The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “I’ll see you at eight at the Lucky Spot,” I say, bouncing on my toes, trying to muster all the chipperness I possibly can. “And I’ll bring my lucky paddle.”

  “See you then, Nicole,” he says, then plants a chaste kiss on my cheek and leaves.

  See? He’s completely content to be my Ping-Pong partner, and only my Ping-Pong partner. He’s not looking for a hormonal co-worker to watch Scarlett O’Hara with.

  But he does need someone to help crush the opposition tonight. I can be that person for him. I head upstairs, determined to drag my sorry ass out of my apartment in a few hours’ time. I walk my dog, shower, pull on jeans and a pretty red sweater, and eat a few spoonfuls of rice.

  I take my time with the rice, hoping to coax the grains to stay down.

  But Rosemary has other plans.

  26

  Ryder

  Sweat drips down my chest, and I breathe hard from the racquetball game as I walk down the hall of the club. Flynn grins like a fool. The bastard.

  “You’re gloating,” I grumble.

  “I know. But you have to know I’ve only beaten you nineteen percent of the time—”

  I jerk my head. “Nineteen percent?”

  “Dude. Math is my forte. We’ve played forty-two games, and I’ve won eight, including tonight’s.”

  “No wonder you’re a rich bastard. That brain of yours is an impressive beast.”

  “That’s nothing. You want to talk impressive math? Let’s get into irreducible polynomials with integer coefficients.”

  I whistle in appreciation, and I’m about to hassle him some more when my phone rings. I grab it from the side of my gym bag. Nicole’s name flashes. I slide my finger across the screen in a nanosecond. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “I don’t know how anyone craves pickles in the first trimester.” Her voice is beleaguered. “I don’t know how any pregnant woman has ever craved anything in the history of being pregnant. I ate rice and I can’t even keep that down. I think I have a date with Grace, my toilet bowl.”

  “You named the toilet bowl, too?”

  “We’re besties these days.”

  “Do you need anything? Can I get you anything at all?” I ask, wishing there was something I could do for her.

  “No. Just go on without me,” she says like a soldier in a war movie telling his platoon to keep fighting.

  “Seriously?”

  “If I show up tonight, I might dry heave all over the opponents, so while that could be a great strategy for winning by default or scaring the daylights out of them, I should stay home.”

  I laugh but then quickly correct myself. “I meant seriously as in you seriously don’t need anything? I’m happy to help.”

  She scoffs. “Night sickness is best not seen by someone who might have found me attractive at one point.”

  “He still does,” I say as we head into the stairwell.

  But she’s heaving and coughing, so I doubt she heard me. When she stops, she asks, “Is there anyone else who can be your partner?”

  I glance at Flynn. “Yup. I’m looking at him now.”

  We say good-bye, and I point at Flynn. “You’re my new Ping-Pong partner tonight, and I am counting on you to kick unholy ass one hundred percent of the time.”

  He pumps a fist. “I will, and trust me, I won’t make any ball jokes. Or knock-knock ball jokes for that matter.”

  Two hours later, we’ve crushed the competition, and Flynn is a happy motherfucker. Wish I could say the same about myself. While I’m glad we won, I keep thinking about Nicole, alone in her apartment with her no-fun nausea.

  But I do my best to enjoy the moment.

  We head to the bar to toast our victory, and while we order, a woman in a slinky red dress at the end of the bar stares at Flynn. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she grabs her cell phone, looks at my buddy, quickly taps on the screen, then looks at him again. Recognition dawns on her face.

  As the bartender delivers our drinks, Slinky Dress makes her way to our end of the bar. “Hi,” she says, cutting in front of me to chat with him. Her voice drips with honey. “I couldn’t help but notice you from the other end of the bar. You have the most gorgeous green eyes.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. She noticed his eye color from across the bar? Or perhaps she googled Flynn Parker’s vitals?

  Flynn smiles. “Thank you. Your brown eyes are lovely, too.”

  He’s such a gentleman, and I’ve got to look out for him.

  “I love this place,” the woman says. “It’s so close to where I live. The vibe here is great.”

  As she chats up Flynn, I give them some space so I can conduct both research and recon. I google morning sickness treatments while keeping an eye on Slinky Dress. Something is off about her. The woman’s dress looks cheap, as if it’s from a discount mall, judging from the weird stitching down the side. Meanwhile, she’s telling Flynn she works at an advertising agency, planning campaigns for all sorts of high-end consumer products.

  Her coat is draped on the empty stool next to her. The corner of a white ticket pokes out of the pocket. Her back is to me as she talks to my buddy. “It’s so thrilling being young and living in Manhattan, isn’t it?” She drops her chin in her hand, surely batting her eyes at Flynn as I find a site that gives me an idea for something—a small thing—that I can do for Nicole.

  “The city’s awesome. What part do you live in?” Flynn asks.

  “I’m in the Village. I walked here tonight after work.”

  That’s when the alarm bells ring. Holding my phone as if I’m simply trying to get a better signal, I lean closer to her coat and peer at the white paper in the pocket. It’s a New Jersey Transit ticket with today’s date on it.

