chapter twenty-one

JOSIE

The Wednesday morning following my first appointment with Susan Lazarus, and three days before I turn thirty-eight, Gabe walks into the kitchen with an extreme case of bed head.

“Nice hair,” I say.

He runs his hand through it and thanks me.

“Why are you up?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It’s only six-forty, about five minutes before I have to walk out the door, but a good hour before Gabe normally hits his snooze button for the first time.

“I wanted to catch you before you left,” he says, yawning as he opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a jug of grapefruit juice, gives it a shake, then pours some into a glass. “Your birthday’s coming up.”

“I thought you forgot,” I say.

“I did until this morning,” he confesses without a trace of remorse. “Why didn’t you remind me like you usually do?”

I put my peanut-butter toast down on a paper towel, wipe my fingers on the edge of it, and say, “I’m trying to be less self-involved as I approach motherhood.”

“And how’s that going for you?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s not easy,” I say. “I was starting to feel like Samantha Baker.”

“Who?” he asks, which surprises me; normally he nails movie trivia.

“C’mon. Molly Ringwald? Sixteen Candles? Remember how everyone forgot her birthday?”

“Facebook wouldn’t let that happen to you.”

“You’re not on Facebook.”

“But I’m sure Pete is.” He gives me a coy look, clearly testing me.

“Good point,” I say.

“So do you have plans with him?”

“No. I don’t have any plans,” I say, making a big show of taking my folic-acid-filled vitamin with a long swallow of now-room-temperature green tea.

“Well, what do you wanna do?” he asks.

I think for a second and say, “I want to go out and get really drunk.”

“Spoken like a mother.”

“It’ll be my last hurrah. Hopefully my last birthday without a child…Will you make a reservation somewhere fun?”

“Can’t Sydney handle that?”

“Gabe,” I whine. “She’s not my best friend. You are.”

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “But can I get some guidance? Where do you want to go and who do you want to invite?”

“I’m sure you’ll make the right decisions,” I say. Then, in case that’s not enough pressure, I add, “You’re the one person who never lets me down.”

“Okay,” he says. “Just send me Donor Boy’s number. I assume you want him there?”

“Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”

“How’s his sperm count doing, anyway?”

“Well, let’s see. He switched from briefs to boxers. He gave up cycling. And he’s avoiding the sauna and hot tub. The boys function best at ninety-four to ninety-six degrees,” I say, gathering up my things.

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

I am kidding, but I give him a shrug, enjoying the rare role reversal. Usually I’m the gullible, confused one. Gabe mumbles something under his breath about me being insane as I head out the door, feeling inexplicably triumphant.

ODDLY ENOUGH, DR. Lazarus leaves me a message later that morning, saying that she got my test results and would like for me to call her back at my convenience. I listen to it twice, and although her voice is perfectly neutral, my heart fills with dread and despair. I feel certain that she’s going to give me disastrous news, and can barely keep it together during my ensuing science lesson on the differences between solids, liquids, and gases. The second the school day ends, I call her back, launching right in with “Just give it to me straight. I can’t have a baby, can I? I need to start looking into adoption?”

She pauses for a few horrifying seconds, then laughs and says, “Not at all, Josie. It’s not that dire….”

“Not that dire?” I say.

“It’s not dire at all.”

I blink back tears of relief as she calmly continues. “You’re fine. Just fine. And very healthy.”

“So I can have a baby?”

“Yes. You should be able to have a baby…but your ovarian reserve result, which measures the quantity and quality of your eggs and is a major indicator of fertility, is a bit on the low side for your age.”

“So…I’m more like forty than thirty-eight?”

“Something like that,” she says, with what I can tell is a smile. “It’s nothing to panic about…but at the same time, if this is something you’re really certain about, I don’t think you should wait for very long.”

“Like, how long do I have?” I say.

“It’s not that scientific,” she says. “But if I were you?…”

“Yes?” I say, putting all my faith in her reply. “If you were in my shoes…what would you do?”

“I would start trying immediately,” she says. “As soon as you make your donor decision.”

“Okay,” I tell her, instantly picturing Pete. “I will.”

