by Emily Giffin
“It’s been a few months…and I don’t think I’ve seen her since Oliver was born.”
“I figured it had been a while….She asked if you were seeing anyone.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her no….”
“Did you tell her anything about Pete?”
“No,” he says. “How do you plan on introducing everyone to him, anyway?”
“Like this,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect. “Pete, meet Meredith, Sydney, and Shawna. Ladies, meet my sperm donor.”
Gabe shakes his head, muttering that I have serious issues, as he stands and walks toward the doorway.
I clear my throat and say, “Um? Did you forget something?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Samantha.”
“Thanks, Duckie,” I say with a grin.
“Duckie’s in Pretty in Pink,” he says, stepping into the hallway, then turning toward the stairs. “Get your Brat Pack flicks straight.”
“Well, then, thanks, Long Duk Dong!” I shout after him.
—
THAT EVENING, GABE and I take an Uber to The Optimist well ahead of our reservation. We sit at the bar, eating oysters and drinking champagne, as we wait for the others to arrive, getting progressively more buzzed. Leslie shows up first, upstaging me in a clingy black dress with a plunging neckline, which with her flat chest creates a kind of Kate Moss effect. I chalk the wardrobe choice up to jealousy over the bartender, and tell myself to give her a chance, as Gabe stands, kisses her cheek, and offers his stool. She refuses it, saying she’s fine standing, then turns to wish me a happy birthday. “Have you had a good day?” she asks, giving me a hesitant hug.
I nod and say I have, that I went shopping, then got a manicure. I hold up my fire-engine-red nails, which she promptly compliments, although she doesn’t seem like the red-nail type. She puts her clutch on the bar, covertly but furtively glancing behind it.
“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “The ho’s off tonight.”
To Leslie’s credit, she doesn’t play dumb, but laughs and says, “Oh, good!”
“Besides, you’re way prettier,” I say—which is actually true.
“You totally are,” Gabe says, nodding earnestly.
Leslie laughs again and says, “You have to say that.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Gabe’s painfully honest.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.
I ignore his question and look at Leslie. “Just don’t ever ask him if something makes you look fat. Not that you could ever look fat. But still.”
“Hold the phone, birthday girl. I have never told you you look fat. Not one time,” Gabe says, then shifts his gaze to Leslie. “She’s always asking whether I can tell she’s gained weight….Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can. But I’ve never called her fat.”
“All right. Fair enough,” I acquiesce, as Leslie gushes about how refreshing it is to be with an honest man. I nod in agreement, deciding that they really are a pretty cute couple, though they could almost pass for brother and sister.
“You two look sort of related,” I blurt out.
Gabe shrugs, throws his arm around Leslie, and says, “Yeah. Well, what’s sexier than dating yourself?”
The bartender comes by and I order an Old Salty Dog, a vodka and grapefruit cocktail. I warn Leslie that they go down like water, as she orders one, too.
By the time Sydney, Shawna, and Pete walk in, pretty much all at the same time, I can hear myself starting to slur my words a tiny bit as I make the requisite introductions. A moment later, just after Gabe hands me his glass of water and discreetly suggests that I “slow down,” the hostess finds us at the bar and leads us to our table. I slide into the middle of the banquette. Sydney and Pete end up on either side of me; Gabe, Leslie, and Shawna across from us—which leaves the awkward seventh chair on the end for Meredith, should she ever decide to show.
“So happy you all came tonight!” I announce, overcome with a warm feeling of affection for everyone at the table. I tack on a special postscript for Shawna. “Thanks for making the effort…I know it’s hard when you have a baby…and I really appreciate it. Please thank Lars for me, too,” I say, knowing that her husband is home with their son.
“It’s our pleasure,” she says, reaching across the table for my hand. She gives it a little squeeze, followed by a smile that reminds me of the way things used to be between us—like she’s about to share a very juicy tidbit of gossip. