Ryder

“Cupcakes. You need cupcakes.”

The caller sounds intrigued by my statement, but happy, too. I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Cupcakes? Tell me more.”

I lean back in my chair, park my hands behind my head, and give him my best advice. “There’s just something about cupcakes. They make you happy. When you’re tasting cupcakes, you can flirt with your woman, you can get to know her—you can find out what makes her tick and what ticks her off.”

The caller laughs. “Cupcakes are like a universal lubricant, then?”

I tense for a second, worried Cal will freak the fuck out if anything is remotely dirty on the show. Across from me, Jason widens his eyes in concern.

But I’ve learned that dirty isn’t entirely the problem my boss has with my work. It’s the heartless dirty he abhors. He doesn’t mind a sex joke if it’s mingled with a wish for intimacy. “Cupcakes sure do seem to pave the way for good things. I’ve concluded that it’s the frosting, man. Frosting is everything.”

“Awesome. I think I’ll find a cupcake shop for my date tonight.”

Jason shoots me a thumbs-up as we say good-bye to our caller.

It’s just me and the mic now as I close out the show. “But the real frosting is this—it’s listening to the woman. When she wants to talk, you listen. When she opens her heart, you listen. When she tells you her fears, you listen. Make her feel cherished, and that’s how you win a woman, whether with cupcakes, mini golf, geocaching, trapeze, an afternoon hotel hijacking, or a night at the arcade.” For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a fraud when I talk about intimacy and emotions.

That doesn’t mean I want those things in my life. I’m just glad I can do my job again without hating it. I’ve learned through this time with Nicole—maybe because the boundaries are safe and clear-cut—that getting to know someone doesn’t mean giving them your heart to drop into a Cuisinart. Nicole hasn’t chopped and julienned one of my favorite organs.

I suspect that’s because of the nature of our arrangement. The terms and conditions we set in place created a test lab of sorts. A safe zone for dating. In our test lab, we didn’t launch the rocket of romance into space, but we learned it can withstand the pressure of the atmosphere.

When we sign off, Jason offers a palm for high fiving. “Great show. Did I ever tell you I took Lizzie geocaching?”

“Oh yeah?” The geocaching column went viral, and we’ve heard from tons of men and women about their very own treasure hunt dates.

“Best time ever,” he says as we leave the studio. “Followed your column to a T, even the Whispering Arch.”

“How’d that go?”

Jason shrugs sheepishly. “Told her I loved her there.”

“Wow,” I say, smiling. “What did she say?”

“Said she loved me, too. I’m a lucky bastard.” He points at me. “And you’re the master. You know your shit.”

“Glad I could help.”

As Jason turns the other way, Cal marches down the hall, his long legs eating up the carpet. I draw a deep breath like I can protect myself from his ire. He stops and fixes me with an intense stare. “More. Of. That.”

I relax. “Thanks.”

He claps my shoulder. “Keep it up.” He resumes his pace, and finally, the leash he’s had on me loosens.

I turn the corner in the hall, and when I reach my office, I do a double take. A small box is perched on my desk. It’s blue with a white bow on top. I furrow my brow, but then the color registers. Blue like the Katherine’s jewelry store. Why on earth would someone send me a Katherine’s box?

But even as I pose the question, the answer arrives, fully formed in my head. This box can only mean one thing. I fight off that tiny wish in the back of my mind that I’m wrong.

I tug at the ribbon, letting the white fabric fall on my desk, then I park myself in my chair, staring at the box as if it’s a moon rock, an artifact from another planet. Or maybe a relic from another time in my life. Because I suspect that this box marks the end of the best two months I’ve spent with anyone.

I flick my finger against the robin’s egg-blue cardboard, reminding myself that it may be an end, but it’s the beginning of something else. Something Nicole has always wanted. Her heart’s true desire.

That’s all that matters. Not that I might miss her.

I remove the top, fish around in the wrapping paper, and pull out a silver key chain.

This is no dime-store key chain. It’s not a knick knack you’d leave behind in a geocache. It’s silver and real, and I grin wildly as I hold it up, watching the emblem dangle. I let my happiness for her blot out any unexpected, bittersweet emotions.

She’s given me a key chain of a tadpole. It’s engraved. “I am eternally grateful for your gift.”

I swallow past the dry, scratchy feeling in my throat, and let out a quiet whoop of excitement for my girl. I mean, for the woman I knocked up. She’s not my girl. She’s not my woman. She’s not mine.

I pick up the phone and call her. When she answers, she’s like a whole new woman. “It worked!” she shouts.

“So I gathered. That’s fucking awesome.”

“I am so unbelievably happy.”

“You are going to be one hot mama.”

She giggles. “And you are one sexy . . .” She stops herself from saying dad. “Sexy man. Do you want to come join us? I’m with my mom, and we’re having lunch.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

There’s a rustling sound, then another voice, older and confident. “Ryder, I hereby command you to meet us for lunch. I’m becoming a grandmother, and I must thank you in person.”

Her tone brooks no argument.

Fifteen minutes later, I walk into a nearby cafe and scan the tables for Nicole. Her back is to me, and she’s in a booth, seated across from a handsome older woman who looks like what I suspect Nicole will look like in twenty-five years.

I zoom in on Nicole’s mane of red hair—hair I’ve had my hands tangled in, hair I’ve pulled and yanked, hair I’ve stroked when comforting her.

That red hair is her signature. She could have a child with that hair color. Or, I think as I drag my hand through my own hair, with mine. The life in her belly, the size of a chickpea or a fingernail or however those things are measured, already has our DNA—my genes twisted with hers to create the blueprint for another human being.

It’s staggering.

It floors me.

I grab hold of the hostess desk. A young woman with a sleek ponytail asks how many in my party. I don’t answer. My world comes to a standstill. Everything’s a blur. I’m not sure how to speak. How to walk. How to talk. The enormity of what we’ve done slams into me, and this must be what shock feels like.

Like a vibration in your body.

Like your blood slows.

Nicole is going to have a baby, and I’m the father.

But I’m also not the father at all.

Not in the least.

Nicole’s mother spots me and says something to her daughter. The woman I’ve spent so many nights with jerks her gaze around. When she sees me, her eyes dance, even from all the way across the cafe.

She jumps up from the booth.

I snap out of my slow-motion haze as Nicole rushes across the cafe, weaving through the tables. When she reaches me, she ropes her arms around my neck.

“Thank you,” she says, breathlessly. “Thank you so much.”

I bring her closer, hug her tighter. I can feel the happiness radiating off her in waves. It’s a palpable thing. It has its own energy, its own temperature.

When she lets go, she takes my hand and guides me to the table.

“So, this is the man who’s making me a grandmother.” Her mother greets me as if I’m some kind of conquering hero.

I join them, and it’s like I’m me, but I’m also not me. I don’t know how I fit into this scenario. My part is over, like a character in a play who was killed off in the first act.

My role in the story of her life has ended.