. It slams to the ground, as everything snaps into place. It’s both beautiful and terrible, what I now know to be true.

“Would you want me to come along?” he asks.

I say yes, then I point to the clock on the microwave and choke out, “I should shower and get to work.”

I need to be alone right now.

He nods. “I should get Romeo. I bet he misses me like crazy. I miss him, that’s for sure.” He cups my cheek. “But can I see you tonight?”

“Yes.”

The door clinks shut behind him, and I gulp for air. I try to breathe, and it’s suddenly the most difficult thing to do. How could I have missed it? How could I have failed to see what’s so clearly happening to this man?

As I shower, my chest aching the whole time, I rewind to all the obvious signs.

He’s not looking for romance. He’s not interested in love. He never has been, and he’s always been upfront about it.

That kind of love is different, but I try not to think about it. Or to let myself feel it.

But he’s grown quite interested in something else—fatherhood.

It really is magical, he’d said of the heartbeat.

Anyway, got pics of the papaya?

I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons.

He nearly cried when he heard the heartbeat. He practically swooned when he felt the baby kick.

There’s no doubt in my mind that his feelings for the baby have completely transformed. He’s all in now when it comes to Papaya.

But as for me, well, I’m still everything I originally was to him—a sexual creature. Sure, he likes sleeping with me, and yes, I’m something else to him now, too—the mother of his child. But the third thing I want to be—his—isn’t in the cards for Ryder Lockhart. He hung up the closed sign on his heart after Maggie ransacked that organ, and he made it clear he doesn’t want to re-open it.

Tears mix with the New York City water.

Who am I to blame him? I went into this ready to raise the baby without a man in my life. I can’t blame him for wanting to help raise the baby he helped make.

He’s in love with the baby, and only the baby.

I sniffle and hold my chin up as water sluices over my body. I tell myself to be tough, to be strong. I have to be, for the baby.

It doesn’t matter that I’m falling in love with him. I can’t let these new and fragile emotions get the better of me.

Besides, you can’t lose something that was never yours to begin with.



“You were right.” I sink down into the booth across from my mom. I’d called an emergency lunch.

“Of course I’m right.” She smiles as she tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “But what am I right about this time?”

I heave a sigh. “It’s become . . . quite complicated.”

She reaches across the Formica table for my hand and clasps it. “Oh, sweetie. What’s going on?”

I breathe out carefully, as if respiration is a bodily function I’m relearning. I lift my chin. Square my shoulders. “I think Ryder wants to be part of the baby’s life.”

My mother nods sympathetically. She takes her time before she speaks. “And how do you feel about that?”

I try to stay strong. What do I have to cry over anyway? The fleeting notion that we might have become an insta-family? How ridiculous was it to even contemplate that? I won’t shed a tear. Instead, I will plaster on a smile. If he wants to be part of his kid’s life, that’s not a bad thing.

In fact, growing up with an involved father could be a very good thing.

How many women who use sperm donors have the chance to offer some sort of involvement to the father? Hardly any. I should count myself as a lucky one.

“I feel like it could be a good thing for the baby. To know his or her . . . father.” My voice catches on that word. “I wish I had known mine.”