The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  I nearly collapse on her, but I remember my manners. I slide to her side, running my hand down her arm. “It’s good to be back here.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I don’t know how we managed without that,” I say. Only I do know—we’ve never officially been a we, but in some ways, I’ve felt like a we the entire time.

  “I think the constant barfing killed my sex drive for the first several weeks, so we can blame that.”

  “Glad your appetite is back.”

  She nods several times. “Oh, it’s back, and it’s a hungry beast.”

  “I’ll feed it,” I say, and then nip her earlobe.

  She meows.

  My hand drifts to her belly. “Think the baby is okay? Hope I didn’t knock Papaya out of place.”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Men. The baby is just fine. Besides, the baby likes it when the mama is happy.”

  “Orgasms are the key to your happiness. Duly noted.”

  She laughs and whispers something I can’t make out.

  “What did you say?”

  She shakes her head.

  I furrow my brow, doubting her. Or maybe I’m just wishing she’d said I make her happy, too.

  But I’ll take what I can get. I bring her closer, and I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into me, but I can’t get enough of her. I smell her hair, running my nose through the lush strands. I cup her breasts, holding them, feeling their weight. They are bigger than before, and I want to spend my time with these beauties, sucking them, biting her nipples, licking the soft, sweet flesh of her breasts. “I think I might be obsessed with your body.”

  “Really?” Her lips curve into a grin.

  “Yeah. Maybe that makes me a freak, but you’ve never been more beautiful.” I sigh happily.

  “I see orgasms fry your brain, too.”

  “I mean it. You’re gorgeous. All your curves. All your bumps. Everything.” I run my hand over her stomach. “Everything about you is perfect.”

  And the moment becomes more perfect when her belly moves against my hand. Like a little roller coaster. A wave.

  “I felt a kick,” I say, in absolute awe. Our child is moving in her body. It feels like a complete and utter miracle, and I get to witness it. She mentioned in her texts that the baby had started kicking, but I didn’t expect him or her to show off for me so soon.

  “Isn’t it incredible?”

  I nod. “Will it kick again?”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t move my hand from her stomach. I keep my palm curved over her warm flesh, saying nothing, as if silence will recreate this moment. Then it happens, like an alien pushing against me. Another little miracle, and I want to experience every single one with her.

  I kiss Nicole, tender and gentle, full of so much emotion. So much more than I’ve felt before. I am so far gone.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, I wake to find her hands on me. We’re face to face, and her fingers explore my pecs then trail down to my abs. She reaches between my legs. She strokes me, and her breath catches. Mine does, too.

  Gently, I set my hands on her shoulders, and flip her to the other side. I tug her against me, her back to my chest.

  We are spoons.

  We speak wordlessly, with slow touches and tender moans. With her soft wetness and my hard length. And as she pushes her rear against me, she’s telling me more.

  I reach for her knee, nudge it up to her belly, making room to ease into her like this.

  She murmurs as I enter her.

  I do, too.

  In the dark, I make love to her.

  Her soft cries float across the night, mixing with my groans, creating a new harmony of sex and need and want and desire, and most of all, absolute clarity in my heart.

  We might still fuck.

  We might still like it hard, and wild, and dirty.

  But I’m making love to her now, and she’s doing the same to me. The world fragments around us as we come together. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m in love with the mother of my child.

  But I know, too, that I haven’t a clue if she wants the same things I do.

  34

  Nicole

  In my job, I’ve encountered nearly every topic known to the modern woman. I’ve written about shaving styles (for the record—I’m a landing strip kind of gal), how to politely turn down a pegging request while still maintaining a relationship with the man (fair warning—it’s not easy), and whether ghosting is ever acceptable (people, please. Be adults and use your words).

  But this is a virgin territory I’ve crossed into.

  I’m not sure what to do when you fall in love with your sperm donor.

  I’ve fallen for his tender touch, his huge heart, his protective soul, his quick mind, and most of all, how he takes care of me. He melts me. He makes me weak in the knees. He treats me like a queen.

  In the early pink light of the dawn, with Ryder still sound asleep, I contemplate what I would advise a caller who approached me with this dilemma.

  Hey there! I asked a man to donate his swimmers to make me a baby and guess what? Oops! I fell for him, too.

  Yeah, I’ve got nothing to tell that crazy caller.

  I choose the age-old method of dealing with complicated stuff. I fall back asleep.

  When I wake a little later, I pull on a loose T-shirt, visit the bathroom, brush my teeth, and wander into my kitchen. Ryder stands at the fridge, and Ruby’s curled up in a little dog ball at his feet. She’s not pacing. He must have walked her.

  He took care of my dog. Dear Lord, I’m falling in love in a big way. This is it. I’ve no antibodies to him, and there’s no question I’m feeling all the zings. Oh God, I hope he feels the same. Please, please, let him be zinging, too.

  Ryder’s in jeans and his shirt from last night, and he’s staring at the fridge. When I pad closer, I see he’s not just staring at the door. I’ve hung my various ultrasound pictures to the silvery surface, and he’s studying them. His index finger is poised over my recent twenty-week one, and he’s tracing the outline of the baby’s legs.

