chapter thirteen

JOSIE

I’ve never understood precisely what Murphy’s law is, but I’m pretty sure it applies when I finally break down and go out with Pete the PT for the second time, this time to Bistro Niko, an upscale French restaurant, wearing the same dress and shoes I had on at Open House, and spot none other than Will and Andrea Carlisle, enjoying a cozy steak dinner. It doesn’t help matters that Pete just got a self-proclaimed bad haircut that approaches a buzz, and is wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, the combination evoking a door-to-door missionary. Nor does it help that Will is sporting my favorite look—jacket and no tie with jeans—along with a sexy five o’clock shadow.

As the hostess leads us right past their table, I avert my eyes, praying that we’ll go undetected, but then hear Andrea calling my name over the dull din of diners. With Pete trailing behind, I stop abruptly, feign surprise, and say, “Oh, hey there!”

“Hey!” Andrea says as I notice that she got her hair colored, the grays eradicated, her rich golden highlights fully restored. “Nice to see you again!”

“You, too. Recognize the dress?” I let out a nervous laugh, regretting the comment immediately.

Andrea blinks, playing dumb, which I find mostly kind, but also annoying since I’m then forced to say, “I had it on the other night.”

“Oh, yes! I do remember it now,” she says, nodding effusively. “It’s such a pretty dress.”

“Thank you,” I say, allowing myself a quick glance at Will, who peers up at me, his dark eyes shining in the candlelight. I can’t read his expression, but his half smile makes my chest ache.

“Hi, Josie,” he says, then shifts his gaze to Pete, now directly beside me. When Andrea does the same, I feel forced to make an introduction.

“Pete, this is Andrea and Will. I teach their daughter,” I say as succinctly as possible.

Pete nods, smiles, and says, “Ah. Nice.”

“So?” Andrea asks with a girlfriendy lilt. “Are y’all on a date?”

I say no just as Pete replies yes.

Andrea manages to wince and smile at once. “Oops. Sorry. None of my business!”

“No. It really isn’t,” Will mumbles into his wineglass. His tone to his wife isn’t exactly rude, but it is slightly reprimanding, evoking his subtle but pervasive sense of superiority, something I had forgotten or, more likely, buried. I think of how he’d nudge me under the table when I said something he perceived as inappropriate. Sometimes he was right; usually it felt like needless nit-picking. The memory is a slight comfort, offsetting those damn brown eyes.

“No worries,” I say, entirely for Andrea’s benefit. “It’s sort of a date—but we’re really just friends.”

“Yeah, technically this is our second date. But because we had no chemistry on our first date, Josie’s already given up,” Pete says, trying to be funny, but making everything exponentially more awkward. “I still have hope, however.”

Andrea nods earnestly and says, “Yes, these things sometimes take time.”

“Was that how it was for you two?” Pete asks, as I stand there in disbelief that this conversation is actually happening.

“Um. Not exactly,” she mumbles, as Will calmly cuts his next bite of steak, raising his fork to his lips.

The opposite of love is indifference, I remind myself, but feel an intense wave of bitterness.

“Not exactly?” I say with an acerbic laugh. “Not at all. Andrea and Will got engaged very quickly. Immediately after he and I broke up, in fact.” I snap my fingers for dramatic effect.

Pete laughs, then realizes I’m not kidding, his expression mirroring Andrea’s—something between pity and discomfort. Meanwhile, Will begins to cough. The three of us glance at him with mild concern, as the coughing quickly escalates to a disturbing choking sound.

“Honey? Are you okay?” Andrea asks.

Will answers with a loud gasp, then goes silent, his eyes wide, watery, and panicked.

“Will!” Andrea shouts, rising from her seat as the hostess steps toward our table and the couple next to us begin to stare. “Will? Can you breathe?”

He doesn’t reply—because clearly he cannot breathe—as Andrea yells, to no one in particular, “He’s choking!” She looks around the restaurant and shouts, “Is there a doctor? Does anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?”

“No. That’s not recommended yet,” Pete says, holding his hand up to calm Andrea while stepping toward Will, intently watching him.

“He’s in the medical field,” I tell Andrea, hoping that physical therapists are trained in choking first aid.

