I’m dreading this lunch. We’ve had it planned for some time. Apparently, Sadie has something very important to tell me. Why we couldn’t do this on the phone is beyond me. Or better yet, text message. I don’t see why text messages get such a bad rep nowadays. They are efficient and to the point. And if you want emotions, just add an emoji.

Sadie and I make plans to meet at Salvatori’s. A ridiculously overpriced Italian restaurant on Rodeo Drive with excellent wine and so-so pasta. Though I have my suspicions that I might be the only one who has ever noticed, because I might be the only one who still eats carbs out in the open in this city. Salvatori’s isn’t my favorite place, it’s not even in my top ten, but Sadie likes the atmosphere, and it is her choice. Even though I’m the one who’s going to pay for it.

I walk into the restaurant and tell the hostess my name. She takes me to my table where I order a scotch. Sadie is late, as always. I don’t think I have been out with her for one meal when she wasn’t at least fifteen minutes late. Sadie adores Coco Chanel and believes in the importance of making a grand entrance. I agree, of course. Except that this is a dinner. Something of a business engagement.

I drink my scotch, scroll mindlessly through the Google News feed and occasionally look up at the door. Finally, I see her. I glance down at my watch. Burberry with a nice cloth strap. I can afford much more, but I have a weakness for this British company. Something about its quiet understated style turns me on. Sadie is only five minutes late. Wow, she wasn’t kidding. This must be important.

We give each other a brief hug and an air kiss. There’s no kissing on the cheek in this town – only pretend air kisses. Real kisses, even those on the cheek, might mess up the makeup and definitely don’t mesh well with the contouring.

Sadie’s legs are so long that they hit the top of the table as she sits down. She’s a Victoria’s Secret model, which means she’s 5’10” tall. Add to that her obligatory 5 inch Louboutin heels.

“Traffic was horrid,” Sadie says. She grew up in South Africa and went to boarding school in England. Her accent is all over the place, but it’s beautiful and soothing. I smile and nod. I don’t mention the fact that she only lives 15 minutes away.

“I ordered you a watermelon martini,” I say.

“Awe, thank you,” she smiles. “I wish I could.”

I furrow my brow. I don’t know what this means. Sadie is not the woman to miss a drink. Ever. When we dated – however, briefly – she didn’t go one night without a glass of wine or three.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

The waiter arrives and asks us our order. I order the lobster bisque and she orders the spicy tuna. Not really Italian, but they carry it and it’s delicious. Sadie doesn’t even bother to open the menu. It’s what she always gets here.

After the waiter leaves, I don’t ask her my question again. Instead, I just wait for her response. Her eyes have a hard time meeting mine. They are all over the place. As if she has something to apologize for. I try to think of what this can all be about.

Sadie is my longest relationship ever. We dated, exclusively mind you, for three whole months. That’s three months during which I didn’t sleep with anyone else. It may not sound like a lot, but I don’t make that kind of commitment lightly. Our breakup was a mutual decision. I know that everyone says that, but it’s true. I was thinking of calling it off for about a week, before she brought it up at dinner one night. Why did we break up? I don’t know. Just wasn’t feeling us anymore. I wouldn’t say that it got boring. Just a little bit predicable. We ran out of things to talk about after a few dates, and the sex was only really good for the first two months. After that, it required a lot of work. Work that neither of us were willing to put up.

“Okay, I have to tell you something,” Sadie says.

“I know, I’m waiting.”

“You don’t have to be a dick.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. I’m just getting a little impatient. And I still don’t know why all of this couldn’t be done on the phone.

Sadie takes a deep breath. She leans forward and looks straight at me. Her long, straight hair falls over her shoulders, cradling her gorgeous breasts. She’s wearing a strapless dress, which perfectly accentuates her small waist and curvy body. She’s not curvy by normal standards, but she is by Victoria’s Secret standards. Sadie’s has beautiful olive skin and the coral necklace around her long, delicate neck perfectly complements her skin tone.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

I shake my head. “What? How?”

