chapter seventeen

JOSIE

After our second date/nondate, Pete and I text and talk daily, sometimes more than once. During one flirtatious late-night exchange (in which he jokingly offers his services to impregnate me “the old-fashioned way”), it flits through my mind that there might be romantic potential between us. But for the most part, our interaction remains platonic—and I stay focused on my goal, determined not to lose more precious time, waffling and stalling, looking for excuses not to go through with my plan, whether using Pete’s sperm or an anonymous donor.

At certain moments, the whole process reminds me of adopting Revis. First, I had to decide that I truly wanted a dog—any dog—and that the pros outweighed the many cons. Then I had to choose my actual dog. For months, I tirelessly researched breeds and breeders, while also pulling up images of homeless pups on various pet finder websites. I drove all over Georgia, visiting shelters, and I frequented the Humane Society on Howell Mill Road to such an extent that I became a de facto volunteer. Eventually I ruled out a purebred, feeling compelled to rescue, and then eliminated all puppies after discovering that they have a much easier time finding homes than adult dogs. But I still remained paralyzed by indecision, reluctance, and endless second-guessing, always focusing on the particular drawbacks of individual dogs. Some barked too much; others shed excessively; many simply had a notoriously aggressive breed in their mix—like pit bull or Rottweiler. (I hated to be prejudiced against a breed, but my sister was adamant that I not take the chance with Harper, and ultimately I agreed with her.)

Then, one day after work, I decided it was time to pull the trigger. So I drove over to the Humane Society, walked into the adult big-dog room (always less crowded than the puppy and small-dog rooms), and spotted Revis, a new resident, staring adorably up at me from the corner of his cinder-block kennel. A three-year-old black Lab–collie mix, he was larger than what I ideally wanted, with loads of fluffy black hair that I knew would end up on everything, particularly in my all-white bedroom. Two strikes. Then I read his story, typed up and posted on his kennel, about how his former owner had dropped him off, unable to deal with Revis’s “separation anxiety”—which I knew was a nice way of saying he destroys shit when left alone. Three strikes.

I almost kept walking, headed for a gnarly-looking but very sweet beagle-retriever mix named Betty, also a new resident. But something made me stop and kneel down before Revis.

“C’mere, boy,” I called out softly. “C’mere, Revis.”

Revis gave me a skeptical stare before standing, wagging his fluffy tail, and trotting over to me. He pressed his pink and black mottled nose against the Plexiglas partition, staring into my eyes.

A moment later, I had retrieved the key to his padlock and was letting him lead me around the courtyard outside the shelter. He was attentive, alert, and good on a leash, and as we sat in the shade, quietly bonding, I whispered into one cocked ear, “Hey, buddy. Are you my dog?” Revis looked up at me, right into my eyes, and I swear he smiled and nodded. I was smitten.

Of course even then, when I was utterly convinced he was the dog for me, it still took me another ten days, two additional visits, and an introduction between Revis and Gabe (after which Gabe voted an unequivocal no, wary over the “separation anxiety” description) before I finally paid my fee, signed the papers, overrode Gabe’s veto, and made it official. That was three years ago, and despite what a giant pain in the ass Revis can be, I have never once, even fleetingly, questioned my decision to adopt him, rescue him, make him mine.

When I draw this comparison to Gabe one evening, he looks up at me from his book. “You’re comparing having a baby to getting a dog?”

“No, I’m comparing Pete to Revis,” I say, sitting on the chair across from him.

Gabe closes the book, marking his spot with his thumb. “Look, Josie. Don’t make me go all Meredith on your ass.”

I shift in my chair, and give him a sheepish smile. “I just mean…I have to make a choice. I have to just do this. And the more I shop around, the more confusing it gets. And maybe I should just go with Pete—”

“Shop around?” he interjects, tossing his book onto the coffee table. “Do you know how that sounds?”

“Shop. Look. Research. It’s all the same thing,” I say. “It’s just like Petfinder or Match—no matter how you try to sugarcoat it, I’m shopping for sperm. Just like people shop for pets or spouses.”

Gabe nods, surrendering the point in a way that makes me feel jubilant. But then he says, “Okay. Maybe so…but I still think this Pete thing is a terrible idea at best.”

“And at worst?”

“A really, really terrible idea.”

“See that?” I say with a smirk. “You thought Revis was a really, really terrible idea, too.”

Lying on the floor between us, Revis hears his name and glances over at me without lifting his head.