THAT NIGHT, JUST after I’ve given Gabe the update on my ovarian reserve, Pete calls to chat. Although we’ve been talking on the phone fairly regularly, there’s still a little nervous energy when we do. Both of us are working to be witty, as is often the case with new friends, regardless of gender and whether one is considering donating his sperm to the other. About ten minutes into our conversation, he mentions that Gabe called him about going out on Saturday night.

“Oh, yeah…I know it’s last minute. But thirty-eight isn’t a birthday to get too excited about….” I say, thinking that that’s especially true when your eggs are more like forty. “No worries if you have plans…” I try to sound more nonchalant than I feel.

“I’m in,” he quickly says.

I smile and tell him good, I’m glad to hear it.

“I’ve been thinking about what to get you,” he says.

“Oh, you don’t have to get me anything. Your presence is present enough,” I joke. Incidentally, Meredith actually included that line on Harper’s last birthday invitation—which I thought was a little bit pretentious. I mean, puh-lease, just let people get your kid a twenty-dollar gift, already.

“Oh, is it?” Pete asks.

“That…and your sperm,” I add with a laugh.

“Just tell me when and where to make the deposit,” he says.

I know it’s only banter, but I seize the opportunity to tell him about my doctor’s appointment last week. “They call it prenatal consultation,” I say. “It was interesting. I really, really liked the doctor—Susan Lazarus. She was very nice, very smart. Gabe liked her, too, and he’s harder to please….” I bite my lip to halt the babbling, deciding not to tell him about my test results.

“Cool. So are you thinking of using Gabe now?” Pete asks. “For your donor?”

“Oh, God, no. Not at all. Never. He just went for moral support.” I take a deep breath, then add, “I told Dr. Lazarus about you, actually.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” he says, sounding flattered.

“Yeah. I told her that I had an excellent prospect….” My voice trails off, as I wonder how I’m ever going to take this conversation to the next level.

“And?” he asks.

“And…she…listened,” I say with a nervous laugh. “So would you want to meet her?”

“Sure,” he says, without a second of hesitation. “When?”

“At my next appointment?” I say, now sweating. I pick up the brochure that Dr. Lazarus gave me and start fanning myself with it.

“Sure,” he says again. “So would it be like a preliminary interview? Or more like a look-at-porn-and-ejaculate-into-a-vial kind of deal?”

“C’mon!” I say, pretending to be offended. “That’s disgusting.”

“Sorry. But isn’t that how it works?”

“I guess,” I say. “But can I make one request?”

“Go ahead. Though something tells me that it won’t be your last.”

“I really don’t want to know if porn is part of my journey to motherhood,” I say, laughing.

“Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll light some candles and bring some roses and think romantic thoughts instead.”

I smile and tell him that’s a much better visual. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Oh, and Josie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re welcome to join me….” he says jokingly.

“Ha-ha,” I say, pretending that my heart didn’t just skip a beat.

ON SATURDAY MORNING, my actual birthday, I wake up in a good mood and feel even happier when Gabe comes into my room and informs me that we have a reservation at The Optimist at eight.

“Perfect!” I say, as I start to make my bed. “Who all’s coming?”

Gabe gives me a cagey look and says, “I thought you wanted to be surprised?”

“I never said that. I said I wanted you to handle the details,” I say.

“Well, I did handle them.”

“And?”

He sits backward on my desk chair, Fonzie-style, and says, “It’s me, you, Leslie, Sydney, Meredith, Shawna, and Donor Boy.”

“Interesting,” I say, freezing in mid–pillow fluff.

“Okay,” Gabe says with a sigh. “What’s your beef?”

I have several beefs, Leslie among them, but simply say, “Meredith’s coming?”

“Yeah. She texted me yesterday and asked,” he says. “I had to include her.”

“What about Nolan?”

Gabe shakes his head and says he can’t make it.

“Why not?” I ask, feeling disappointed that he can’t be their family representative and also a little worried that he might be mad at me, too—that my sister managed to rile him up and somehow turn him against me. I remind myself that this hasn’t happened to date, so I’m probably okay now.

“Meredith didn’t say,” Gabe replies.

“What about Stacey, Kendra, and Leigh?” I ask, referring to my three closest college friends, none of whom Gabe particularly likes. “Did you invite them?”

He pauses, then confesses. “You left it up to me, so I might have exercised a little bit of discretion….”

I cross my arms and whine his name.