“You know how,” she shrugs.

“Is it…” I’m about to ask if it’s mine, but I wisely stop myself before finishing that sentence. Of course, it’s mine if she’s telling me about this. Why else would she be informing me, and not the real father?

“Yes, it’s yours!” she hisses, just as our plates arrive. We don’t speak again until the bus boys carefully place our food in front of us, grind the pepper and sprinkle the plates with the right amount of parmesan cheese.

“How did this happen?” I ask. “We were careful.”

I’m always careful. I know lots of rich guys who don’t care, but I’m too smart for that. If I have kids, and that’s a big if, I want to be there for them. I’m not going out there and getting a bunch of women pregnant and paying for thousands of dollars in child support for nothing.

“I guess not careful enough,” she shrugs.

“But I thought you were on the pill. And I wore a condom.”

“I am on the pill. But you didn’t wear a condom every time. Don’t bullshit me,” she says.

Shit. She’s right. There were a couple of times at the end of our relationship when we were just caught up in the moment.

“So what happens now?” I ask. I’m trying to be as tactful as possible. I have my doubts that this baby is mine, but getting Sadie pissed off right now isn’t the solution. I’m not even sure that I can do a paternity test right now, so there’s no need to even get into that.

“I’m going to keep it,” she says. Definitely. This isn’t up for debate. She isn’t giving the baby up or getting rid of it. She’s only telling me now because the decision has been made.

“Okay,” I say as definitely as possible. I match her decisiveness, even though that’s the last thing I’m feeling at this moment.

Suddenly, Sadie breaks down. The façade of determination and strength crumbles before me. Her face gets flushed and her eyes tear up.

“What am I going to do, Logan?” she whispers, stuffing large amounts of her spicy tuna salad into her mouth. She’s gulping them down so quickly, for a second, I worry that she’s going to choke.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t have this baby. I’m only 25. I wasn’t one of those models who got on the catwalk at 14. This has been a struggle for me. So if I have this baby now…my whole life is over.”

I take a deep breath. She needs a rock right now. She needs someone to tell her that it’s all going to be okay. I can be that person.

“It’s going to be fine,” I force myself to say. “But are you sure you’re pregnant?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I took like a million tests!” she explodes. Wrong move. Mascara is running down her face along with the tears. She rubs her eyes and makes the mess even worse.

“Oh shit, it’s getting into my eyes.” Sadie takes out her compact and wipes it away. Then she takes a deep breath and returns to me.

“What are you going to do about this?” she asks.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Are you planning on being a father?” Sadie’s no longer sad. Somehow, her disappointment and fear morphed into anger at me.

“Well, frankly, I don’t know,” I say as honestly as possible. “I hadn’t really considered a baby until this very moment. Not sure how it’s going to fit into my schedule.”

Bad move. Awful. The worst part is that I knew that it was the wrong thing to say as I was saying it, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“Not fit into your schedule! Are you insane? You don’t do anything. You just live off your billions. And you’re unemployed,” Sadie yells. Couples at tables near us turn to look at us.

“Keep your voice down,” I say quietly. “I’m not unemployed. I just sold my business.”

“And what do you do now?” she asks.

“I’m in between things,” I say. That’s the best way I can explain it. She doesn’t know the truth, no one does. So to her, I don’t do anything. That’s the way it’s going to have to be.

The rest of the dinner proceeds as expected. Sadie vacillates between being upset with herself, me, and at being pregnant, and yelling at me for not wanting to be a father. She’s not wrong about that. I don’t want to be a father. I definitely don’t want to be a father to my ex-girlfriend’s baby, an ex who I wasn’t very keen on seeing again at all, but there’s something else to all this. What Sadie doesn’t want to admit is that she doesn’t really want to be a mother either. Finally, after close to an hour, dinner finally ends. I get the check and we say our brief goodbyes while waiting for the valet.