“Try to cough,” Pete calmly instructs Will. “Can you cough at all?”

Will shakes his head, making a faint wheezing sound. Andrea continues to yell for help. I watch in horror, picturing a gruesome image: Edie standing beside her daddy’s casket.

“Okay. Stand up, man,” Pete says, helping Will out of his seat, bracing him with his arm around his waist as he strikes Will’s back with the heel of his hand three times in a row. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Nothing happens, except I notice Will’s lips start to turn a tinge blue. Then, with the fourth hard, loud blow between his shoulder blades, Will heaves the stringy bit of red meat out of his mouth. It lands on the white linen tablecloth, just past his plate. I stare at it, marveling that it could have been as lethal as a bullet to the head, while diners around us begin to clap and cheer. Will gasps for breath.

I watch Andrea put both hands over her heart and rush to her husband’s side, throwing her arms around his neck. He allows a brief embrace, then says something to her under his breath, before pulling away and sitting back down.

“Oh my God, thank you so much,” Andrea says, turning to Pete, tears in her eyes.

Pete modestly shakes off her gratitude and asks Will if he’s all right.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine….It just went down the wrong pipe,” Will sputters, before taking a long drink of water. As he puts his glass back on the table, I watch his expression of relief morph into one of mortification.

“You can sit down now,” he mumbles to his wife, as I think how much he’s always hated a scene. Andrea takes her seat, still profusely thanking Pete.

I watch as Will tries to discreetly scoop the glob of meat into his napkin. It takes two tries and to my secret satisfaction, leaves a telltale stain on the tablecloth, almost as red as the hue of Will’s neck and ears. Only then does Will reach up to shake Pete’s hand and thank him for the first time.

“No problem, buddy,” Pete says. “Happy to help.”

LATER THAT EVENING, after Will and Andrea send a bottle of wine over to our table, Pete begins to laugh.

“What?” I say.

“That guy really dumped you and married her?”

“Yes,” I say. “What, exactly, is so funny about that?”

“Well, talk about revenge. You almost made him choke to death.”

I smile, shrug, and say, “No. Happiness is the best revenge.”

“Trite but true,” Pete says, nodding. “So are you? Happy?”

“I’m working on that,” I say. Then, lest he get the wrong idea, I give him the update on my single motherhood research, telling him all about my checklists on issues like finances, childcare options, health insurance coverage, and maternity leave. I then go on to tell him about the essays by sperm donors that Gabe and I spent hours reading together. “Of course, we narrowed it on the basis of health first…only considering donors with a stellar medical history.”

Pete listens intently, then says, “Do you have a front-runner?”

“Maybe,” I say, then reach into my purse and hand him the essay by a donor named Glenn S. that I printed last night.

I watch as he unfolds it, raises his brow, and begins to read:

I am a 27-year-old straight male, documentary filmmaker. I attended Cal Berkeley for my undergraduate degree where I majored in communications and ran track—mostly middle distances. I am fit, slim, healthy, and eat a completely plant-based diet. My eating habits are a result of three factors: first and foremost, a compassion for animals and a desire to avoid contributing to their suffering; secondly, a lifelong interest in health and nutrition; and finally, for environmental reasons, as meat and animal products are the number one cause of destruction of our planet. My recipient need not share my beliefs, but should be happy to know that her donor is both compassionate and healthy. Currently I am working on a documentary film about the visceral reaction most humans feel when they see animal suffering, and the disconnect and rationalization they engage in when continuing to eat and wear those same animals. I decided to be a donor because I do not believe in the societal norms that mandate that I raise a family, nor do I want to contribute to the further destruction of the resources of our planet by having my own child. However, I do have a great deal of compassion in my heart for women who want to be a mother and cannot, for whatever reason. If someone is determined to bring a new life onto our planet, I would rather that life come from intelligent, compassionate genes.

Pete finishes reading, his brows raised. “That’s from a sperm donor?”

“Yes,” I say, taking the paper from him and putting it back into my purse. “My friend Gabe helped me select him.”

Pete nods, then asks if I know what he looks like.

“His baby picture was cute. That’s the only photo you get,” I say. “But his description sounded good….Blue eyes, light hair, athletic, six feet tall.”