Gabe isn’t having it. “Look. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a table for seven people at The Optimist on three days’ notice? Can you just focus on the positive here?”

“It’s not so hard when you’ve had relations with the head bartender,” I say.

Gabe gives me a sheepish look. “That was a long time ago.”

“That you had sex with her or that she sent you a naked selfie?” I ask, remembering how I accidentally glimpsed a rather spectacular full-frontal nude of her on his phone.

“Both,” he says, cracking his knuckles.

“But that is how you scored a last-minute reservation,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

I roll my eyes and ask if Leslie knows about her.

“Yes, Leslie knows I’m friends with a bartender at The Optimist.”

“No, Gabe. We are friends. That was something else altogether. But whatever,” I say, then switch gears. “So Shawna’s coming?”

“Yup. Meredith’s idea. She gave me her number.”

“Huh,” I say, a little surprised. Even though Shawna and I both made an effort to repair our friendship after Daniel died, it has been several years since she joined one of my birthday outings.

“When’s the last time you talked to her?” he asks.

“It’s been a few months…and I don’t think I’ve seen her since Oliver was born.”

“I figured it had been a while….She asked if you were seeing anyone.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her no….”

“Did you tell her anything about Pete?”

“No,” he says. “How do you plan on introducing everyone to him, anyway?”

“Like this,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect. “Pete, meet Meredith, Sydney, and Shawna. Ladies, meet my sperm donor.”

Gabe shakes his head, muttering that I have serious issues, as he stands and walks toward the doorway.

I clear my throat and say, “Um? Did you forget something?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Samantha.”

“Thanks, Duckie,” I say with a grin.

“Duckie’s in Pretty in Pink,” he says, stepping into the hallway, then turning toward the stairs. “Get your Brat Pack flicks straight.”

“Well, then, thanks, Long Duk Dong!” I shout after him.

THAT EVENING, GABE and I take an Uber to The Optimist well ahead of our reservation. We sit at the bar, eating oysters and drinking champagne, as we wait for the others to arrive, getting progressively more buzzed. Leslie shows up first, upstaging me in a clingy black dress with a plunging neckline, which with her flat chest creates a kind of Kate Moss effect. I chalk the wardrobe choice up to jealousy over the bartender, and tell myself to give her a chance, as Gabe stands, kisses her cheek, and offers his stool. She refuses it, saying she’s fine standing, then turns to wish me a happy birthday. “Have you had a good day?” she asks, giving me a hesitant hug.

I nod and say I have, that I went shopping, then got a manicure. I hold up my fire-engine-red nails, which she promptly compliments, although she doesn’t seem like the red-nail type. She puts her clutch on the bar, covertly but furtively glancing behind it.

“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “The ho’s off tonight.”

To Leslie’s credit, she doesn’t play dumb, but laughs and says, “Oh, good!”

“Besides, you’re way prettier,” I say—which is actually true.

“You totally are,” Gabe says, nodding earnestly.

Leslie laughs again and says, “You have to say that.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Gabe’s painfully honest.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.

I ignore his question and look at Leslie. “Just don’t ever ask him if something makes you look fat. Not that you could ever look fat. But still.”

“Hold the phone, birthday girl. I have never told you you look fat. Not one time,” Gabe says, then shifts his gaze to Leslie. “She’s always asking whether I can tell she’s gained weight….Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can. But I’ve never called her fat.”

“All right. Fair enough,” I acquiesce, as Leslie gushes about how refreshing it is to be with an honest man. I nod in agreement, deciding that they really are a pretty cute couple, though they could almost pass for brother and sister.

“You two look sort of related,” I blurt out.

Gabe shrugs, throws his arm around Leslie, and says, “Yeah. Well, what’s sexier than dating yourself?”

The bartender comes by and I order an Old Salty Dog, a vodka and grapefruit cocktail. I warn Leslie that they go down like water, as she orders one, too.

By the time Sydney, Shawna, and Pete walk in, pretty much all at the same time, I can hear myself starting to slur my words a tiny bit as I make the requisite introductions. A moment later, just after Gabe hands me his glass of water and discreetly suggests that I “slow down,” the hostess finds us at the bar and leads us to our table. I slide into the middle of the banquette. Sydney and Pete end up on either side of me; Gabe, Leslie, and Shawna across from us—which leaves the awkward seventh chair on the end for Meredith, should she ever decide to show.

