The Knocked Up Plan Page 12

  Penny lets out a little cheer as we round the top of the reservoir. “Can we all join you?”

  “Sure. We’ll have a pee-pee party at my place tomorrow at six a.m.”

  “You’re going to take it the second you wake up, right?” Delaney says, her tone serious. “First morning pee and all.”

  “Absolutely.” I’m a font of knowledge on all things pregnancy related. I’ve researched every last detail on when to take the test, and I’ve bought three kinds from Duane Reade.

  “And your periods are regular, right?” Penny asks.

  “Twenty-eight days. On the dot. I usually get it in the middle of the night on the twenty-eighth day, and I didn’t last night.” I cross my fingers. I’ve got an extra spring in my step from Aunt Flo’s apparent lack of appearance.

  Penny gasps in excitement.

  “That’s a good sign, right?” I ask. “That I didn’t get it?”

  They say yes in unison.

  I can’t mask my excitement. “Maybe it’s crazy, but I felt a little nauseated, too. And don’t laugh. But—”

  Delaney jumps in. “Your boobs totally look bigger.”

  I pump a fist and raise my gaze to the sky. “She noticed the girls, Lord. Hallelujah, she noticed the girls.”

  We jog for another thirty minutes then slow to a walk as we amble to a park exit. “How did it go, though? The sex and all? Tell us everything now that you’re back,” Penny says. I haven’t seen them in nearly two weeks, though I did share text updates.

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “It’s amazing. He’s a god in bed.”

  Penny happily sighs. “I love good sex.”

  Delaney raises a fist for bumping. “Good sex rocks.”

  “Bad sex can suck it,” Penny seconds.

  I raise a finger to make a point. “Bad sex should be eradicated from the world.”

  “Let’s make an ordinance outlawing it,” Delaney suggests.

  Penny tuts. “But how would we ever know something is amazing unless we experience the bad stuff? Or even just the completely lame sex?”

  I tug Ruby closer as we leave the park. “Good point. You need the lows to savor the highs.”

  Delaney furrows her brow, considering this. “If all sex was great, would we become numb to it? I’m not sure I would.”

  “No, but I think to appreciate that something is out-of-this-world good, we need to have experienced the bad.”

  “True. I’m just glad that all the sex I’m having is good,” Delaney says. “And I’m glad you’re having crazy good sex. Are you guys truly able to manage this whole deal without any weirdness or feelings?”

  “Absolutely,” I say with a tight nod, flashing back to all my conversations with Ryder about our arrangement, even the one from the other night in his home, right as the window was slamming shut on the fertile time of the month. “Honestly, I’m kind of impressed with us. We were able to treat it completely like a transaction.”

  Penny does a little dance, gyrating her hips as Shortcake barks at her. My friend smacks her own rear. “It’s a transaction, all right.”

  “He’s making a deposit,” Delaney says in a singsong voice.

  I pat my belly. “In the bank of me.”

  The three of us laugh, amused at our own bawdy cleverness.

  “But seriously.” Delaney prods again. “You were able to keep everything separate? Emotions and all?”

  I answer her as if I’ve been asked the question at a job interview, my tone professional and steady. “It wasn’t that hard. We’re both good at this. He’s not looking for anything more, and I’m not looking for anything but his—”

  “Deposits,” Penny cuts in.

  “Let me tell you, when that man goes to the ATM, he goes there,” I say. “He gets that money in so deep, so far, and he delivers it all the way to the bank.”

  High fives abound, and Penny rubs my belly as we stop at a crosswalk. “I’m tempted to kiss your belly for luck, but that’s totally weird. Also, I think we need to get in the habit now of patting your belly.”

  “Pat it. You can feel up my belly as much as you want for the next nine months.”

  As we say good-bye and I walk the rest of the way home, those words play over and over in my head.

  Nine months, nine months, nine months.

  I intend to enjoy every single second of every day of them.