  I hit send on the online order, toss some bills on the counter, and clear my throat. “Flynn. We need to get out of here.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll hang a bit.”

  I tip my forehead to the door and give him a meaningful stare. “You were going to help me move my TV stand.”

  “I was?” He blinks, then a second later, it hits him. “Yes, I was.”

  Once we’re outside, he says, “What was that about?”

  As the cold snaps my face, I pull up my collar. “Just a little live catfishing. That woman was from Jersey. She doesn’t work on Madison Avenue. She watched you from across the bar, looked you up on her phone, figured out who you were, and made her move. I bet she’s a gold digger.”

  His jaw drops. “Shit, man. You are good.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes the radar works.”

  He points at me. “That radar of yours is spot on. Like when you told me to assess a woman’s interest like an algorithm. I tried that strategy on a date recently, and the woman had Trojan horse written all over her, so I moved on.”

  “Good. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says as we walk toward Seventh Avenue. He’s quiet for a minute. “You know . . . a buddy of mine is recently divorced. He’s eager to get back out there. Throw his hat in the ring. I should have him talk to you.”

  “Always happy to help a brother out.”

  “I didn’t mean for help. I meant as business for you, asshole.”

  A little later, as I walk Romeo around the block, my phone rings. Nicole’s name flashes on the screen, and it’s as if a light flashes in my chest.

  I answer it. “All Day Sickness Solutions, at your service.”

  She laughs. “Grape Gatorade is my favorite. How did you know?”

  “Took a wild guess.”

  “It tastes like heaven. Thank you.”

  “Is it helping?”

  “If tasting good helps, then yes.”

  “I wish there was something I could do for you.” My heart feels like a compass pointing uptown. It aches with the need to go help her.

  “Me, too. But seriously. This drink is the bomb.”

  “I looked up how to treat morning sickness. I figured you
had tried most things, but it couldn’t hurt to send reinforcements.”

  “I do feel better now. And I plan to dive into the crackers later. And the ginger ale.”

  That’s all I can ask for. “I’m glad to hear that.” I raise my gaze to the sky. “Looks like snow is coming tonight.”

  “I love snow in Manhattan when it’s falling. It’s so peaceful,” she says as Romeo sniffs a bush by the stoop of a brick building.

  “Me, too. It’s the one thing that transforms New York entirely. It’s like this blanket of white, and the whole city is hushed as it comes down.”

  “One of my favorite things is waking up in the middle of the night as the snow falls. You look out the window and New York has become an idyllic snow village where everything is soft and white, before the city wakes up.” She sighs dreamily.

  I crane my gaze heavenward. “I think you’ll get that tonight, Nicole.”

  “I want it tonight, and if I’m allowed to be greedy, I’d like a white Christmas, too. Preferably, one without any Christmas morning, Christmas day, or Christmas night sickness.”

  I laugh lightly. “I’ll ask Santa to bring that to you. Seems you’ve been a good girl this year, and you deserve it.” I turn the corner onto my block. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

  “I’ll go to my mom’s. My brother will be in town, so he’ll want to spend most of the holiday making fun of me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s a big brother. It’s in his DNA. Plus, he now gets to make pregnancy jokes nonstop.”

  For a moment, I wish she’d invite me to join her. Not because I want to hear pregnancy jokes, but because I want to be the guy who gets to defend her and volley back, maybe even say something a little off-color about how I got her that way. I want her family to know the pregnancy jokes are because of me. Yeah, they know I gave her the DNA and all that jazz, but they don’t know me.

  Though, I thought I knew Maggie, but it turned out I didn’t know her at all. I might have met her family, might have made jokes with them, but in the end, none of that saved me from the hurt.

  I don’t bother inviting myself over.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “I’m going skiing with Devon, Paul, and Simone, and our sister Claire, who’ll be in this neck of the woods for the holidays.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “We try to go every year.”

  “Lots of snow bunnies probably,” she says, her tone tight, and I detect a note of jealousy in her voice.

  “I doubt there will be any snow bunnies.”

  “I think if we were taking bets, I’d win this one.”

  I’m about to dispel that notion when she groans. “Are you feeling sick again?”

  Ask me over. Ask me to help. I’ll do it.

  “No. Ruby is pacing. She has to go out. And it’s late and cold.”

  I could offer to walk her dog right now. But she’s sixty blocks away, and the dog only needs to whiz. If I offer to haul ass uptown for a five-minute pee break, that’d sound like I didn’t pay attention to the contract I signed. No commitments.

  I don’t make the offer. But I offer the grape Gatorade equivalent. “If I were there, I’d walk her for you.”

  “If you were here, I’d take you up on that.”

  When we hang up, I’m standing in front of my building, holding my keys with the tadpole charm, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do about the whole no expectations part of the arrangement.

  Right now, I want expectations.

  27

  Nicole

  I don’t erase the photos he sent me of the falling snow.

  I don’t delete the ones he sent me a few days later when it snowed again.

  And I don’t delete the pics he sent last night when it flurried, because the caption made me laugh. “It’s barely a blanket. More like a Saran Wrap of snow. But maybe you’ll have your white Christmas. May it be free of barf.”