“So happy you all came tonight!” I announce, overcome with a warm feeling of affection for everyone at the table. I tack on a special postscript for Shawna. “Thanks for making the effort…I know it’s hard when you have a baby…and I really appreciate it. Please thank Lars for me, too,” I say, knowing that her husband is home with their son.

“It’s our pleasure,” she says, reaching across the table for my hand. She gives it a little squeeze, followed by a smile that reminds me of the way things used to be between us—like she’s about to share a very juicy tidbit of gossip. Instead, she turns her gaze to Pete, staring at him through funky dark-rimmed glasses.

“So, how did you and Josie meet?” she asks. “Are you a teacher, too?”

Pete shoots me a fleeting glance, clearly looking for guidance, but when I provide him none, he simply says, “Um, no. I’m a physical therapist, actually.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “Do you have a specialty?”

“Sports and orthopedics,” he says.

“He works with a few Braves players,” I brag.

She looks impressed as he modestly adds, “Ex-Braves.”

As we all begin to peruse our menus, I decide to blurt out my news. “So Pete’s also going to be my sperm donor,” I announce.

Sydney claps and lets out a jubilant yelp. Gabe rolls his eyes and shakes his head. And Shawna, after a glance at Pete confirming that I’m not joking, begins to fire questions at me. Pete and I answer together, as he repeats what he’s said more than once. That he wants to help me—and do something good with his life. That he thinks he has pretty good genes. That he would love to have a relationship of some kind with my kid—but that he will respect my decision regarding his involvement. Shawna listens intently, without a visible trace of judgment or condescension, although at one point, as she murmurs how “absolutely fantastic” it all is, I wonder if she might be overcompensating a little. At the very least, I bet she’s relieved that she’s not in my shoes. Regardless, I appreciate her supportive reaction, and tell her as much, openly contrasting it to Meredith’s. As Gabe chimes in, Sydney jabs me with her elbow and announces, “Shh. She’s coming.”

Sure enough, I look up and see my sister marching toward the table, wearing a big scowl and the most boring outfit imaginable—dark jeans, a plain black tank, and her standard Manolo pumps, which would be okay except she gets them in a too-short-heel height (the only thing worse, the dreaded kitten heel). Her only accessories are stud earrings, her wedding ring, and a watch. Yawn.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says when she gets to the table. She hands me a gift bag stuffed with tissue paper and says happy birthday. She then crouches slightly to give me a stiff, awkward hug, patting my shoulders twice.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the bag, then pointing to her chair. “You’re over there.”

She takes a step in that direction, then stops, looks at Pete, and introduces herself. “I’m Meredith. Josie’s sister,” she says, formally extending her hand.

“Hi, I’m Pete,” he says, shaking it.

“Hi, Pete. I think I heard about your heroic efforts at Bistro Niko.” She takes her seat, looking pleased with herself for having this nugget of information, probably because she knows I’m wondering how she heard it.

Pete laughs modestly and says he’d hardly call a “slap on the back heroic.”

“Certainly not like donating sperm.” Sydney tees me up with a big grin, practically rubbing her hands together.

“Oh, yes…I was just telling Shawna that Pete plans to donate his sperm to me,” I say, looking straight at Meredith.

My sister slides her chair in closer to the table and flashes a prim smile, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, Mom told me about your donor. I didn’t realize you were the same Pete,” she says breezily, then looks up at our waiter, who has returned to take our drink orders, and asks for a Coke Zero.

“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask, not trying to hide my annoyance.

She shakes her head and says, “Unfortunately, no. I’m not drinking tonight. We have early church tomorrow. Harper’s singing in the cherub choir.”

Of course any announcement containing the words church and cherub when you’re out to dinner has a fun-sponging effect, and I’m forced to go in the opposite direction, instructing our waiter that we’d love to kick things off with a round of tequila shots.

He smiles, nods, and glances around the table. “So, seven shots?”

“No. Six,” Meredith quickly corrects him.

“No. Seven,” I say. “I’ll take hers.”

DESPITE MEREDITH’S BEST buzz-kill efforts, my birthday dinner is a blast. I can tell Shawna and Sydney both really like Pete, and even Gabe seems to put aside our reproductive controversy for the evening. He is loose and happy, cracking jokes and telling stories, which is not his usual style. At one point, Sydney makes this observation, and jokingly asks Gabe if Leslie deserves the credit for his “improved mood.”

