The Knocked Up Plan

I scrunch my forehead and imagine my dream candidate. Briefly, my mind is blank, but then an image pops into my head. “I just wish I knew the guy was going to be a Ryder Lockhart level of hot,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, he is a hottie,” Penny says, and Delaney nods her agreement. They’ve both met him at my work events and the occasional group happy hour.

“He’s gorgeous. Just the other day I found myself cataloging his features. He really does have it going on. Plus, he’s smart and funny and good to animals.”

Penny hums mournfully. “Too bad he’s not a donor.”

“Ha. Yeah, it’s a bummer he hasn’t made a deposit at this sperm bank.” I tap the screen. “I’d order up one serving ASAP. Get that turkey baster inside me stat,” I bark as if I’d be saying that to the nurses while I tell them to shoot me up with Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

Wait.

Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

The clouds part. The sun rises. The bells ring. Never have three words sounded more like a perfect solution to a problem.

I straighten my shoulders. A zip of electricity buzzes through me. “Girls,” I say in a hushed voice, motioning for them to come closer. They scoot in, eyes eager.

“He has everything I could want in a donor. Should I . . .?” I trail off, leaving the unasked question hanging between us.

“Should you ask him?” Delaney supplies, like she wants to be 100 percent certain of my meaning.

I fiddle with my napkin. “Should I ask him to be my donor?” It comes out like a croak.

“You’re seriously considering him?” Penny asks, taking a deep breath.

“Am I?” But I know the answer. I am. I really am, and now my stomach is parachuting and loop-de-looping with some wild combination of nerves and possibility. “Yes. I literally didn’t even think about it until this very second. But now that the idea is in my head, it sounds like the perfect solution. Is that the craziest thing I’ve ever said?”

Normally, Delaney and Penny would tease me about all the crazy things I’ve said about dating, or the ultimate deal-breakers in dating profiles (submissive men need not apply at the house of Nicole), unexpected uses for oranges (guess . . .), and what number of battery-operated friends is too many (for the record, there is no such thing as too many).

But my question isn’t in the same camp. It’s vastly different, and we all know it.

A hush falls over the table.

“If you’re asking if he has good DNA, I’d have to say yes,” Delaney says, taking her time with each word.

“He’s certainly handsome,” Penny says.

“He’s clearly smart,” Delaney adds.

“He’s a perfect gentleman,” Penny points out. “At your office Christmas party last year, he offered you his coat. Remember how cold you were?”

“Frozen,” I answer quickly. I’d dressed for fashion, not for weather, and the sleek red sweater felt like it was made of cobwebs that wintry night. When we all left the party together and the arctic tundra air slapped my face, Ryder gave me his jacket until the girls and I could hail a taxi. Confession: I wanted to keep that coat. It smelled like him. Like cedar and sexiness and total class. Its warmth and weight made me feel like I was enveloped in his arms.

I wonder if those sorts of traits are passed on genetically – chivalry. In this case, I bet nurture won out over nature, since manners are usually taught, but why not give a man points for chivalry when it comes to rating his DNA, even though there’s no chromosome for it.

And he earns lots of points for DNA. A flash of images pops before my eyes: framed photos I’ve seen on his desk of his niece, the times he’s helped his brother with his kid.

“He’s a family man, too,” I say, penciling more tally marks in his column of pros. “He has a brother and a sister, and he helps his brother with his little girl. He’s picked her up after school a few times, and they’ve gone on little adventures around the city.” He has frequently updated me the next day in the break room about excursions to their favorite bakery, jaunts to gymnastics classes, or trips to the art supply store for the budding little painter.

“Those are definitely attributes you won’t find in a sperm bank scorecard, but they’ve got to rate high,” Penny says.

I nod, taking in the full scope of his potential, adding up all the little moments I’ve experienced with him as a friend and colleague in the year since he joined the company. Everything I know about him affirms that he’s both a good guy and a deeply good-looking guy. Sure, his show has taken on a sexier slant lately, but since my kid will have a dating guru as a mom, I’m not bothered that the rest of the DNA would come from another sexpert, too.

Silence spreads as we all stare at each other, a tableau of three best friends deep in thought. Here we are considering something that has the potential to be amazing, but also incredibly complicated. I’ll need to have paperwork drawn up outlining expectations (just a small cup, please), as well as involvement (no need to send a birthday card), as well as compensation (how exactly do you put a price tag on that kind of prized DNA?).

What would it be like for my friend and colleague to be the fa—

But I don’t bring myself to say the F-word, even in my head. Because this isn’t a choice about how a baby makes three. Ryder and I aren’t a one and two, and that’s just fine. This is a choice I’m making to be a single mother, and I don’t need a father for my child.

I just need the other half of the baking mix.

As co-workers, the situation might be awkward. As human beings, it might simply be odd, too.

But life is a string of uncomfortable moments, and our job as adults is to navigate through them with the least harm and most love. Asking him to donate sperm is awkward as hell, but it’s also precisely the sort of thing that professionals like us, skilled at discussing the ins and outs of the most bizarre requests men and women make to each other, could manage.

That is if he says yes.

Another nosedive.

Oh God, I hope he says yes.

He might say no.

He’ll probably say no.

But I’ll never know if I don’t ask.

“Soooooo,” Delaney says, her eyes wide.

“Soooooo,” I repeat. “I should ask him?”

They wait for me to answer my own question.

“I should?” It comes out tentative at first. I say it again, stronger this time. “I should.” It sounds right. I absolutely should ask him to be my donor.

Penny and Delaney look at each other, then me. They say in unison, “You should.”

“It’s so much better to know the donor,” Penny adds.

“He’s the total package,” Delaney reiterates.

“He really is,” I say, and it feels crazy, but incredibly right, too. It makes me nervous, but it excites me. I set my hand on my stomach, quelling the nerves. I look at the time on my phone. “There’s no time like the present. I’ll ask him tonight.”

After all, this potential donor is as handsome as a girl can dream up and more. He’s got a little bit of everything a girl could want, and he has that extra something special that I especially need.

He won’t want to be involved beyond the deposit.





Six





Ryder