Pete smiles and says, “Sounds great.” Something about his voice sounds fake, though—or at least hesitant.

“You think it’s weird, don’t you?” I say, wondering why I want his approval.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not at all.”

“Do you like the sound of his essay?” I ask a bit eagerly.

“Well, sure. He sounds nice…very compassionate and principled….” He takes a sip of his wine, then adds, “Maybe a little extreme, though?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I admit, because Gabe and I thought so, too. “But he was the best of the bunch….And I like that he’s not donating for money. Many seem to be, though they try so hard to disguise it….”

“Money? Or an egotistical need to spread their seed across the planet?” Pete asks, smiling.

“Gabe said the same thing. Is that the way you guys really feel?”

“I guess. Kind of,” Pete admits. “Not enough to donate my sperm, though.”

We stare at each other an awkward beat before he cracks up.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing…I was just thinking that your ex choking on red meat might be a sign to go with the raging vegetarian.”

“Maybe so,” I say with a smile.

LATER THAT NIGHT, Pete and I leave the restaurant in a shared Uber car. When we pull into my driveway first, he leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

“That was fun. Thanks.”

“It was,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you were persistent.”

“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me.

I turn to open the car door, and he stops me with his hand on my arm. “Wait.”

I laugh and remind him that he’s paying by the minute here.

He nods, then clears his throat. “Any chance of you inviting me in for a nightcap?”

“A nightcap?” I say, laughing. “You sound like my dad.”

“Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”

“He’s sixty-four. You sound sixty-four.”

“C’mon. Invite me in. I just want to talk some more. That’s it.”

I hesitate and smile, wondering what our driver is thinking. Surely he’s heard this conversation before, though he’s politely pretending not to listen.

“Okay,” I say, noticing that Gabe’s car is gone. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

“Well, how nice of you to ask!” Pete says. “But I’d really rather have a cup of herbal tea.”

I smile and roll my eyes, then say, “And now you sound like my grandmother.”

About ten minutes later, after I’ve apologized for how messy the house is and I’ve made us tea, we head into the backyard with Revis. The night is pleasantly cool, and we both murmur how nice it is.

“The mosquitoes are gone, too,” he says.

I glance at him, smile, then say, “Are we really talking about weather and bugs?”

“We are,” he says.

“We can do better that that,” I say. “C’mon. What do you got?”

Pete gives me a serious look, then says, “Okay. I was actually just thinking of that donor guy’s mission statement.”

“Oh, yeah? And?”

He nods and says, “Yeah. I have to say…it is pretty noble.”

“I know,” I say. “I don’t think I could donate one of my eggs like that….Could you? Donate sperm?”

“Maybe,” he says. “For a friend. If I believed she would be a good mother. For you I probably would.” He raises his eyebrows and shoots me an earnest sideways look.

I laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Are you serious?” I ask, feeling the tiniest flutter in my stomach. “Or is this some kind of a ploy to sleep with me?”

Pete gives me the Boy Scout’s three-finger honor sign and says, “I swear it’s not a ploy. Besides, I totally had a turkey baster scenario in mind. Isn’t that how they do it?”

I nod. “Something like that…I think it’s a little more sophisticated, though.”

We both take sips of our tea as I wonder if he’s starting to feel at all uncomfortable. Shockingly, I am not. “Would you make me pay for your sperm?” I ask jokingly. “Or give it to me for free?”

“I’d give you my friends and family rate,” he deadpans.

I smile, looking into his eyes. It’s too dark to really see them, and I suddenly can’t recall their exact shade. “What color are your eyes, exactly?”

“Hazel,” he says.

“I never know what that means….What is hazel? Besides a trendy girls’ name.”

“A nicer way of saying brown…” Seeing right through my line of questioning, he adds, “Anything else you’d like to know that you didn’t glean from Match and our two dates?”

“This isn’t a date, remember?” I say. “And I think I have all relevant data. I have your height, eye color, profession. You seem like a nice guy—”

“I am a nice guy.”

“And,” I say, “you just saved a man’s life. So you’re sort of a hero.”

“True,” Pete says with an adorable full-on grin.

“How’s your health?”

“Good,” Pete says. “I just had a physical….My resting heart rate is fifty-eight. Blood pressure one ten over seventy.”