He nods with a little smile and says, “Yeah. Maybe so.”

“Totally so,” I say, deciding to throw Leslie a bone. I turn to her and add, “You’re good for him.”

She smiles, reaches for his hand, and says, “You think so?”

“Yes,” I say. “But here’s the real test. Can you get him to go to Johnny’s Hideaway tonight?”

Sydney laughs, knowing of my secret agenda to end up at one of my favorite, and Gabe’s least favorite, venues in town.

“Hellll, no,” he says. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Who’s Johnny?” Pete asks.

“You don’t know Johnny’s Hideaway?” I say. “And you’ve lived in Atlanta for how long?”

“Four years,” he says. “And no. Never heard of it.”

“Me neither,” Leslie says.

“You’re missing absolutely nothing,” Gabe informs them.

“Is it a bar?” Pete asks.

“It’s a nightclub,” I say. “And an Atlanta institution.”

“Please,” Gabe says. “It’s a creepy midlife-crisis meat market where you go to listen to ABBA and Neil Diamond.”

“I like Neil Diamond,” Pete says.

I flash Gabe a jubilant smile as he shakes his head at Pete. “You might like Neil Diamond when you’re driving around in your car…but a bar full of cougars belting out ‘Sweet Caroline’ while dirty old men look on with cigars under a disco ball? Not a pretty sight.”

Pete laughs and says, “That sounds like fun, actually.”

Gabe looks at him for a beat, then turns to me and asks in his dry monotone, “And you still want to use his sperm?”

Everyone laughs, except Meredith, who has already asked our waiter for the bill and is glancing impatiently in his direction.

“It’s very fun,” I say. “In a disco throwback-to-the-seventies kind of way.”

“Half the people in there are seventy,” Gabe says. “And one hundred percent of them are cheesy.”

“Not true,” I say, insisting that it’s become a mixed crowd, trendy and cheesy living in harmony.

Meredith pulls her AmEx out of her wallet as she announces, “I’m with Gabe. Johnny’s Hideaway is vile.”

Gabe snaps and points at her and says, “Finally. We agree on something.”

“Well, you two can just head on home. Syd and I are going to Johnny’s,” I say, then ask Shawna, Leslie, and Pete if they want to join us.

“Yep. I’m in,” Shawna says, without hesitating, reminding me of what I used to love so much about her.

“Me, too,” Pete says. “I wanna see this place.”

I smile, then turn to Leslie, expecting her to decline. Instead she nods, then bursts into the first lines of “Sweet Caroline.” Syd and I continue in unison.

“Oh, good grief,” Gabe says.

“C’mon. Please come?” I beg him. “For me?”

“Nope. I don’t do Johnny’s,” Gabe announces in the same tone that someone might say I don’t do drugs. Then he turns to Pete and says, “My man, you’re on your own tonight.”

JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, Shawna, Sydney, Leslie, Pete, and I join the line outside Johnny’s—which is housed in a nondescript building at the end of a retail strip on Roswell Road. In front of us is a loud, cackling pack of fifty-something women all wearing tight animal prints. After Sydney strikes up a conversation with them, we discover that they are attending a cougar-themed bachelorette party. The bride’s sash announces that this will be her LAST NIGHT ON THE PROWL.

“When’s the big day?” I ask her.

“Next Saturday,” she replies, adjusting her headband, which is actually a leopard-print thong. “Here’s hoping third time’s the charm!”

We all laugh and wish her good luck, then pay the suit-clad doorman our five-dollar cover, making our way into the dimly lit, black and red lounge, pulsing to the rhythm of “Little Red Corvette.” A large disco ball spins, casting glittering light onto the parquet dance floor.

“Wow. This place is awesome,” Pete says, glancing at the walls, adorned with photos of celebrities from Frank Sinatra to Arnold Palmer to Britney Spears to George Clooney (who apparently came by the club one night, as he is posing with our same doorman).

“Told you,” I proudly reply.

