The Knocked Up Plan Page 2

  I like to think of myself as a woman of many talents. I know how to run at the mouth on air, I can craft a snappy column on the dos and don’ts of the most popular fetishes, I can dole out excellent trash talk at sporting events, and I’m also a top-notch appraiser of men.

  Picture an art appraiser. That crusty old fellow in tweed and elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, cataloging the brushstrokes, the signature, the type of paint in a Van Gogh.

  He wonders if it’s fake or real?

  Is it real or fake?

  That’s me when it comes to men.

  I flip open my spiral-bound notebook with dogs in spacesuits on the cover. I uncap my pen and scribble some quick notes.

  Nice jawline. Check.

  Strong arms. Check.

  Height. Check, check, check. Because, you know, height is some kind of Holy Grail.

  Charming and likable. Check-a-rooney.

  The Stanford pedigree makes him especially appealing, though. Empirically, of course. I’m only jotting down thoughts for my ongoing research into the male species.

  I head to my office to work on my latest column on the best knots to use in your scarves for binding your wrists together in front, behind, or above the head, as well as for tying to the bedpost, a chair, or the fridge.

  Fridge bondage. It’s a thing. Who knew?

  When I’m done with my tips for avoiding freezer burn in the process, my mind drifts back to checklists, attributes, and the best features a gal could want in that special someone.

  And to Ryder Lockhart.

  Two

  Ryder

  I adjust my tie, smooth a hand over my crisp light blue button-down shirt, and survey the crowd.

  If you could call the half-dozen or so attendees here today a crowd.

  More like a Chia Pet’s early hair covering. A few sprouts that barely cover a bald man’s head. I sigh, wishing for the days when I strode across the stage, grabbed the mic, and commanded a standing-room-only crowd of utterly rapt dudes, eager for my heartfelt and passionate advice.

  As the Consummate Wingman, I can claim credit for more than forty-five marriages and engagements that have led to easily a dozen kids. I’ve been invited to countless weddings, been the first person toasted at most of them, and I’ve happily raised my glass in return to celebrate all those satisfied clients—men who needed a little help talking to the ladies.

  That’s what I gave them. A boost of confidence, born from my once-upon-a-time belief in happily ever after back when I was Manhattan’s very own Hitch.

  Wait. Excuse me. I think my lunch is coming back up. Happily ever after is a cycle of bullshit, love is a medley of lies, and marriage is a thing that can only go wrong.

  But hey, that’s between you, me, and the lamppost because right now I’ve got to be the guy who can help hitch any man’s wagon to his dream woman’s star. I suck in a breath, square my shoulders, and walk into the room, imagining I’m shushing the crowds who are wildly applauding their hero.

  Like I used to do.

  In reality, I’m greeted by a few clammy-handed, barely audible claps from the twenty-something guys.

  And that’s how the next hour of this seminar on dating and mating in the modern age goes. Did I mention it’s being held in an exercise room at a gym on 14th Street? Yup. A couple hours ago, this room hosted a crew of sweating fitness warriors, squatting and lunging. Now, I’ve got the last slot of the night. No more keynotes at posh hotels. No more swanky, elite sessions at the Yale Club. No more client list a mile long.

  The beanpole man in the front row, parked on the metal folding chair, raises his hand and clears his throat when I call on him.

  “Fire away. Hit me with your question,” I say, mustering the most enthusiasm I can dredge up.

  His voice is reedy thin. “Is it true that I shouldn’t post on Instagram right after I do it with a woman I met online?”

  The beaky-nosed guy next to him shakes his head. “The new rule is wait an hour. Same goes for Facebook, Twitter, and checking Tinder for other chicks.”

  I groan as I scrub a hand over my jaw. This is like teaching remedial math. “Actually, gentlemen, I appreciate the sharing, but allow me to dispel some of that misinformation. Shockingly, you will find that checking any form of social media shortly after sex is a pet peeve of most women.”

  An auburn-haired, goateed man in the second row furiously jots something down in a notebook. Perhaps I’m getting through to him.