  “Hi,” I say, clearing my throat.

  He straightens and then smiles. It’s a sheepish look, as if he’s been caught. “Just checking out Papaya.”

  I love that the name Papaya has stuck. That must be a sign he feels the same. I gesture to the thirteen-week picture, when I first heard the heartbeat. “I think Papaya was a fig in that one. Funny thing—when I was so sick, Papaya was only a kidney bean.”

  “Kidney beans are known to be troublemakers.” He steps closer, drops a strangely chaste kiss to my forehead, and sets his hands on my belly. “And I think Papaya is almost a mango now, right?”

  I nod. “How did you know?”

  “I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons. Papaya will be an eggplant in a little while.”

  I blink. Holy shit. He really knows his pregnancy fruits. Better than I do. If he was researching pregnancy in that detailed a fashion, he’s not just interested in how I’m doing. He’s interested in the baby.

  “When’s your next appointment?”

  “A week and a half. But they won’t be doing another ultrasound at it.”

  He snaps his fingers in an aw shucks gesture.

  Make that very interested. I can’t stop the next words from coming out of my mouth. I need to know something. Something important. “Would you have wanted to come along if they were doing an ultrasound?”

  His eyes light up, and he nods. “Yes. I’d love to take you,” he says, and my heart dares to soar for the briefest moment. He’d want to take me. He’d want to be there for me. Everything feels possible. Until he winks. “And if I were there, I could do my damnedest to convince the doc to give you an ultrasound anyway. I’m dying to see it live again. Not just in photos.”

  He turns back to the pictures on the fridge.

  Taking me for me, and taking me to convince the doctor to snap a pic of the baby a
re two entirely different things. My heart doesn’t just fall back to earth. It slams to the ground, as everything snaps into place. It’s both beautiful and terrible, what I now know to be true.

  “Would you want me to come along?” he asks.

  I say yes, then I point to the clock on the microwave and choke out, “I should shower and get to work.”

  I need to be alone right now.

  He nods. “I should get Romeo. I bet he misses me like crazy. I miss him, that’s for sure.” He cups my cheek. “But can I see you tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  The door clinks shut behind him, and I gulp for air. I try to breathe, and it’s suddenly the most difficult thing to do. How could I have missed it? How could I have failed to see what’s so clearly happening to this man?

  As I shower, my chest aching the whole time, I rewind to all the obvious signs.

  He’s not looking for romance. He’s not interested in love. He never has been, and he’s always been upfront about it.

  That kind of love is different, but I try not to think about it. Or to let myself feel it.

  But he’s grown quite interested in something else—fatherhood.

  It really is magical, he’d said of the heartbeat.

  Anyway, got pics of the papaya?

  I might have googled pregnancy-to-fruit comparisons.

  He nearly cried when he heard the heartbeat. He practically swooned when he felt the baby kick.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that his feelings for the baby have completely transformed. He’s all in now when it comes to Papaya.

  But as for me, well, I’m still everything I originally was to him—a sexual creature. Sure, he likes sleeping with me, and yes, I’m something else to him now, too—the mother of his child. But the third thing I want to be—his—isn’t in the cards for Ryder Lockhart. He hung up the closed sign on his heart after Maggie ransacked that organ, and he made it clear he doesn’t want to re-open it.

  Tears mix with the New York City water.

  Who am I to blame him? I went into this ready to raise the baby without a man in my life. I can’t blame him for wanting to help raise the baby he helped make.

  He’s in love with the baby, and only the baby.

  I sniffle and hold my chin up as water sluices over my body. I tell myself to be tough, to be strong. I have to be, for the baby.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m falling in love with him. I can’t let these new and fragile emotions get the better of me.

  Besides, you can’t lose something that was never yours to begin with.

  “You were right.” I sink down into the booth across from my mom. I’d called an emergency lunch.

  “Of course I’m right.” She smiles as she tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “But what am I right about this time?”

  I heave a sigh. “It’s become . . . quite complicated.”

  She reaches across the Formica table for my hand and clasps it. “Oh, sweetie. What’s going on?”

  I breathe out carefully, as if respiration is a bodily function I’m relearning. I lift my chin. Square my shoulders. “I think Ryder wants to be part of the baby’s life.”

  My mother nods sympathetically. She takes her time before she speaks. “And how do you feel about that?”

  I try to stay strong. What do I have to cry over anyway? The fleeting notion that we might have become an insta-family? How ridiculous was it to even contemplate that? I won’t shed a tear. Instead, I will plaster on a smile. If he wants to be part of his kid’s life, that’s not a bad thing.

  In fact, growing up with an involved father could be a very good thing.

  How many women who use sperm donors have the chance to offer some sort of involvement to the father? Hardly any. I should count myself as a lucky one.

  “I feel like it could be a good thing for the baby. To know his or her . . . father.” My voice catches on that word. “I wish I had known mine.”

  My mother’s lips quiver. “He was a good man. Your father loved you so much.”

