The Knocked Up Plan(15)

I square my shoulders, take a steadying breath, and confess.

“Here’s the thing. I’m suffering from a case of baby fever,” I say, and holy shit, my voice sounds borderline normal.

Ryder furrows his brow. “Say that again?”

“Baby fever. You know this thing women get sometimes?” I say, going for humor. That’s our shared language, Ryder and me. We joke, we tease, we play. “Apparently, I have a very serious case of wanting to have a baby, and it can only be cured by getting knocked up.”

He blinks, and yup, I’ve won.

I’ve now officially become the person who’s asked him the strangest thing ever.

And I’m messing it up.

That was the wrong approach. I grab the controls and try to steer the plane out of this impending crash. I wave my hands in front of my face, the universal sign for I need a do-over on account of being a ding-dong. I drag my fingers through my hair and breathe. Breathe again. Holy shit, when did inhaling air become so hard? Oh, right. When I had the harebrained idea to ask my coworker for a cup of baby batter.

When I raise my face and meet his eyes, I see the same confusion etched in them as a few seconds ago. But there’s kindness and patience, too, in his sky-blue irises. He’s waiting for me to keep going. He gives an easy nod that says it’s okay, I’m listening, even if I don’t get it yet.

“What I’m trying to say is that I want to have a baby. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now, and I’m ready to become a mom. A single mom.” Once I’ve said those last two words, I feel emboldened. Bravado surges through me. This is my calling in life. The heart knows what the heart wants, and mine craves the pitter-patter of little feet. “I’ve been researching all the options, from adoption to sperm donation, and this might seem crazy, but I hope it sounds like the compliment I absolutely mean it to be.” I clasp my hand to my heart as the balding man in the booth behind Ryder raises a bottle of ketchup to pour some on his plate. “Would you help me?”

Ryder freezes.

The bald man does, too.

The bottle of the red condiment hovers behind Ryder’s handsome head.

I’ve shocked even the patrons surrounding us at Wendy’s Diner.

The enormity of the question I’ve asked expands between us. It is a balloon being filled with air. With each passing second, it grows larger.

Ryder doesn’t move. He stares at me with a quizzical gaze. His hands are in his lap. He’s a statue.

I let the air out of the balloon, releasing it abruptly. “What I mean is, would you be my donor?”

The balloon races across the diner, squealing and squeaking, landing splat on the table, the rubber a limp, pathetic mess.

Ryder’s brows knit together. He makes a sound. I’m not sure what noise it is. I’ve rendered him speechless. He swallows. Opens his lips. Tries to talk. He drags his hand over his jaw. His square jaw that I want for my baby. His genes are so fine, and now I’m wantonly coveting the DNA that made his face.

“Nicole.”

I try to read his tone, but it’s impossible. For several interminable seconds, I’m sure I’ve ruined our friendship and our working relationship.

I need words. I need to talk my way back to normal. I adopt a bright, cheery smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. We can totally pretend I never said that. Let’s bring on the milkshakes and talk about Steve’s insane swing.”

His lips twitch, and he lifts his arm, stretches it across the table. He sets his hand on my right hand. “Nicole,” he says again, and this time his voice is strong, reassuring. “You caught me off guard. I never in a million years expected to be asked that.”

“It’s not exactly an everyday request,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“More like something from a sitcom, huh?” I say with a little we’re all good shrug.

“I don’t think it’s a sitcom,” he says, and I want to thank him a thousand times over for not bantering back with me. He seems to realize that now’s not the time for jokes. “Let’s talk about what you have in mind.”

My lungs inflate with oxygen again. I recalibrate, since I was sure he wasn’t going to be open to it, based on his initial reaction. But as I regard his kind eyes and his palm on mine, my pulse settles. His hand is warm, and it calms my nerves. It gives me the courage to begin.

“I looked into adoption, and while I think it’s amazing, I want to try first to have and carry a baby. I’m completely ready to do it on my own, so I’ve been looking into sperm banks.” I stop to roll my eyes in a self-deprecating way. “Believe me, I know it’s the height of irony that the gal who usually has open browser tabs full of the latest and greatest in vibrators and sexual positions now spends more time perusing the offerings at sperm banks.”