  “The same holds true for passing out after sex, recounting the act of intercourse as if you’re a play-by-play announcer, mentioning your mom during a post-coital snuggle, asking the woman you slept with to make you a sandwich, and calling her an Uber within the first fifteen minutes of finishing.”

  The guy with the goatee raises a tentative hand. “Same for Lyft?”

  I laugh lightly and slash a hand through the air. “Yes, and for the old-fashioned yellow cars known as taxis, too.”

  He nods and mouths a thanks as he lifts his pen to his notebook.

  I pace across the wood floor. It’s streaked with sneaker marks. “Want to know the biggest post-sex pet peeve of all?”

  All the men raise their faces. Eager acolytes.

  “Asking her if she came. Because if you can’t figure out whether she took a trip to the stars or not, then guess what the answer is.”

  “Um,” the beanpole stammers.

  “She might be shy about it,” the beaky-nosed one offers.

  “She might be quiet,” a dark-haired guy suggests.

  “What if she’s one of those women who is just really subtle when she comes?” another dude asks.

  Screw remedial math. This is kindergarten. “Seriously? Shy? No. She’s not shy. If she comes, you will fucking know. When a woman comes, it’s like an earthquake. Do you miss an earthquake?”

  “No?” Beanpole asks.

  I shake my head. “No indeed. The earth’s fault lines don’t split open subtly. The earth is not quiet when it rattles land masses.” I start shaking from head to toe. I drop my mouth open in a huge O in my best approximation of the exquisite torment of a woman’s pleasure. “If she’s not doing that, it means you’re not doing your job.” I point at each of them as if they’re all culpable. “It means you’re huffing and puffing, but the wolf didn’t blow the house down. Got it?”

  I take my time meeting the gazes of the guys, making sure they’re clear on this point. If I can’t get them down the aisle anymore, then maybe I can help them identify a motherfucking female orgasm. Lord knows, the men of the world need some help—I had a caller yesterday on my show who presented with the same fucking dilemma, and I gave him the same advice. “The house falls, she came. The house is still standing, she didn’t.”

  The pen moves at lightning speed, and my money is on goatee-man as the first to find the G-spot.

  “Here’s the bottom line. Do you want to get laid?” They set a world record for nods. “Then, if you want to get laid again, you will make sure she comes.”

  The room goes silent, and that’s when I realize my mistake. I’ve dropped the “get laid” bomb. That’s basically the worst combination of two words that a dating coach can utter. I scrub a hand over my jaw and try desperately to reroute myself. “What I mean is, if you want to have a healthy, lasting, long-term relationship with a woman, it would be great if you treat her like a queen in and out of the bedroom.”

  I flash a winning smile, showing off my straight, gleaming choppers. I look like a million bucks, and I have the pedigree to back up all these statements.

  Correction: I had it.

  Now I’m the guy coaching the Tinder-using crowd on how not to fuck up a hookup.

  Three

  Nicole

  My girls are shocked.

  As we round the trail curving along the reservoir in Central Park, Penny nearly stumbles on a twig, while Delaney shouts, “You’re kidding me.”

  Penny’s little dog, Shortcake
, stares up at her mistress with a look of utter concern on her furry features over the near-fall. “I’m okay, sweet little darling,” Penny coos to her butterscotch Chihuahua mix as she regains her footing. Then to me, Penny says, “You’re not joking?”

  Admittedly, during our morning jog might not have been the best time to drop my giant-pumpkin-sized news. But sometimes you have to rip off the Band-Aid. Especially if it’s a plan of the life-changing variety. “I’m completely serious. This is something I’ve always wanted,” I say, as my Irish Setter mix Ruby jogs by my side. The calmer I am about my news, the more likely my friends will understand. And I need them to understand. Their support is like air to me.

  Penny smooths a hand down her red pullover as we continue our run on this September morning. “Always meaning in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “It does seem like your sense of always might be a tad off, considering this is the first we’re hearing about it,” Delaney says, her brown eyes trying to drill a laser hole in me. It’s a tough feat while running, so she’s unsuccessful.