  By that night, I am still blissfully period-free. I wash my face and loop my hair into a ponytail. I open the closet door all the way and appraise my appearance in front of the full-length mirror. I stand sideways, considering my breasts, my legs, my hips, and most of all, my flat belly. I run my hand over my middle. I swear I can feel something happening. Like my mom said, maybe you just know. I clasp both hands on my stomach, lace my fingers together, and send a wish to the universe to take care of the baby I hope is growing inside me.

  I turn off the lights and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When I wake on Monday morning, it’s as if I’ve been shot full of anticipation, and nerves, too. Everything feels different.

  When a tongue slobbers up my cheek, I remember that I’m not the only one who has to pee. Ruby licks my face again, and that’s my cue to toss off the covers, tug on some sweats, and leash her up. I have to go, too, but I can hold it for five minutes while she does her business. I want to be able to savor the moment when I see those two pink lines. Then, I can spend the rest of my morning calling the whole world. Well, just my mom and my girls and that man who made it possible. I’d tell them, but no one else.

  I pull on a fleece, grab a plastic bag, and leave. After a quick trip around the block, I race back up the stairs to my apartment.

  When I unhook Ruby’s leash, I pat the side of my leg, her cue to follow. My loyal girl trots behind me as I head to the bathroom. My new plunger is parked next to the toilet, nice and pristine. I grab the test box and read the instructions for the twentieth time, even though I’ve memorized them. But I don’t want to mess this up.

  I’m ready for the news.

  I’m ready to head down the path to motherhood.

  I’m ready to go this alone.

  I inhale deeply, pull down my panties, and I see blood.

  I freeze.

  And a whole new emotion washes over me.

  Foolishness.

  I’ve never felt like a bigger fool in my life. Tears leak down my face. I can’t believe I let myself get so carried away. I can’t believe I let myself think it would be easy.

  Nineteen

  Ryder

  As I round the corner, I check my messages again. Still no word from Nicole, and I know today is the day. I stuff the phone into my back pocket, reasoning that can only mean good news. She’s probably caught up in the excitement. I bet she cabbed it to her mom’s house already and they’re shopping for baby blankets or maternity clothes. Does it make me a complete dick if maternity clothes give me the willies?

  Look, I’m not saying pregnant women aren’t hot. Some are sexy as fuck, and Nicole would look smoking hot as a pregnant chick with a giant basketball belly and those perfect tits. All I mean is, I’d rather not see her in clothes with a pouch just yet.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  I do sound like a dick. Even in my own head.

  While I’m at it, I guess I might as well make all my asshole confessions as I weave through the Monday morning crowds on the way to work. God knows, when I get to the office, I’ll have to put on my good-boy cap. But here goes. There’s a part of me that hopes she’s not pregnant.

  I drag a hand through my hair as I march up the avenue.

  I can’t believe I just thought that. But let the wild rumpus of dickhead ideas roam free in my brain. I really enjoyed fucking her, and I wouldn’t mind trying to score a touchdown a few more times inside her. The nights with her were everything I could want—amazing evenings with a wonderful woman, the hottest sex of my life, plus some of the best conversations in the post-fornication glow.

  Nicole
and I get each other on an instinctual level. Not just in bed, but out of it, and I will miss that.

  I will miss having her.

  When I reach the office, I shove those notions aside. Surely Nicole is in the family way, and I’m going to be the most enthusiastic sperm donor ever in the history of sperm donors.

  I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and go inside. I say hello to the receptionist, make idle hallway chitchat with a few co-workers, then check my phone one more time. Still nothing. She’s probably not even here. I bet she took the day off to celebrate her good news.

  I head to her office and tap on the door. A weak voice says, “I’m busy.”

  My heart falls, and I know instantly that it didn’t work. “Nicole, it’s me.”

  There’s a honk as if she’s blowing her nose.

  She pulls open the door, and her smile is the most plastic thing I’ve seen. My poor girl. She’s so sad, and she’s trying so hard to be tough. I close the door behind us, lock it, and gather her into my arms.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” I stroke her hair, and it occurs to me I’ve called her baby when we’re not screwing. In the heat of the moment, I just say it and it feels right. But at this moment, too, it feels surprisingly right.