Leslie, his fellow Johnny’s virgin, nods in agreement, murmuring that Gabe’s really missing out, as I tell her for about the third time how impressed I am that she came without him. “It’s just so cool of you,” I gush, then admit that I like her more now than I thought I did at first—the sort of confessionary thing you blurt out when you’re drinking.

“Well, thanks,” she says. “Gabe told me how important you are to him…so…”

“Ah, so you’re just being strategic? Like the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But for Gabe, it’s Josie?” Sydney asks her.

Leslie laughs and says, “Honestly, I just wanted to see this place.”

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” I say.

“And more,” she says as we sail through a cloud of cigar smoke and sidle up to the bar lined with red upholstered swivel chairs.

“What do you girls want?” Pete asks, pushing a credit card across the bar. “Should we go with a retro cocktail? Harvey Wallbangers? Manhattans? Tequila sunrises?”

I say, “You know what? I’ll take a whiskey sour.”

Shawna makes a face and says, “I forgot how we used to drink those! Make it two.”

Syd and Leslie say they’ll stick with red wine—and Pete orders a Miller Lite, starting a tab despite Shawna’s insistence that he’s only getting the first round. Moments later, drinks in hand, we squeeze onto the packed but demographically diverse dance floor—from hot sorority girls to Virginia Slims–smoking divorcées to businessmen in crumpled suits. As the DJ spins hits from the fifties through the nineties, we dance in a sweaty cluster, occasionally merging with gyrating strangers or posing for provocative group selfies. At one point, my left breast even makes an accidental cameo.

A few rounds later, as Pete and I pair off and slow-dance to Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” I feel a surge of happiness. Although I recognize that it’s probably just an alcohol-and-eighties-music-induced euphoria, I wonder if it might be a little more than that. If maybe it might actually have something to do with Pete.

“I’m so happy we met,” I say, smiling up at him, my arms around his waist.

“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me. “No matter what happens with us.”

“Meaning what?” I ask. “Are you backing out…?”

“Nope,” he says, expertly dipping me. “I just meant regardless of what happens tonight.”

I laugh and say, “Wait. Are you hitting on me?”

“Uh-huh. I think I am,” Pete says, putting his hand on my ass. “But at Johnny’s, it’s called making a pass….Can you dig it?”

“Oh, I can dig it,” I say, racking my brain for seventies slang. “You’re such a Casanova.”

He gives me his cheesiest wink, then does a groovy spinning dance move. “Don’t you know it, girl.”

I beam up at him, then say, “You know what?”

“What’s that?”

“I was just thinking that you’re hot. Really hot…but it’s probably just the booze talkin’.”

“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart, baby,” he says, pulling me closer.

“Actually,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the booze. I think it’s that your buzz cut is finally growing out.”

“Jerk,” he says, pretending to be offended.

“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart,” I remind him, staring at the cleft in his chin. “But seriously. You really do look good tonight.”

“Good enough to kiss me?” he asks as the DJ starts playing “Jessie’s Girl,” one of my all-time favorites.

“Maybe,” I say, giving him a coy smile.

“Well?” he says. “What’s it gonna be?”

As Springfield bursts into his refrain, I decide to go for it. I stand on my tiptoes, lean up, and kiss him for just long enough to know that I like it.

“Wow,” he says, as we separate, his eyes still closed. “That was pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice?” I say.

“Very nice,” he says, then leans down and kisses me again. Our lips part.

“Get a room!” I hear Shawna shouting behind us, bringing back college memories.

I pull away from Pete, quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and say to Shawna, “You didn’t see that.”

“Did, too,” she says, then points at Leslie and Syd. “And so did they.”

“It was nothing,” I announce to the group. “Just a little birthday kiss. Right, Pete?”

Pete nods in earnest agreement. “Yep. That’s all it was.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s bluffing or telling the truth. I decide it’s likely the latter, feeling a dash of disappointment. After all, it’s very difficult to let go of the lifelong dream of finding love—and at the very least it would be nice to feel wanted. But then I remind myself of the greater picture, a bigger dream. I tell myself not to let one stupid kiss muddy the waters. That one day, it will just be a cute story to share with my daughter—or son—about my thirty-eighth birthday. How one night, shortly before my insemination, I kissed her biological father on the dance floor of Johnny’s Hideaway.

