Nicole

Ruby is shameless.

The second she lays her big brown eyes on Lorenzo, she wags her tail, drops to the downward dog pose, and begs him to play with her.

The Italian Greyhound rescue pup is above it all. With his snout held high, my mother’s skinny beast proceeds to inspect my apartment, sniffing every corner, nook, and cranny.

“He’s like a Niffler,” I say to my mom, referring to the Harry Potter fantastical creature that sniffed out shiny things. She read the first few books out loud to my brother and me when we were in middle school. Naturally, I picked them up on my own and finished the series in high school and college.

“Perhaps he’s found buried treasure under your couch,” she says, pointing to her dog, who’s now stuffed his whole head underneath the couch.

I remember something that’s gone missing—my ten-speed purple vibrator with the dual-action butterfly.

Uh-oh.

My face flushes beet red, and I call off the dog. “C’mon, boy. There’s nothing under there,” I say as cheerily as possible. What if he locates the missing purple butterfly? My mom is cool, but I do not want her lover-dog turning my missing personal pleasure device into a chew toy.

Lorenzo burrows further. His bottom half sticks out. He is all butt and legs and tail now. Ruby barks, cheering him on. Traitor.

“Maybe he’s finally found your lost diamond.” She winks. “Or a slice of pizza.”

I force out a laugh. Pizza, a precious gem, or a pleasure perpetrator. “Let’s hope it’s the ring.”

Then again, that purple tool was a damn good vibrator, and I miss it fiercely. Would it be such a bad thing if Lorenzo found it?

Honestly, I’m not embarrassed that my mother knows I engage in ménage à moi. She does read my columns and listen to my radio show. “Love, I have to agree,” she’d said after a recent bit on deal-breakers. “I would draw the line, too, on men who want to wear my panties. La Perla is not meant to be shared.”

When Lorenzo emerges, he’s victorious. He brandishes my red and white polka dot umbrella between his teeth and wags his tail proudly. “That’s been missing forever!” I march up to the boy. “Give it to me.”

He obeys and drops the umbrella into my open palm. This is the perfect umbrella—it fits in a purse but can withstand a strong downpour. I suppose all things being equal, I’m grateful he located a device for keeping dry, not getting wetter.

I set the umbrella on my coffee table.

“Ready for Project Closet Metamorphosis?” I ask my mom, who is perfectly coiffed, as always. Her shoulder-length hair is blown straight and pristinely styled. Not an auburn strand is out of place. She wears blue jeans and a light zip-up vest over a long-sleeved shirt. The ever-present Bluetooth dangles on her ear like a wedding band.

She pats the tape measure in her palm. “Let’s see what we can do.”

We head to my bedroom, which adjoins one of the most wonderful closets in all of Manhattan, thanks to my mom. She hunted down this place in the East 80s for me. It was a total steal, and I’m a lucky gal to call it my own. As she surveys my closet, she yanks the metal ribbon and begins measuring.

“You do know I could have done that,” I point out.

She laughs, a throaty sound. “You are many things, my love. But good at measuring is not one of them. Besides, we need to make absolutely sure there’s enough space to turn this into a nursery.”

When she says those words, my heart flutters with hope, even though I’m still in limbo. It’s been fifty-six hours since I presented Ryder with my request. Each passing second is endless, and I’ve become a pathetic clock-watcher, like a high school student staring at the ticking hand on the wall, desperate to escape the purgatory of class. Every time my phone makes a sound, a charge zips through my bloodstream in case it’s him with a yes. I’ve even brought my phone with me to the shower. Well, I leave it on the vanity. I’m not that pathetic.

Yet.

I’m prepared for his no, though. A girl needs a backup plan, so in case he turns me down, I’ve prepped my list of second choices—a few other tall, smart, and hopefully handsome strangers with deposits at the cupcake bank. Just in case.

I’ve been working out of the office the last two days, so I can’t even stalk him at work and try to read his expressions, body language, or secret notes.

Just kidding. I’d never do that.

I mean, not unless he left me no choice.

My mother yanks and measures, then records the intel in her phone. “There. I’ll give my handyman the numbers, but I think you should be able to make it work. But I don’t think we should schedule the project till you’ve got a baby in there.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“And that means we just need to get you in the family way,” she says, patting my belly. She bounces on her toes and shrieks.