“He was a terrible idea,” Gabe says, pointing at the leg of the coffee table that Revis recently gnawed during a thunderstorm. Gabe tried to sand it down and camouflage it with a brown Sharpie, but the shades of brown don’t match.

“But you love him,” I say.

Gabe raises his brows at Revis, then shakes his head, having learned not to be sidetracked by my meandering debating style. “Okay. But are you really comparing the father of your child to a mutt you rescued from the Humane Society?”

I stare back at him, a stubborn standoff ensuing. Several seconds later, after Gabe blinks first, I say, “Would you at least meet him? Tomorrow night? I invited him over for dinner.”

“Are you just trying to get me to cook?” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Maybe,” I say. “But we could also order a pizza.”

“I have plans with Leslie,” he says.

“She can meet him, too.”

“So now you’re taking a poll?”

“No, I’m not taking a poll. I don’t care what Leslie thinks,” I say, already tired of hearing her name, at least the way he says it, so reverently. “I want your opinion as my best friend.”

He folds his arms across his chest and takes a deep breath, but I can tell I’ve reeled him in with this last line. “Is Pete aware that he’s being interviewed?”

“Interviewed? No. Because he’s not. Is he aware that I want him to meet my best friend? Yes. He is, and he wants to meet you, too.”

“Why? Because he likes you? Or because he’s seriously considering donating his sperm to you?”

“Are they mutually exclusive?”

“They should be.”

“Okay. The latter, then,” I say. “In fact, this whole thing was actually his idea.”

“It’s called wanting to sleep with you, ding-a-ling.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not like that. We wouldn’t have sex….We’d go through the proper channels….”

We have another staring contest, and this time Gabe wins. “So if he randomly donated to a sperm bank…you’re telling me that his jizz would be your first choice?”

“Please don’t call it ‘jizz,’ ” I say, cringing.

“Okay. His seed. His sacred seed.”

“Yes. It might be, actually. Hence, the reason I want you to meet him….You read the essays—so what’s the difference?”

“There’s a big difference,” Gabe says. “But okay. I’ll screen this dude for you.”

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Leslie and Pete arrive at the same time, and are introducing themselves as I open the door. They are both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, though Leslie has on crazy high sandals and her hair looks suspiciously blown-out.

“Hey! Come in,” I say, feeling genuinely happy to see Pete and only a little annoyed to see Leslie.

Pete gives me a slight grin, followed by a friendly, one-armed hug. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Yes, thank you,” Leslie says, handing me a bottle of red wine with a funky Andy Warholesque label. “This’ll go with pizza, right? Gabe says we’re having pizza?”

“Yes, we are,” I say. “And yes, anything goes with pizza.”

I smile, and she smiles back at me, but there is something about her expression that seems insincere. It’s almost as if she thinks she’s doing me a favor by hanging out tonight—which I guess, in a sense, she is. But I don’t think she’s earned the right to feel that way, still in a trial period herself.

“Your hair looks great, Leslie,” I say, as Gabe walks into the foyer behind me.

“Thanks,” she replies so flatly that I decide to call her out in front of her new beau.

“Did you get a blowout?” I ask casually.

The question catches her off guard, and she hesitates before mumbling yes, she just didn’t feel like doing it herself so stopped in at Drybar.

Feeling a tad guilty for breaking at least a footnote of the girl-loyalty code, I smile and say, “Oh, yeah. It’s such a pain to do it in this humidity.”

She murmurs her agreement, then looks past me, her face lighting up as Gabe steps forward to kiss her on the lips, making that gross hmmm food sound, like the one Aidan used to make on Sex and the City every time he kissed Carrie. As their faces separate and he slips his arm around her waist, I make a mental note to tell him never to make that noise again unless he’s eating insanely good chocolate cake, and maybe not even then.

“Pete. This is Gabe. My best friend in the world,” I say as much for Leslie’s benefit as Pete’s. They shake hands as I continue my introduction. “And, Gabe, this is Pete.” I pause, then add, “My newest friend—and potential sperm donor.”

Everyone stares at me with identical expressions of surprise, which I take secret delight in.

“She’s all about shock value,” Gabe says to Pete.

“I can see that,” Pete says with a laugh as Gabe turns, now taking Leslie’s hand, and leads us into the kitchen, where he’s prepared a simple spread of blue tortilla chips and homemade guacamole.

“Margaritas, anyone?” he asks.

We all say yes.

“Salt?”

Pete and I say yes, and Leslie says no, which I find a bit predictable and irritating. We watch as Gabe artfully runs a lime wedge over the rims of three glasses. He then presses them into a coaster of coarse sea salt and pours four glasses from a pitcher with bartender precision.