ABOUT AN HOUR later, after we shut the place down (no easy feat), and Sydney drops me off in her Uber car, I walk in the house, ravenously hungry, heading straight for the kitchen. As I open the refrigerator, scouring for leftovers, I hear footsteps behind me and jump, dropping a Chinese take-out box that spills all over the floor.

“Hey,” I hear Gabe say.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, bending down to pick up the container and a big clump of white rice. “What are you doing creeping around like that?”

“Um. I live here?” Gabe says.

“Well, still,” I say, kicking off my heels, knowing that my feet aren’t going to recover for days. “What are you doing up?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m fuckin’ starving,” I say, swearing more than usual, as I always do after a few drinks. “Do we have anything other than rice?”

“There should be some beef and broccoli in there, too,” he says.

I look again and spot another white container behind Gabe’s carton of whole milk. “There it is,” I say, grabbing it and putting it on the counter. Then I pull a fork out of the utensil drawer, deciding that it’s not worth the effort to get a plate or put anything in the microwave. Instead, I dive straight in.

“Nasty,” Gabe says under his breath, both because he never eats cold leftovers and because he thinks all food, even that which is consumed at three in the morning, should be put on a plate and eaten with a little civility. His words.

“Whatever,” I say. “You’re nasty.”

“No, you are,” he says. “And you smell like an ashtray.”

He gives me a knowing look, leading his witness, as always. When I don’t respond, he adds, “I heard you were smoking cigars tonight.”

“Paul Jolly was there. You know—our old neighbor? I took, like, one puff of his cigar. Who’s your informant?”

“I talked to Leslie.”

“She called you already?” I say, thinking that she left only about twenty minutes before the rest of us.

“No. I called her.”

“Failed attempt at a booty call, eh?” I say.

“I never fail at my booty calls,” Gabe says, which is probably close to the truth.

“Well, then, why isn’t she here?” I ask.

“Because I didn’t invite her. I was just starting to worry about where you were….I called you first….Check your phone.”

“It died….I took a lot of videos. I caught Leslie in some hot girl-on-girl action,” I say, thinking of the impressive grinding she and Sydney did to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Granted, it was all initiated by Syd, but still.

“Yeah. Well, I hear you were caught in some girl-on-boy action,” Gabe says. “Makin’ out on the dance floor, huh?”

“Holy fuck, she’s a snitch,” I say, taking another bite of beef.

“Oh, so you wanted to keep it a secret from me?”

“No, it’s not a secret,” I say, with my mouth still full. “But she’s exaggerating.”

“Right,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You know what, Josie?…Johnny’s Hideaway is bad. But making out at Johnny’s Hideaway is on a whole other level.”

“I did not make out at Johnny’s,” I say, scraping up the last bite.

His arms still crossed, he cocks his head to the side. “So you didn’t kiss Pete tonight?”

“Yeah, I kissed him,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But that’s a far cry from making out.”

Gabe gives me a disapproving stare.

“What? Don’t give me that look,” I say, then add, “You know…if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

It is the sort of thing I would never say sober, which begs the question—is it really what I deep down think?

“Jealous of what?” Gabe retorts. “I mean, if you want to choose his mediocre sperm, go right ahead. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’ll be sorry.”

“Mediocre sperm!” I laugh. “Wow. You are jealous. That’s really cute.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says. “I just think it’s a really bad idea to be making out with your sperm donor. If you want to date him, date him, but then put this project on hold.”

“I don’t want to date him. I just want a baby—and some sperm.”

“Okay. Well, then, frankly speaking…I think you could do better than Pete.”

“That’s mean,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy.”

“I know. But in the world of sperm? He’s your top pick? C’mon, Josie…”

“Well, who’s better?” I say, grateful that I switched to water when I did, that I can at least hold my own in the debate. “The vegan runner? Gabe, c’mon, read that essay again. He sounds like a freak. Besides…I just don’t like the idea of using a stranger. I’d rather go with a known quantity.”

He stares at me, nodding, then uncrosses his arms and presses both palms onto the counter. “Okay, well, how about a really known quantity?”

I deposit the beef container into the trash and start in on the rice. He snatches it away from me and throws it in the trash, too.

“Hey!” I say.

“You told me to never let you eat white food late at night. I’m trying to be your friend here….So. Back to the known quantity…What about using a close friend instead of some guy you just met on Match?”