I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve turned into a screech owl, Mommy dearest.”

“I’m just so excited that you’re doing this. I know there are no guarantees, but you literally have no idea how much I want to be a grandmother.”

I adopt a serious look. “Judging from your howl, I have a pretty good idea. I’d say you want it as much as you wanted that bottle of Cabernet you bid on at auction a few weeks ago.”

“Shame on you. I wanted that wine more.” She winks and hugs me. “Just kidding. I want this for you, and I want it more than anything. But you know, no pressure.”

“Right. None at all,” I say, drily.

“You’ll be knocked up like this,” Mom says, then snaps her fingers. “You do know I got pregnant the first time your father and I tried, with both you and your brother?”

“That’s because you and Dad only had sex twice, right?”

“Ha. Yes, of course. We were so chaste otherwise.”

“Also, how do you know it happened the first time you tried to get pregnant?”

“A woman just knows these things,” she says as we breeze out of the closet.

“I hope I’ll know, too, since I’ve found the donor I want.”

“Is that so?” She lifts a curious eyebrow. “Tell me more about Donor 4621.” We’ve taken up the habit of assigning random numbers to potentials.

As we leash up our dogs and head out into the crisp fall afternoon, I give my mom the lowdown on Donor 4621. Lorenzo walks by my mom’s side while Ruby gamely tries to engage him in dog conversation the entire way. His snout is fixed sternly forward as my girl lolls her tongue and paws at his chest.

“Hmm,” Mom says when I finish and we reach Fifth Avenue. Buses grunt and groan, and horns honk from cabs.

“What is the hmm for? Just tell me.”

She tilts her head as we wait for the light to change. “Hmm means that seems like a potentially complicated situation.”

“I can handle this. He’s a colleague, he’s a friend, and he’s a Ping-Pong partner. He’s a dating expert, too. He’s precisely the type of man to ask.”

“Maybe,” my mom says, not buying it.

“Elaborate.”

“What I mean is—it’s complicated. Please just make sure he signs on the dotted line. Contracts are critical.”

“He’s not going to suddenly want daddy duty. He’s not that type of guy. That’s yet another reason he’s perfect. He doesn’t want a relationship. He’s been burned. He’s not interested in any type of commitment. I’m sure he’s allergic to commitment, in fact.”

The light changes and we cross.

“That’s all well and good, but the thing I like with anonymous donors is they can’t get anything from you even if they change their mind,” she says as we walk along the edge of the park. “This almost feels like the type of thing you’d write a column about. ‘Top Five Reasons Not to Ask a Coworker to Donate His Happy Juice.’” She raises her right index finger, displaying a perfectly manicured, plum-colored nail as she counts off. “One, you see him nearly every day. Two, what will you tell the kid? Three, how incredibly awkward will it be when you bring your child to a work event? Four, will your friendship be tested? Five, what if he changes his mind about wanting to be involved?”

Holy shit. She has my job down to a science. I’m ridiculously impressed, but I also must dispute her. “For starters, what work events am I taking a kid to? Even if I wasn’t a sex and love columnist, do you honestly think I’d drag along a toddler or grade schooler to the office Christmas party?” I tighten my grip on Ruby’s leash. I adore my mother, but she’s still a mother. Sometimes she can’t help being a giant buttinski.

“It’s not implausible. You might pick up the baby from day care, realize you left something at the office, and scurry back, the baby in your arms,” she says, and I clench my teeth because she’s fucking right.

But I could handle that. Ryder would be fine with it, too. That’s simply not the sort of scenario that would trip us up. He’s sophisticated and savvy about social situations. Plus, he knows the score. “Perhaps the column should be ‘Reasons Why It’s Wise to Snag Your Friend’s Baby Batter,’” I suggest, a smart little clip to my voice.

“Do share.”

But before I can reel off my five reasons—I have them handy—my phone chirps.

My pulse skyrockets while my stomach flips. I grab my cell from my pocket. His name flashes across my screen in a text, and it feels like my whole future hangs in the balance.

“It’s him,” I whisper reverently.

My mom’s hazel eyes sparkle, and she claps in excitement. Any annoyance I felt is erased by her reaction. She’s in this with me, and I won’t be able to do it without her.

With nervous fingers, I click on the message.

Are you free tonight?