I nod, even though I don’t know what these numbers mean. “How about your family’s medical history?”

“My grandfather died of a heart attack at fifty-nine, but he smoked a pack a day….My other three grandparents are still alive, along with one great-grandparent. Healthy midwestern stock.”

“Do you have OCD? ADD? Depression?”

He shakes his head.

“A mean streak?”

He smiles and says, “Nope. I’m pretty simple.”

“How simple?”

“Not too simple.”

“What’s your IQ?”

“No clue,” he says. “But I took all the AP courses in high school.”

“And where did you go to college again?”

“University of Wisconsin. I had a three point six in a hard major. Biology.”

“Are you athletic?”

“Decently coordinated…I have a good golf swing. I shoot in the low eighties. I played baseball and tennis in high school.”

“Varsity?”

“You really think I would mention JV?”

I smile. “Are you artistic or musical?”

“Not really. Is that important to you?”

“Nonessential,” I say, deep in thought, studying his face, my eyes finally adjusting to the dark. He really does have a good bone structure and even, symmetrical features, almost pulling off the buzz cut. I like his complexion, as well as the color and texture of his hair. And then there’s that cleft.

“Let me see your hands,” I ask, putting down my mug and reaching for them.

He puts his mug down next to mine and shows them to me, palms up, then down. They’re on the large side, but not so big that my daughter might end up with man hands. I nod and murmur, “Nice.”

“Thanks,” he says.

I clear my throat and say, “So…if you were ever to really do something like this…would you want to be involved?”

The question feels monumental, though I’m not sure what I want his answer to be. I remind myself that this is all completely theoretical. He’s not really offering his sperm up on the spot.

“You mean with the baby?”

I nod.

“You mean…like…paying child support?” he asks.

“No,” I say as adamantly as I can, thinking that with money comes strings, complications. “There would be no child support. You’d be the donor, not the father. You’d have no parental rights whatsoever. I’m talking emotionally.”

“I don’t know….It might be cool if I could take him—or her—to an occasional baseball game. Would you allow that?”

“Maybe,” I say. “That might be nice….But if I ever married, which I hope to one day, I’d want my husband to adopt my child. And then—”

“You might not want me coming around?”

“Maybe not,” I say. “Would that make you feel bad?”

“Maybe,” Pete says. “But it would be your child—and your decision. I would respect your wishes.” He starts to say something else, then stops.

“What?” I say. “Tell me.”

“Well…what if you wanted me to take your kid to a baseball game…and I didn’t want to. Would your feelings be hurt?”

“Maybe,” I say, as I marvel at how honest and candid we’re both being. So much more so than if we were actually interested in each other romantically. “But I really don’t think so. I think that would be the deal going in. You’d be the donor. Period.”

“Period,” he echoes.

We stare at each other, both of us on the verge of smiling. Yet we don’t.

“Would you really consider this?” I ask, part of me starting to believe he might be serious—or at the very least not just humoring me as a way of getting in my bed. “I mean…you barely know me.”

“I know you better than the vegan track star does,” Pete says.

“True,” I say.

Pete stares into my eyes. “I know. It’s crazy. But I think I might be a bit serious here.”

“Why?” I say, my heart pumping a little more quickly, essentially asking him to answer the essay question. “Why would you want to do this?”

He shakes his head and says, “I don’t know….To help you…to do something worthwhile with my life…in addition to saving lives at Buckhead restaurants, that is.”

I love this answer, and can’t help smiling.

He smiles back at me. “Any other questions?”

I think for a second, then say, “There are twelve hundred elephants in a herd. Some have pink and green stripes, some are all pink, and some are all blue. One third are pure pink. Is it true that four hundred elephants are definitely blue?”

“Wait,” Pete says. “Say that again?”

I repeat the question, but no more slowly.

“Well, no, it’s not definitely true,” Pete says. “But it could be true.”

“Correct,” I say, grinning.

“C’mon, that’s a layup. I’m a math-science guy, remember?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking that I’m more verbal—a nice balance.

“So? What do you think?” he asks, leaning forward and staring into my eyes.

I gaze back at him, smile, and say, “I think…you have definite potential.”