“Help yourselves,” he says with a flourish.

We each take a glass, murmuring our thanks, as I warn Pete and Leslie of the potency of Gabe’s recipe.

“They’re pretty much straight tequila,” I say. “With a little lime juice.”

Gabe winks (which I’ve only seen him do about twice before), then lifts his own glass eye-level, his face somber as he delivers an unexpected toast (Gabe gives toasts about as often as he winks).

“To new relationships,” he says. “And all that they may hold in store.”

We clink our glasses together as I roll my eyes. Gabe gives me a sheepish shrug.

“So,” he says, turning to Pete. “Josie says you’re from Wisconsin?”

Pete nods, easy small talk ensuing about the Midwest, specifically camping and skiing, two passions they share. This, in turn, leads to a conversation about college, work, even politics (Gabe and Pete are both self-proclaimed libertarians). Leslie and I interject along the way, while I make a point to ask her polite sidebar questions, but I try to let Pete and Gabe bond as much as possible. By the time we finish our margaritas, I can tell they genuinely like each other. At least I can tell Gabe likes Pete, which is what really matters here.

“You two are a lot alike,” I remark not so subtly during one lull. “I knew you’d hit it off.”

They both nod and smile, and Gabe says, “Awkward.”

“It’s not awkward,” I say. “I’m just happy you like each other. That’s all.”

“If you’re happy, we’re happy, right, Pete?” Gabe says.

“Oh, she’s one of those?” Pete asks, his brows raised. “If she ain’t happy, nobody’s happy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Gabe says, nodding. “She’s totally one of those.”

“No, I’m not,” I protest, even though I know I kind of am.

At this point, I catch Leslie giving me a critical once-over. Maybe it’s in my head, but I have the feeling that it’s hard for her when I’m the center of attention—at least Gabe’s attention—and I suddenly feel just a tad self-conscious. So I change the subject, open our junk drawer, pull out a deck of cards, and give it a shuffle. “Y’all wanna play Hearts?” I ask, looking up at Pete first.

“Sure,” he says. “But I should warn you—I’m really good.”

“Counting-cards, shoot-the-moon good?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze. “That good.” He then turns to Gabe and says, “She just wants to test my intelligence. The other night she actually quizzed me at the dinner table. With brain teasers.”

“Well?” I say. “I want a smart kid.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “She wants to raise the gene pool.”

“I resemble that,” I say, an old joke between us.

Gabe chuckles and says, “Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. You do resemble that.”

I punch him, then turn to ask Leslie if she plays cards. “Other than Uno?”

She hesitates, folding her arms across her flat chest, then says, “A little. But I’ve never played Hearts.”

“We can teach you,” I say.

“If you want…” Leslie says, glancing at Gabe, as if transmitting a private message.

“Nah. I’m not in the mood for cards. Let’s just talk,” he says, deftly interpreting her look to mean that she’s not in the mood for cards.

“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “It was just a suggestion.”

Gabe clears his throat and says, “Maybe we should order the pizza now?”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll call Blue Moon. What does everyone like? Sausage and mushroom?” I look at Pete, fondly remembering the flatbread from our first date.

“Sounds good to me,” he says.

“Leslie’s a vegetarian,” Gabe says.

“You are, huh?” I say, giving her a closed-lipped smile.

“Yes,” she says, raising her chin a few centimeters.

Here we go, I think, then toss her a softball she can hit from her soapbox. “Because of health or animal rights?”

“Both,” she says.

“Hmm. Then do I have the sperm donor for you,” I say, thinking of Glenn S, the animal rights activist. “If you ever end up needing one.”

She smiles her smug twenty-something smile, then says, “Thanks. But hopefully that won’t be necessary.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, after our two pizzas arrive (one sausage and mushroom, the other gluten-free veggie) and Gabe, Pete, and I all eat three slices, and Leslie eats one, minus the crust, I find myself wondering what my beef with her is (vegetarian pun intended). Am I just jealous of her fresh, unlined face and raging fertility? Or feeling territorial over Gabe, selfishly clinging to our status quo, wanting to keep my best friend all to myself, especially as I embark on an overwhelming, downright scary endeavor?

As the evening wears on, I have the feeling it has more to do with Leslie herself—something I can’t quite pinpoint, but that I just don’t like about her. It’s nothing she says or does; it’s more what she doesn’t say or do. She answers all my questions to her, whether how many siblings she has (one sister) or where she studied undergrad (Tufts) or where she grew up (Alexandria, Virginia), but never asks a single question of her own. Instead she just sits there, emitting her smug, artsy vibe. To be fair, maybe Gabe’s already told her all about me. But I don’t think that lets her entirely off the hook.