  “It’s okay,” she mutters, but her voice hitches.

  “I know how much you wanted this. I thought it was going to happen,” I say softly in her ear. I wish I could take away her sadness.

  “Me, too.”

  She doesn’t cry, though. She lets me hold her, and she wraps her arms around me. As much as I wanted to have her again, I’d rather she be happy. I’d rather all her dreams come true.

  She raises her face. “Want to know what really sucks?”

  “Tell me.” I tuck a finger under her chin, meeting her eyes.

  “I feel so stupid.” Her lips quiver.

  “Don’t say that. Why would you say that?”

  She swipes at her cheek. “I really thought it worked. I was so foolish. I know better, Ryder.” She grips my shirt. “I’m supposed to be this smart and rational woman, and instead, I became a fluttery, hopeful fool. I couldn’t imagine any other outcome than wonderful beginner’s luck.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “You’re not a fool,” I say, soothing her as I rub her shoulders. “You’re just a normal person who wanted something badly. You stayed positive and believed in the possibilities. That doesn’t make you foolish. It makes you human.”

  “It makes me idiotic. I should have known better. Instead, I practically walked around Manhattan with a hand on my belly, dreaming.” She lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

  “Stop saying that. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something. So often we think we need to temper our hope so we’re prepared for bad news. Guess what? Bad news hurts whether you’re prepared for it or not. There’s nothing wrong with hoping for the best.”

  “Ryder,” she whispers, “I feel so dumb.”

  My heart aches for her. I press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re anything but that. It didn’t happen the first time. So we try again.”

  She rests her cheek against my chest and breathes in heavily then sighs against me. All of a sudden, she flinches and looks up. “I didn’t even ask if you mind if we keep trying. I just assumed.”

  I grin. “You know what they say about when you assume.”

  “You’ll make an ass of you and me?”

  I shake my head, giving her a naughty look. “No. When you assume, it means I get to bite your ass.”

  When she smiles what is clearly a please-bite-my-ass yes, it lights me up in a whole new way. Different than before. Not just in a physical way, but inside my chest, like a lightbulb is glowing.

  It’s such a strange sensation, and I’m not sure what to make of it. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Wallowing in ice cream.”

  I mime hitting a buzzer. “Wrong. It’s date night. I’m taking you cupcake tasting. Call me sexist, but I’m going to presume since it’s that time of the month that you don’t mind eating sweets.”

  She runs her hand down my arm. “Let me tell you something, handsome, so you never have to make any assumptions about sweets and me.” She pats her stomach. “I’ve got an equal opportunity belly. Any time of the month you can put sweets in me.”

  “I’ve got something I’d like to put in you,” I say, because I can’t resist.

  I could watch her eat cupcakes all day long. She dips her finger into the pink frosting and sucks it off with a low, sexy moan.

  Or maybe that’s why I could watch her eat cupcakes anytime. Because she’s fucking torturing me. Making me think of sucking. And licking. And how far she could take me.

  I’m sitting in a white and pink cupcake shop, surrounded by families, little kids squealing over mini chocolate cupcakes, moms and dads scarfing down confetti cupcakes, and I’m aroused. Under the white wood table, I make an adjustment. Good thing we grabbed a spot in the corner, far away from everyone. Pop music plays overhead, and the scent of sugar wafts through the air.

  Nicole lifts the pink cupcake and darts her tongue along the frosting. “You’re going to need to stop making love to the frosting,” I whisper harshly.

  She shoots me a naughty little glare. “But it’s soooo good,” she says, the same, drawn-out way she says it feels soooo good when I fuck her.

  I drag a hand over my face as I slump back in the chair. “You’re killing me.”

  “How does tonight rank on your dates list, then?” She winks.

  I laugh. “With your cupcake antics, it’s pretty damn high. The trouble is, I’m still turned on, so how about we discuss something non-arousing?”