  “Always as in always. But lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about my long-term portfolio approach, and it seems like the time is now.” My heart speeds in my chest. I wonder if its pace is from the run or from the admission. But I pride myself on keeping cool and collected in matters of the heart.

  “Portfolio?” Delaney scoffs at my word choice.

  I smirk since I chose that word for effect. “I have a vision for how I want my future to unfold, and I want to take the necessary steps and make the best investments to ensure it happens.”

  Penny snorts. “I cannot believe you’re using asset allocation strategies.”

  “Would you say you’ve been considering this massive, life-changing plan for longer than a week, longer than a year, or so long we need to tackle you for never breathing a word to us before?” Delaney tosses out, as her arms swing neatly by her sides. She’s the only dog-free member of our pack. I’ve always hoped she’d adopt a small little mutt from Penny’s Little Friends Animal Rescue, because I think a dog is pretty much as close to a soul mate as one can ever get. Plus, we’d all be perfectly paired then, girl and mutt. No such luck. But Delaney finally opened her home to a four-legged creature a few months ago when she adopted an orange, six-toed cat named Crazypants.

  “To answer the have I always question,” I begin, turning to Penny as Ruby and I maintain our pace along the leaf-strewn path, “it’s sort of like—how did you know you wanted dogs? You just knew, right?”

  Penny nods as she brushes off a strand of brown hair from her cheek. “I’ve always loved dogs. I can’t remember not wanting one.”

  I shrug as if my situation is as easy to understand. “It’s the same for me.”

  “And you don’t want to wait any longer to meet the right guy? To make sure you don’t want to do this with a partner?”

  I slow as we weave around the tip of the water. “Ladies, I’m thirty. I’m not getting any younger, and the pickings aren’t getting any better. I’ve been on the dating merry-go-round for far too long, and it just keeps spinning. It’s making me dizzy. Plus, let’s not forget I’m immune to love. May I present evidence in the form of Greg?”

  Delaney sighs sympathetically. “He was such a nice guy.”

  “He was extraordinarily sweet and quite good to me, too,” I say, recalling my ex from a few years ago. “And I didn’t feel it. I’m like a defective part. I’m the balloon in the bag that doesn’t blow up.”

  Penny furrows her brow. “I’ve never come across a balloon that doesn’t blow up. Is that a thing?”

  “Fine. I’m the bad starter on a car, or whatever the hell goes bad on cars that have to be recalled. You know what I mean. Clearly, there’s something wrong with me if I couldn’t even settle down with a nice guy like Greg.”

  “Your ex was pretty much the textbook nice guy,” Delaney says about my former fiancé, a sweet-as-pie coffee shop owner who I brazenly asked out the day I met him after he whipped up a mocha latte for me with a heart drawn in the foam. We dated for seven months and were engaged for two. He was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, kind, sweet, attentive, and always ready with a caffeinated beverage with art on top.

  But we were spark-free. He didn’t make me weak in the knees, and I’m pretty sure there was no growl in his throat when he saw me naked. Not that I don’t look good in my bare skin. I rock the nude look, thank you very much. And it’s not because I’m a perfect ten. It’s because I like to accessorize every outfit, including nudity, with chin-up confidence. That’s my best asset, and it’ll last longer than perky boobs.

  The thing is, Greg and I were good separately, but together we were toothpaste and orange juice.

  Several weeks into our engagement, the lovely little diamond slipped off my finger in the shower, courtesy of my Vanilla Spice body wash. The ring slipped into the drain and hasn’t been seen since. For all I know, it’s been swept into the great sewers of Manhattan, and a rat is wearing it as a tiara. I was devastated at first, but then decided fate was giving me a sign. I didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t make me swoon, and so I called it off. Greg married someone else a year later and invited me to the wedding. He and his wife appear outrageously happy, so it worked out for all of us, not just the rat.

  Since then, I’ve had some memorable dates and some not-so-memorable ones. I even went out with a guy from the local dog park who owned a Papillion and a Great Dane, a combination I found utterly delightful, so I stayed with him for four months. The problem is the dogs were so damn cute together that it took me three months and three weeks longer than it should have to realize the guy didn’t give me butterfly flutters—it was the pups causing the swoops and dives.