“So,” Gabe says at one point after I make another reference to sperm donors. “Are you two really serious about this thing?”

I look at Pete, and he looks at me, then smiles. I smile back at him and say, “I am.”

“I am, too,” Pete says. “But it’s up to Josie. I’m sure she can find better.”

My smile grows wider, thinking that his response is generous but humble.

“So how would this work?” Gabe asks. “I mean—not mechanically speaking…but, you know, how would the whole thing work?”

“We haven’t really gotten that far,” Pete replies. “But that would be up to Josie, too.”

“So everything’s up to Josie?” Gabe asks with a measure of skepticism, suddenly sounding like a father interviewing a new boyfriend.

I hold my breath, awaiting Pete’s reply, realizing how much I want him to pass the test.

“I’m not going to say everything’s up to her,” he says.

Gabe raises an eyebrow, and I half expect him to exclaim aha! But instead he waits as Pete crosses his legs, looking contemplative, then continues, “I guess what I’m saying is…I’m not offering her everything. Just…my sperm.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Gabe doesn’t smile back, but I can’t tell if he’s disapproving or just worried. “So not…financial support, for example?”

“Correct,” Pete says. “Though I might help out here and there. I really don’t know….We haven’t figured the whole thing out…but it wouldn’t be traditional. I wouldn’t be the baby’s father….”

“You wouldn’t?” Gabe says.

“I mean, I would be the biological father…but not the father father.”

“So what if she got pregnant—then never wanted to see you again?”

“We talked about that….”

“And?”

“And I’d understand.”

Gabe stares at him for a few seconds, then says, “So what’s in it for you?”

“Does something have to be in it for me?”

“I guess not.” Gabe shrugs. “But people usually act in their self-interest.”

“Yes. But not always…Don’t you give blood?”

“Blood and sperm are kind of different, don’t you think?” Gabe asks.

I interject, feeling defensive of Pete. “Gabe. You argued the opposite just a few weeks ago. You compared this to organ donation. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Gabe fires back. “And you said it wasn’t the same at all. Remember?”

I start to answer, and he keeps going. “Besides. This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what Pete thinks. I’m trying to understand how he feels.” Gabe swallows, still looking tense as he turns back to Pete. “So. Describe your ideal scenario.”

“My ideal scenario…” Pete starts, then stops. “Let’s see…my ideal scenario—”

“You’re putting him on the spot,” I say, half expecting Pete to get up and walk out. Why should he put up with an interrogation?

Pete shakes his head and says, “No, he’s fine. I’m just thinking.” He tries again. “My ideal scenario is that I donate my sperm…and Josie gets pregnant…and then gives birth to a beautiful, healthy baby….Her child…but…”

“But what?” Gabe says, pouncing.

“But maybe she’d allow me to be involved in some limited way.”

“Define limited,” Gabe says.

“I don’t know. A once-a-year outing. Maybe an annual Braves game—”

“You’re a Braves fan?” Gabe asks, as if this is pertinent.

“No. Brewers. But since I’m assuming road trips are out of the question, I’d settle for the Braves.” Pete smiles.

“And what if you took your kid to that Braves game…and got attached?” Gabe fires back.

“I’m sure I probably would,” Pete says.

“And? You don’t see that as a problem?”

“Gabe,” I say, finally getting a little angry. “Why are you trying to talk him out of helping me?”

“I’m not,” he snaps back.

“It’s fine,” Pete says calmly. “It’s actually helpful. Go on.”

“Okay,” Gabe says, nodding, then taking a deep breath. “Well, I did a little research.”

I shoot him a pointed look, wondering why he didn’t tell me about his research first.

“And even if you have a legal document in place, courts can sometimes overturn them. Which means”—he pauses dramatically—“there’s a possibility that Josie could sue you for child support.” Gabe points to me but continues to stare at Pete. “And there’s a chance you could sue her for paternity. Even joint custody.” He gives me a hard look now.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, borderline pissed now.

“Neither would I,” Pete says.

“But you both could,” Gabe says. “It happens. It’s a risk.”

“Not if we used a licensed doctor,” Pete retorts. “In those cases, agreements are almost always upheld.”

I look at him, surprised, and he gives me a slight but adorable smile. “I did some research, too.”

I smile back at him, touched. “You did?”