I narrow my eyes, confused. “How close of a friend?” I ask. Surely he can’t be suggesting what he seems to be suggesting.

“Like…I don’t know…a best friend?” he says, averting his eyes, looking distinctly nervous.

“You’re kidding, right?” I say with a laugh.

He meets my gaze and shakes his head, stone serious.

My heart flutters even more than it did on the dance floor when Pete and I kissed. “I thought you didn’t like messy?” I say.

“I don’t,” he says. “I still think you should go with a complete stranger. But if you won’t do that…you should go with someone you can trust. Someone who would always have your back. And your kid’s back.”

“You mean you?” I confirm.

“Yes. I mean me.”

“And what would that make you?” I ask, my mind racing.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Would you be just the donor? Or, like…the father?”

He swallows, then says, “Well. Both, I guess.”

“So more than a donor?”

“Yes,” Gabe says. “More than a donor. More than you’d get with Pete. I’d be the dad, too.”

“And what about us?” I ask, fleetingly wondering if he isn’t about to reveal some sort of crush on me—like Andrew McCarthy in St. Elmo’s Fire.

“What about us?” he asks.

“Well…you’re not suggesting…” My voice trails off as I motion between us, but his face remains blank.

I finish my thought. “You’re not suggesting that we have sex?” I say. “To get pregnant?”

“Oh. God, no,” Gabe says, making a face. “Nothing like that. We’d still use this doctor lady. And we’d be totally status quo on the friendship front….”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “But wouldn’t that be weird?”

Gabe shrugs. “Maybe…but I don’t know…I think it would be more like having Revis together.”

“But Revis is a dog,” I say.

“I know that.”

“And besides, Revis is mine.”

“C’mon, that’s a technicality and you know it. Who walks him more? Who takes him out at night? Who paid that last monster vet bill when he ate that sock?”

“It was your sock,” I say. “That you left out.”

“C’mon, Josie. Whose bed does he sleep in if given the choice?”

“It’s fifty-fifty,” I insist.

“Bullshit. That dog loves me more, and you know it.”

I start to protest, but Gabe is on a roll. “Bottom line, I love Revis as my own. I’d do anything for him. And I’d take him if anything ever happened to you.”

“What if we got into a fight?” I say.

“We do get into fights.”

I shake my head. “No, not like stupid arguments over leaving dirty dishes in the sink,” I say. “A real fight.”

“Don’t be dumb,” he says. “You know that wouldn’t happen.”

“It could.”

“Okay. You’re right. It could. And if it did, we’d be like other divorced couples who share custody. Only we were never married in the first place. We’d just be skipping that part.”

I nod, though I’m having trouble believing what I’m hearing. “What does Leslie say about this?”

“I haven’t discussed this with Leslie.”

“You think she’d be okay with it?”

“I do, actually,” he says, so quickly that it’s clear he’s given it thought. “I mean—here’s the way I look at it. What if I already had a kid? Would she not date me?”

“I have no clue,” I say. “I barely know her. Maybe she wouldn’t.”

“Well, if not, that would make her shallow. And I don’t do shallow. So better to find out now.”

“I don’t necessarily agree with that,” I say. “I’m not sure I’d want to be with a guy who is having a baby with another girl.”

“Well, then you’re shallow,” he says with a smile. “And anyway, I really like Leslie…but she’s not the deal breaker here.”

“Are you sure?” I say. “I thought you might be falling in love.”

“I might be,” he says. “But that’s irrelevant. If we did this—it would be our decision. You and me. Together.”

I stare at him for a dizzying few seconds, trying to process everything. “So are you telling me that you actually want a baby?”

“No,” he says. “I never said that. But I don’t not want a baby. And I want you to have a baby if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not very convincing,” I say.

“I’m not trying to convince you,” he says. “I’m just making an offer. Take it or leave it….”

I give him a hug, welling up a little, whispering that this might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to do for me.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, pulling away with a big yawn. I notice that his eyes stay open, a telltale sign that it’s a fake yawn, and that he’s merely looking for a transition, uncomfortable with my display of emotion. Sure enough, he announces that he’s going back to bed, then turns and abruptly walks out of the kitchen.

“Good night, Gabe,” I call after him. “I fuckin’ love you!”

“Love you, too, potty mouth,” he mumbles on his way up the stairs.