“Ryder?” In her voice, I hear all the hope in the world. “I would love for you to be involved in the baby’s life. Would you like that?”
The floor falls out from under me. My jaw comes unhinged. The room topples, turning upside down.
Yes, I want to shout.
No, I want to shout.
I want you, too.
But she didn’t offer herself.
She only offered the child.
“I can tell you’ve fallen for the baby,” she says, squeezing my hand again. “And it melts my heart. If I’m wrong, tell me, and I won’t be offended. But if I’m right, I would be so happy to have you as part of the baby’s life.”
I can’t answer her. Her words sound foreign to my ears, garbled and muddy. I want to find the rewind button. The redo option.
I blink, trying to make sense of this flipped-around reality. But when I replay her words in my head, they’re not muddy. They’re crystal clear. She doesn’t want love from me. She wants her baby to have a father.
My chest hurts. My heart literally fucking aches. I want to grab her shoulders, stare into her eyes, and ask her to be mine for-fucking-ever.
I open my lips to tell her she’s the one, and I want it all with her, but something catches inside of me.
An ancient hurt. Old fears. Or perhaps the stone that blocks my voice is the stark reality that life isn’t a fairy tale.
I think back on my chats with Simone, the things I try to teach her. You get what you get and you don’t have a fit.
Sometimes, you don’t get all you want. In fact, you rarely do in life. I don’t have all my business back. I have enough of it. I don’t have my marriage, but I have the dog. And I don’t get the woman. I get the kid.
The kid I desperately want.
I’m being given a great and wonderful gift, and you don’t turn away from that.
When I finally speak again, the words sound as if they’re coming from someone else. “I would love to be part of Papaya’s life.”
“We should probably focus on that, then. Do you agree?”
Her meaning is crystal clear. Last night was a last hurrah.
Thirty-Six
Top Five Signs You’re a Pathetic, Mopey Idiot
By Nicole Powers
1. You microwave your tea for five minutes instead of one.
2. You drink it anyway, burning your tongue.
3. You put your underwear on inside out.
4. You don’t care enough to change them to the correct way.
5. You can’t for the life of you figure out how to write a decent column.
Top Five Ways to Pretend You’re a Badass, Even When You’re Not
By Nicole Powers
1. Wave when you walk past his office, like you only think of him as your hot-as-fuck co-worker.
2. Make a joke about the Wheelbarrow position. Even if it falls flat and he stares at you like How could you possibly joke about sex when we’re not having it anymore?
3. Don’t let that shit go. Pat your belly and pretend you’re the wheelbarrow now because it’s the only way to manage the absolutely awkward situation you’re in of BEING FUCKING CO-WORKERS WITH THE FATHER OF YOUR CHILD WHO YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH BUT WHO ISN’T IN LOVE WITH YOU.
4. Casually mention the next doctor’s appointment and ask him if he wants to go, since you’re totally cool with this new arrangement. When he says of course, say “awesome” and head to your office, shut the door, and lock it.
5. Bawl into your double-ply aloe-vera-infused tissues because you miss him so much it hurts.
Top Five Reasons You’re Not Picking Up the Phone and Admitting You Love Him
By Nicole Powers
1. Your fingers are broken.
2. Your phone is broken.
3. Your brain is broken.
4. Your heart is broken.
5. You’re scared.
I drag a hand through my hair and toss that last sheet of paper into the trash can along with my other miserable attempts to write a column. I miss the can by a mile. Sighing, I drag myself from the desk chair like it takes the strength of ten thousand men to walk, then bend and grab the crumpled-up paper from the floor. If my life were a rom-com movie—Emma Stone would play me, thank you very much—I’d miss the trash can with the last wad, but I wouldn’t realize it. I’d leave my office with that ball of paper parked on the floor, unbeknownst to little old me.
Ryder would pop in later to ask me a question about his upcoming show. He’d spot the paper on the floor. Being the helpful guy he is, he’d pick it up to toss in the trash. But he’d notice the word love, and he wouldn’t be able to resist unfolding the balled-up wad. He’d read it, and the camera would pan in on his face, on the slow shift from bemused to thrilled. He’d race out of the office, skid on a street corner, dodge a cab—hell, he’d leap over the hood in a mad rush to find me—then vault over a hot dog cart vendor closing up shop for the night, and arrive at my front door, ready to profess his love.