“I did,” he says, nodding.

For a few seconds, I forget that Gabe and Leslie are in the room until Gabe clears his throat and begins his closing argument. “Look, guys,” he says. “I have to be honest here—I just don’t think this is a good idea. At all.”

“Well, I do,” Leslie suddenly chimes in, completely unexpectedly.

Everyone stares at her as she continues, “Josie wants a baby. And Pete wants to help her. So why not?”

Her words are nice enough, but her body language, tone, and entire demeanor are loaded. She shifts on the sofa, drops her head to Gabe’s shoulder, then yawns wearily, clearly ready for this portion of the evening to end.

Pete ignores her, directing his reply to Gabe. “We obviously have to give it some more thought. There’s a lot to discuss. And we’d have to talk to professionals in this field. A doctor and probably a lawyer.” His voice is steady, strong, reasonable. “Most likely, I think I would donate, then disappear. That would probably be best for everyone involved.”

I feel a wave of disappointment before he adds a but. I wait, feeling hopeful, though not sure what for.

“But Josie and I can make our own rules,” he says, meeting my eyes with a tenderness that makes me catch my breath. “Right, Josie?”

“Right, Pete,” I say with a big smile, feeling almost as lucky as a girl in love.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, while I’m still in bed scrolling through my Instagram, Gabe returns home from Leslie’s and knocks on my door.

“Come in,” I say, putting my phone down and sitting up.

He opens the door, looking disheveled and tired, but extremely animated.

“It’s a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea,” he says, referencing my favorite children’s book, which I keep on my nightstand, along with Harold and the Purple Crayon and The Five Chinese Brothers.

I play dumb and calmly reply, “What is?”

“This thing with Pete. It’s a complete and utter disaster waiting to happen.” He glances around my room, looking suspicious, then says, “Did he spend the night?”

“No!” I say, sounding aghast. “Of course not.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, crossing his arms.

“He didn’t!” I say. “God. What’s your deal?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says again.

“You don’t like him?” I say.

“I like him just fine,” he says, sitting on the foot of my bed. “But this is truly one of your all-time worst ideas.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Because it is,” he says, then starts to enumerate all the things that could go wrong, several rehashed from last night. He could get too attached and sue for partial custody. My husband could resent him. His wife could despise me. I could end up with my kid’s half siblings living in town. I finally interrupt him, during a completely far-fetched hypothetical about my daughter being torn over who should give her away at her wedding. “She can’t decide between her sperm donor father and the man you married….”

“But I’m not even married—and you’re already marrying my daughter off?” I say. And then, before he can get started again, I add, “There are always risks in relationships. Look at you and Leslie. You could have knocked her up last night. Then what?”

“First of all, I actually couldn’t have knocked her up last night. Because we didn’t have sex.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, thinking of that gross hmmm sound he made when he kissed her. “You guys never stopped touching each other all evening.”

“Well. If you must know, we got in our first fight last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, resisting the urge to ask him about it. Then I say, “But at some point, you could end up getting her pregnant—or just marrying her—and then realizing that she completely sucks.” I say the last word with as much fire as I can muster.

“That’s totally different,” he says as I notice dark circles under his eyes and a massive underground zit emerging on his forehead. “And you know it.”

“Well, every situation is different,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “And this one is way, waaay too messy and complicated and fraught with dangers and pitfalls. If I got just one veto in your life, this would be it.”

I picture Leslie’s uppity little nose, then ask if I get a veto in his life, too.

“And you know what the biggest problem here is?” he asks, ignoring my question. “In a sea of really big problems?”

“What?” I ask at my own peril.

“Dude likes you.”

I stare at him, confused, and he clarifies. “Pete.”

“I know who ‘dude’ is,” I say. “But I don’t get your point. Of course he likes me. He wouldn’t do this for me if he didn’t like me.”

Gabe shakes his head. “No. He likes you. As more than a friend. As more than a ‘hey, let me loan you some sperm.’ He wants to sleep with you. Date you. Maybe marry you.”

“You’re nuts!” I say, laughing and throwing a pillow at his face. “No, he does not.”

He lofts the pillow into the air, and we both watch as it falls neatly in place. “I’m a guy,” he says with calm certainty. “I can tell. I know. And I promise you—this would be an absolute fucking disaster. As in…the biggest disaster you’ve ever put in motion. And that’s saying a lot.”

His face falls as soon as the words are out. “You know what I mean,” he says, looking guilty.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling crushed, knowing that we both know that there will always be a far worse and much darker disaster in my past.