The Knocked Up Plan(23)

Nicole is a brave, bold, beautiful woman who’s unafraid to carve out a life on her own terms.

I admire the fuck out of that.

And I also want to fuck her.





Eleven





Nicole

Ever want something so badly it’s like a hungry ache in your bones?

Yeah, me neither.

As I leave the subway and walk the few blocks to An Open Book, I try once more to read meaning into Ryder’s text message as well as the location. We’re meeting at a bookstore on the Upper West Side. What does that tell me? Is his answer a yes, a no, a maybe? Please let it not be maybe. I can’t bear this in-between state much longer. I’m a woman who craves answers.

I tug my light blue scarf around my neck. There’s a cool breeze in the air. My black boots clack against the sidewalk, the rhythmic sound like a metronome, keeping time with my anticipation. I turn the corner, narrowly avoiding a couple with their arms draped around each other. The sandy-haired man peppers kisses on the cheek of the pixie woman by his side. She seems to swoon, her eyes falling briefly shut. I look away. That kind of love is not in my future, and I’m so incredibly fine with that. But I pray that another form of love will be.

As I near the shop, the warm glow of the An Open Book sign dangling above the purple doorframe feels like an invitation. I look up at the night sky and make a wish. Inside this little independent bookshop is the man who is going to give me my heart’s desire.

Yanking open the door, I head inside. I stride to the small cafe where Ryder said he’d wait for me.

My chest falls. The man is known for punctuality. I scan the white bakery case and the five round iron tables, but he’s not here. When I spin around and survey the bookshelves, my heart nearly leaps from my chest.

He’s in the . . .

Oh my fucking God, he’s waiting for me in the . . .

I bring my hand to my mouth, and I want to run, to leap into his arms. When he sees me, his blue eyes twinkle with mischief.

I am a teapot about to whistle. I am a dog dancing before dinnertime.

He taps the shelves and holds up a book.

A pregnancy guide.

He’s ten feet from me. But I sprint anyway, and I grin like a fool. I stop two inches from him and clamp my hands on his broad shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes—”

I tackle-hug him before he can say anything more. I knock the breath from him in an oomph as I rope my arms around his neck and crash into him.

“But I have one condition,” he says, embracing me back.

I’m crying tears of happiness, so I don’t care. “Anything. Name it.”

“You better hear it before you agree.”

The moment screeches to a halt. He’s going to want visitation rights. He’ll want lots of money. He’ll want summers, or weekends, or evenings out.

I unwrap myself from the warmth of his strong chest and swallow. “What’s your condition?”

“I thought it would be best to present it in the form of a column.”

“A column?”

“Top five list and everything.”

I groan inside. He has five conditions? Maybe my mother was right. Maybe asking for baby-mix from someone you know is a big mistake. Anonymous donors request nothing but greenbacks.

I steel myself as he fishes in the back pocket of his jeans. The paper is square, folded in quarters. He hands it to me. “Open it.”

I unfold it then read the headline out loud. “‘Top Five Positions for Getting a Woman Pregnant’?”

I blink and stare at him. The cogs turn slowly in my brain. I part my lips to speak.

He raises a hand to silence me. “Hear me out. You explained how it worked. The room, the cup, the magazines, the videos. The whacking off in a fucking public place. The cost. But most of all . . . the wait. You’d have to wait for an appointment for me, for the testing, for the jerking off, then for your special date with the turkey baster.” He cups my cheek. His hand is big and warm. “What if we did it the old-fashioned way?”

I draw a deep breath, letting the air fill my cells as I process his question. I’m not sure what to make of this change-up. I didn’t prep for this option.

Quickly, I weigh the pros and cons of this unexpected offer to take a ride on his baby-making train. On the one hand, I’m asking him to give me a baby. A person. The least I can do is make it easier for him, right? A clinical exam room has to be up there on the list of unpleasant places to get off. Surely, I wouldn’t want to paddle the pink canoe on a doctor’s table.

On the other hand, sleeping with a friend and a co-worker is a recipe that calls for just the right mix of ingredients. Add too much of a spice, and it tastes awful. Bake too long and it burns. Would we be able to manage all the complications of working together and screwing at the same time?