  “Basketball? Sweaty gym shoes? Oh, wait. I know.” Her eyes light up with a wicked flare. “My neighbor Frederick.”

  “And his plunger.” I raise my index finger and then let it droop. “You have successfully entered the anti-erection zone.”

  She smiles and reaches a hand across the table, squeezing mine. “And you have successfully lifted my spirits.”

  I look down at the table then up at her. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, full of emotion. “I’m glad, Nicole. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

  “Seriously. I’m so grateful. I’m still completely bummed that it didn’t work, but you made me feel good tonight.” Her voice hooks into me, stirring some emotions best forgotten. Maybe that’s because this whole arrangement with her feels so real, so honest. The way she talks, her openness about her heart—it’s the complete opposite of my cagey, clandestine ex.

  “It’s the frosting that’s making you happy. Let’s give credit where credit’s due.” I try to make light of things, but she won’t have it.

  “It’s you. It’s completely you,” she says, leveling me with her intense eyes. “But the frosting is really good, too.”

  I clear my throat. “When do we start up again?” I don’t want to sound too eager, but I could seriously screw her every night.

  She looks at an imaginary watch. “Ten days?”

  “You have ten-day periods?”

  She shudders in mock horror. Or perhaps real horror. “God, no. I’m just thinking that’s about when we head into the fertility zone again.”

  “Right. Got it.” I snap my fingers in an aw shucks gesture. “I was hoping you’d say ten hours. Wait. Ten minutes.”

  “You have no idea what I would give for a ten-minute period. I’d give up frosting.” After another bite of her cupcake, she pushes the plate aside and her expression shifts. “I want to ask you something.”

  “You want more than my boys? Want a liver and a side of kidney, too? Sheesh. You’re demanding.”

  She laughs but quickly stifles the sound. “I don’t know exactly how to broach this, so I’m going to be blunt.”

  “Ah, unlike all the other times you’ve asked me something,” I tease, even as my shoulders tense. It’s a gut reaction—when people say they need to broach a topic, it’s often one you don’t want
to hear.

  She smiles faintly. “I’m not exactly known for beating around the bush. But I realized there’s an important item we didn’t entirely discuss.”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “I hope you know I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” she says.

  I flinch. “You better not be.”

  “Trust me, you wear me out. And I suppose it should be obvious that for the purpose of this arrangement, there’s no way in hell I’d sleep with anyone else. It’s not something I’d do under any circumstances. Still, since we’ve been so direct from the start, I thought it best to make it clear that I am not dating, seeing, sleeping with, kissing, or getting involved with anyone else in any way, shape, or form. I don’t know if it’s reasonable for me to expect you to be exclusive to me when we’re in the middle of this project,” she says, taking a beat, “but I’m sincerely hoping you’re—”

  I can’t even let her finish. I hold up a hand as a stop sign. “My ex-wife cheated on me seven times. I will never touch anyone else while I’m with you.”

  Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. She mouths wow.

  “Pretty shitty, huh?”

  A long nod is her answer. “That’s pretty much the definition of shitty. And part of me wants to ask how anyone could cheat on you? But that makes the cheating about you when it’s about her and the horrible choices she made.”

  Relief floods me. The times I’ve told people, I hear how they’re sorry, how it sucks, or disbelief that someone could do what Maggie did. But Nicole gets it. Maggie’s crime isn’t a reflection on me. It’s a reflection on Maggie. “She made a lot of bad choices because she’s a sex addict. And I don’t mean that in an ‘Oh, cool, she’s a nympho’ way. It’s not that she wanted to screw constantly. She was addicted to affairs. She craved the chase. She wanted to reel in a new man, over and over. She needed constant affirmation, and she sought it by finding other people.”

  Nicole sighs heavily, her brow knitting. “Did she seek therapy? Is she trying to change?”

  I shrug. “I think so. She tried to convince me to stay while she went to rehab. But I didn’t want to be with her. And I had no interest in giving her another chance even when she begged me to.”