  The fire hydrant cranks on. My eyes leak fat, salty tears. My mother joins me on my side of the table, wraps her arm around me, and squeezes. “I believe in you—whatever you decide. If you choose to have him involved, and if he wants to be involved, it will be for the best.”

  I nod as a sob hovers near my lips. “It will,” I say, choking on the words.

  “It will be for the best for your child. What a gift for your baby to know such a good man is his or her father.” Her tone is so warm, so loving, so full of motherly wisdom. I know she’s right. I just wish that good man wanted me, too.

  But only a fool would think she could have it all.

  I bury my face in my mother’s shoulder, and I cry like a baby in the diner. If I get out all the tears now, I can keep calm tonight, and I absolutely must remain calm. If I can’t have all of Ryder, I want to have the part of him in my life that is keen to know his child. It’s such a gift, to be able to know your family. It’s a gift I didn’t think I’d be able to give my child.

  Now, it’s possible, and I have to stay strong for Papaya.

  35

  Ryder

  After all my travels, I have the day off.

  I spend it with my boy. I take Romeo to Central Park and toss tennis balls to him in the off-leash section until he flops down on his belly, panting in the unseasonably warm March.

  We leave, and as I wander through the park, I stop at the bridge over the lake. I stare into the distance, past the water, my eyes landing on the tall buildings framing each side of this oasis in Manhattan.

  I’m not here by chance.

  I’m here by design.

  Maggie and I had our first date in Central Park. Our first kiss on this bridge. As I stand here, I wait for the familiar sensations to pummel me. For the tightening in my chest, the twist in my gut.

  It comes, but it fades just as quickly.

  “C’mon, boy,” I say to my dog. He trots beside me as I head to the park exit then cut across the brownstones and pre-war buildings toward Lincoln Center.

  Tension winds through me as I bound up the steps to the fountain. Maggie and I kissed here after I took her to a ballet, the lights from the fountain like candlelight against the dark night.

  But when I let go of thoughts of my ex, and focus on Nicole, the tension flickers away.

  Next, my dog and I cut a diagonal swath down the city, walking and walking, all the way to the Union Square Farmers’ Market. It’s open tonight, and I wander around the edges, remembering the times I came here with my ex-wife.

  This was our stomping ground, so I brace myself for a slice, a nick, a fresh new cut.

  But as I make another lap, I don’t bleed.

  I don’t hurt.

  I might not enjoy the reminders of Maggie, but they don’t hobble me like they used to. They are part of my past, part of my history.

  They don’t have to control my present.

  Romeo and I walk to Chelsea, and I park myself on the stoop of my building. Romeo, now exhausted from the long trek, slumps on the steps and rests his snout on my leg.

  “What do you think?”

  He raises an ear.

  “Time to move on?”

  He raises his other ear. I cycle back to the night of the hookup seminar that Cal’s son surreptitiously attended, and remember the thoughts that swirled in my head then. 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 maybe not.

  Maybe love isn’t a collection of falsehoods.

  Maybe happiness isn’t a farce.

  Maybe being together can go right, if you trust yourself to try again.

  I pat my dog’s head, and we go inside.

  A cupcake is a good start.

  I grab a strawberry one from her favorite bakery, and a bouquet of red tulips from a florist near her home. My heart skitters as I walk along her block.

  I’ve traveled this
block so many times en route to a night of baby-making, and more recently, to taking her home after the Ping-Pong fall.

  But tonight feels different.

  Because it is different.

  It’s the start of what I hope will be all the things I never thought I wanted from this arrangement and now I can’t imagine living without.

  When she opens the door, her smile is so bright it nearly blinds me.

  “Hi!” Her voice rises at the end as if she’s been practicing the greeting all day.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I say, and dip my mouth to hers to kiss her lips. I catch more cheek than lip.

  “Come in.” She shuts the door behind me, and after a proper dog greeting from Ruby, I hand Nicole the flowers. “For you.”

  She sniffs them. “They’re lovely.”

  After she grabs a vase and fills it, she sets the flowers on the living room table then sits. I join her on the couch. She crosses her legs, and places her hands on her thighs. She seems more proper tonight. Not in appearance—she wears jeans and a sweater—but in demeanor.

  “Everything okay? You seem . . . jumpy?”

  She shakes her head. “Everything is great.”

  “I got you a cupcake.” I hand her the box.

  She opens it, her eyes lighting up. “I’m going to save it for later. Too nervous to eat.”

  “Why are you nervous?” I ask, hoping it’s for the same reason I am.

  She takes a breath, her shoulders rising and falling. She doesn’t speak, and I can’t fucking exist in this in-between state any longer. I didn’t take a journey to the haunts of my broken heart to do nothing.

  “I’ve been thinking about us,” I say, ripping off the Band-Aid.

  “Me, too.”

  Relief floods me. “You have?”

  “Yes. A lot.” Her voice rises, and hope rises in me. She’s got to be thinking the same thing. I can’t be so goddamn out of touch with emotions that I’ve misread her.