  Like I said, the love portion of me is defective. I just don’t feel it. I do, however, feel gobs for my friends, my Ruby, my amazing mom, my pain-in-the-butt brother, and every single one of my callers and readers. That’s why I can do my show from a place of conviction.

  As we round a bend, I say, “I’m just one of those girls who is better off going it alone. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I’m a hard-ass. Maybe I’m simply too cynical about love.”

  “Ironic that the dating guru is a cynic,” Delaney says, clucking her tongue.

  “I do believe in love,” I say, correcting her. “I’m just not entirely sure I believe it’s ever going to happen for me. And that’s okay. I’m fine with my single lot in life.”

  See? I’m already in the acceptance phase of the five stages of I’ll-never-fall-in-love grief.

  “It will happen in its own due time,” Penny says, waggling her own engagement ring as a gaggle of geese splashes in the water. “There’s a goose out there for you. Geese mate for life,” Penny adds, in case I’ve somehow forgotten Penny often looks to the animal kingdom for dating analogies.

  “Perhaps I need to spend more time looking in lakes, then, for Mr. Right,” I quip as Ruby yanks gently toward a squirrel scampering up a tree. A quick tug from me reminds her to stay on track. Ruby raises her face, meeting my eyes with a look that says, See, Mom, I listened to you.

  “Good girl,” I tell her.

  Delaney inhales deeply as we prepare to run up a steep hill. “In all seriousness, though, why do you think it won’t happen to you?”

  She asks a good question, and since my job is to zero in on matters of the heart and the bedroom, I’ve applied the same rigorous examination to myself. I have the answer handy. “Here’s why. I believe that writing about dating and love and sexual fetishes has made me immune to love. It’s the nature of the beast. The more time I spend breaking down habits and strategies, the more I become resistant to them. I’m like a doctor who can be exposed to all sorts of viruses but won’t catch them.”

  Penny quirks her eyebrow. “So, love is a virus?”

  “Absolutely. And it seems I’ve got more antibodies to it than I expected,” I say as a mom crests the hill pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller in the oth
er direction. My heart skips a beat. My eyes snap to the sweetest little bundle of joy in the stroller—a baby girl, decked out in a cute, pink onesie. A blond angel I just want to smother in kisses, and I don’t even know her. Butterflies launch a full-scale fiesta in my chest. Trumpets blare.

  “Oh my God, your little girl is so adorable,” I call out with a bright smile.

  The young mom returns my grin, her ponytail swishing as she jogs. “Thank you.”

  “How old?”

  “Six and a half months.”

  “She’s a little princess.”

  “She is, indeed,” the mom says. “Thank you for the sweet words.”

  I sigh happily as I jog, and twenty feet later it occurs to me that I’m alone. I stop and bounce in place, looking around for my girls. Penny and Nicole are frozen in their spots, jaws languishing on the running path, eyes the size of fried eggs.

  “Why are you looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings?” I ask as I stop moving.

  Delaney goes first, flapping her arms in the direction of the mom. “Yes!”

  I furrow my brow and jog back to them. “Yes, what?”

  “It all makes sense,” Delaney says, jerking her gaze to Penny. “It all makes perfect sense, right, Penny?”

  My dark-haired friend nods then gestures to me. “You always comment on how cute babies are. You always talk to the moms in the dog park. At the dog shelter events, you’re the one who’s interacting with the kids who’ve come along.”

  My grin turns to a full-scale beam of the highest wattage. “I love kids. I’ve always wanted my own.”

  Penny smacks her forehead. “My God. It’s so obvious now. Like at the bookstore a few weeks ago, picking up baby shower gifts for one of your clients,” Penny says, pointing to Delaney, and I can remember the day perfectly. A cute little four- or five-year-old was sounding out the words to Brown Bear, Brown Bear, and I helped him with the ones he struggled with. It was just second nature to me.

  Delaney jumps in. “I knew you wanted to have a family someday, but I guess I always thought you’d want to do it as part of a couple. But you don’t need to. You can do this on your own.”