He’s a Stanford graduate, played soccer in college, speaks French, has surfed competitively, and is—this closed the deal for me—six-foot-one. Plus, he had posted the most adorable pictures of himself as a five-year-old playing on the beach with his mom.

I don’t know his name or occupation. I don’t know what he looks like as an adult, and I never will.

That’s the father of my child. That’s who I chose. It wasn’t the easiest decision, but it was also an incredibly easy decision, if that makes sense.

By the time I went to the sperm bank late last year, it was the only decision, and it’s a choice I’ve felt good about since I picked donor 2368 and was knocked up a month later.

I’m thirty-one, and ten years of dating post-college have resulted in a long and winding trail of broken promises, short-lived hope, and a whole lot of time I’ll never get back. I have nothing to show for the countless “what do you do, what’s your favorite movie, what do you like to do on weekends, kill me now if I haven’t already died of boredom” conversations.

I’ve had a few boyfriends and tangoed close to serious relationships a couple of times, but none that felt ring-worthy. Mostly, I dated a lot of duds, a lot of liars, and a lot of weirdos, and I don’t mean “weirdo” in the good sense. I mean weirdo in the still-likes-to-play-with-teddy-bears sense.

I have a profitable and growing business with expansion plans in the works, a mostly supportive family, and a whole lot of love to give a child. That’s why I went the do-it-yourself route, and that’s also why I’m scoping out a new apartment. One that’s a little bigger than the one-bedroom Alan, Gloria, and I call home.

I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder as I chat with Genevieve a few days later. She’s the woman on the co-op board of the place I’m trying to buy on Ninety-Second Street. The apartment is being vacated in three months, which is great timing for me, and though I’m searching for other places too, this is my top choice.

“Yes, Ms. Sterling. We’re currently reviewing your application for the two-bedroom, and we expect to present it to the full co-op board shortly,” she says, cool and emotionless.

I pet Alan’s fantastically furry head to calm me down. This Maine coon is the shiz. He’s seriously so beautiful with his chocolate-brown fur and bottlebrush tail that I wish I could just take photos of him all day for a pretty-boy-cat Instagram channel. But then I’d be the weirdo in the bad sense.

“Do you know when they’ll meet?” I ask in a cheery voice to mask my worry—I want this new place since it’s perfect for my personal life expansion plans. It’s a family-friendly building, with lots of little kids, and the board knows I’m pregnant. No point hiding that fact from them. But sealing the deal with a co-op board is harder than winning a free, all-expenses-paid trip to Madagascar, and believe me, I’ve tried every single time an airline offers one.

“Soon,” Genevieve answers.

“Thank you. I look forward to hearing back.”

I end the call and scratch Alan’s ears. “It’ll all work out, right?”

He lifts his head higher, encouraging me to rub his chin. “Of course they’ll like you. The question is whether they like me.”

He purrs, because right this moment he digs me. But he’s a cat, so he’s capricious. He might snub me later. “Why are you so lovey right now? Is Gloria ignoring you?”

He doesn’t answer, but a quick scan says his fellow rescue cat, also a majestic Maine coon, is sleeping under the couch. That’s par for the course. She likes to avoid him during the day. He goes full alpha then, taking her food, chasing her, and starting fights, but at night, he curls up with her. It’s honestly the worst relationship model I’ve ever seen. “And on that note, wish me well.”

He flicks his tail and looks the other way.

I shoulder my purse and steel myself for a visit with The Mom. She texted that she had a gift for me and asked if I could stop by after closing time. I take a deep, fortifying breath and prepare to head into her lair.

* * *

Andrea Sterling gives me a you’ve-disappointed-me-but-I-still-love-you look. It’s the kind of look that only a mother can give. It says I’m happy for you, but I’m also unhappy with you.

“I still don’t understand the urgency,” she says with a sigh as she straightens designer clothes on a rack in the Madison Avenue boutique she’s owned for thirty-five years.

“Not sure if you’re aware, but I’m not getting younger. Also, I know what I want.” This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. It’s not as if I dropped the news on her today that I’m—gasp—with child. I informed her before I made my choice.

“I can’t help but worry about how difficult it will be on your own. I was lucky raising you and your brother. Your father was by my side, and he’s been wonderful and devoted the entire time. I raised you and William with such a great example of a father figure, and your child will have none,” she says, briskly marching to a rack of cashmere twin-set sweaters with trendy black buttons. With remarkable efficiency, she sorts and aligns them. “And that’s difficult, to say the least.”

“Life is tough. College was tough, but I did just fine there too.”

“Of course. You were top of your class at a prestigious school, which is why I don’t understand why it’s so hard to find a man.”

Right. Because Ivy League girls don’t use sperm banks. They find Ivy League men, with homes in Connecticut and country club memberships. “Ever tried dating these days, Mom?”

She arches a brow. “You know that I certainly have not.”

“Let me give you the headline version. It’s changed a teeny bit since, oh, say, forty years ago when Dad courted you.”