  On Christmas morning, my wish comes true.

  Snow, and a peaceful belly.

  Happy almost-end-of-the-first-trimester to me.

  My appetite is back, too, and its timing couldn’t be better since my mom made us chocolate chip pancakes. Ruby and Lorenzo wait in the living room like good little Christmas elves as we eat in the kitchen. My mother’s gentleman caller, James, will join us shortly.

  My brother, Aiden, digs in then points at me with his fork. “No more morning sickness?”

  I twist my index and middle fingers together. “Seems that way.”

  He chews then stares at me with his intense green eyes. He has our father’s eyes. “Ever thought about what it would be like if men were the ones who got pregnant?”

  Our mom answers right away. “Maternity leave would last for two years with full pay, for one thing.” She reaches for her orange juice. No Bluetooth today. Even hardworking brokers take Christmas off.

  Christmas music plays from her sound system. “Let it Snow.” It’s the perfect soundtrack for today. Her home smells of nutmeg and pine, and I want to spend the day savoring the scents that delight me once more.

  “And morning sickness would rank as the nation’s number-one health problem,” Aiden adds. He lifts his chin toward me, switching gears lickety-split. “How’s the baby daddy with all this?”

  “Aiden,” my mother chides with a sharp look.

  “What? We don’t call him that? Baby daddy?” Aiden is genuinely surprised.

  I cut in. “He’s fine with everything.”

  “No, seriously,” my brother says, adamant. “What do I call him?”

  “He’s not here. You don’t have to call him anything,” I say, irritation starting to bubble up.

  “Donor, then?” Aiden presses.

  “Donor will be fine,” my mother says. “Now, what was your question?”

  Aiden puts his fork down. “So, he’s good with all this. He’s a friend, you said?”

  I nod, my shoulders tensing. “He’s a friend.”

  “And he’s good with just firing off and . . . boom,” Aiden says, thrusting one arm far in front of him as if he’s demonstrating what it means to take off.

  “They have an agreement, Aiden. Everything is fine,” my mom says, her tone crisp and her meaning clear. Shut the fuck up, son.

  He holds up his hands, such the innocent. “Hey, whatever works. It’s the Modern School of Relationship Theory, right?” my brother says, quoting one of my column topics back to me. The theory goes like this—who is anyone on the outside to judge? Maybe a woman has two partners because they’re all cool with polyamory. Perhaps a couple decides to be swingers and maintain an open marriage. Or possibly, two lesbians ask their gay best friend to donate sperm for a baby that one of the women will carry. If everyone is happy and consenting, why should anyone on the outside decide what’s right or wrong?

  “Yes, I suppose it is, and he’s completely fine with it,” I say, unable to breathe Ryder’s name in front of my brother. Maybe because I feel judged, and I feel Ryder is being judged, too. Even though I know in my heart that my brother isn’t condemning anyone, I will defend Ryder no matter what.

  “Good,” Aiden says, stabbing another bite of the pancake. “And you look good. You’re . . . what do they say?” He gestures to my face. “You’re glowing.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same kind of glow you’d have if you were getting some regularly.”

  Getting some. For the first time in ages, the thought of sex is mildly appealing. But not while I’m at the table with my brother.

  My mother glares at him again. “Aiden. Not at the table.”

  “So I can make randy jokes anyplace else? Excellent.”

  “Ignore him,” my mother says to me. “If you feed the wild animal, he’ll keep coming back.”

  Aiden flashes a gleaming grin. “Too late, Mom. You’re stuck with me. Also, these pancakes are awesome.”

  When breakfast is over, Aiden cleans up, telling us to sit by the tre
e and relax. My mom says she’s going to freshen up, so I settle into the couch alone, tucking my feet under me as Ruby rests her snout on a cushion. A nutcracker stares at me from the table, and the music shifts to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  Such a melancholy song for the holidays, happy and sad at the same time. As I wait for my family to join me, the words about muddling through somehow echo in my mind, and my eyes land on a photo of my father on the end table. My mom took the shot—my dad is walking down the street, his back to the camera, one hand holding mine, the other one Aiden’s.

  I must have been three, my brother four. I’ve seen this image so many times, but this morning, on this holiday, the twenty-fifth without him, I miss him more than I have in a long time.

  Absently, my hand slides to my belly. It’s softer, and I feel the first sign of a little baby bump.

  The lump in my throat turns into a hard, sharp pain. I try to swallow past it, but it stays there because I’m happy and I’m sad at the same time. I’m hopeful for the future, and yet I long for the people I miss so much.

  My mom returns to answer the door, letting James in. He wears a Santa hat.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” He hangs his coat by the door before he gives me a hug, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles and waves to my belly. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Good to see you, James.”

  My mother beams as he compliments me. She chose well with him.

  “Time for stockings,” she declares, and she unhooks four from the mantel, handing a silver one to James, a red and white one to Aiden, and a cranberry knit one to me.

  The stocking with the paw print on it is in her hands. “This one is for the dogs,” she says, then stage-whispers, “Ruby and Lorenzo won’t mind sharing a stocking, will they?”