She tuts, smoothing a hand over the perfectly styled slacks that match her impeccably coiffed black hair. “How hard can it possibly be out there? You have so many more options than we had. You have Tinder and Grindr and Prancer and Dancer.”

I laugh as I answer, “Grindr is for men, Mom. You know that?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You know what I mean.”

“Also, most of those are hookup apps. It’s hard to find a soul mate on Tinder, and I presume you want me to find a soul mate rather than a screw buddy?”

“Shh.” No one’s here, but she abhors curse words, even their euphemistic cousins. “Of course I don’t want you to find a . . . buddy. But with all the dating options, it simply must be easier.”

“It’s actually more challenging. Sites have whittled down dating to a list of physical attributes and personality traits.”

“But isn’t that what choosing a baby through a sperm bank has done?” she asks, gesturing to my belly.

“Yes. But . . .” I sputter because I hate it when she sounds right. Worse, I hate that I’m still seeking her approval on this when it’s a done deal. But I am, so I take a breath, searching for the right answer. “It’s different because the men who donate are vetted. They are who they say they are. Online, they aren’t. I’ve gone on dates with men who say they’re thirty-five and turn out to be fifty. I’ve dated men who say they’re vice presidents of banks, and it turns out they work at a check-cashing joint. Then you have men who say they live in their own apartment, but it’s really the extra room in their parents’ house.”

Mom cringes. “I’m so glad William doesn’t live at home anymore.”

“I’m sure he is too,” I say, following her to the front counter. “And meeting men in person isn’t much better. No one looks up from their phone anymore. It’s nearly impossible to have a conversation.”

She sighs, reaching into her purse for a lipstick and slicking her Chanel Rouge Allure over her lips, the signature color she’s worn her entire life. She sets it down, strides over to me, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Roxy, I love you, but I think you rushed into this. Look at William. He and Kendall took their time.”

I clench my teeth. Breathe in, breathe out. “This has been ten years coming. And how can you compare me to them? They met freshman year of college. I’m not going to have his life—thirty-four, home on the Upper West Side overlooking the park, gorgeous wife who PTAs six ways to Sunday and raises two perfect children. You need to stop comparing our situations.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not fair to say I’m comparing you.”

“It’s not fair that you keep grilling me.”

She drops her hands. “I do it out of love. I’m a mother. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll be grilling my baby on why he or she isn’t eating applesauce or mashed carrots.”

She laughs softly, then tries one more time. “What if you find someone while in your condition? What if you meet the perfect man right now? You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m off the market. I’m not about to stumble across Mr. Right while pregnant with 2368’s baby. Also, let me assure you of one fact of the dating universe—men in Manhattan aren’t interested in dating pregnant women.”

“We probably do agree on that,” she says with a wry smile then comes in for a hug. “I love you. I only want what’s best for you.”

When we separate, she beckons me to the back of the store. “Come along. I have a few wonderful items for you.”

The woman loved dressing me when I was a kid. She loves it still. She hands me an emerald-green A-line and tells me to try it on. It lands softly at my knees, and my first thought is it’s perfect for the reunion next weekend.

I don’t tell her that though. Because she’ll think it’s a date, and it’s most definitely not.

It’s a mutually agreed upon protection plan.

Even though Miles was flirtier than usual with those outfit suggestions. But he’s a man with a naughty mind, and I don’t honestly mind that.

Of course, it certainly doesn’t hurt that he’s so easy on the eyes, with his casual brand of cool. He sure looks the part of a rocker in his well-worn jeans, Converse sneakers, and soft T-shirts that do me the solid of keeping his toned, muscular arms on display—thank you, T-shirts. Add in the dark-blond hair that’s always sticking up a little bit on top, the strong jaw and square chin, and those baby blues . . .

I sigh softly.

Plus, let’s not forget that he’s funny, sharp, and so damn good with his son. My heart springs into action, doing a two-step in my chest.

What the heck?

With narrowed eyes, I glance at my sternum, almost as if I can tell that organ to settle down. There’s no need to get excited that the person who wants me as his plus-one is a looker. Even if I were on the market, hawking my feminine wares to the highest bidder, I can’t imagine Miles would raise his hand. He can pick from millions of women who haven’t rented out space in their bodies for nine months.

Plus, there’s William and his friendship and business relationship with Miles. Another good reason Miles and I will never be more than friends with bodyguard benefits.

“The dress is perfect,” I tell my mother.

It’s perfect for the plus-one needs of a friend.

The trouble is, since he is a friend, I keep thinking I need to tell him I’m pregnant. I don’t know why—I’m only going as his bodyguard, and it’s a detail that hardly needs to be shared till I’m truly ready.

Like, in the next trimester.

But even so, as I text him that night, telling him I’m looking forward to next Saturday, this nagging voice in the back of my head says tell him, tell him.

Instead of listening to it, I send Mackenzie a Words with Friends request and get lost in the game, rather than worry about what details should or shouldn’t be shared with a totally platonic friend.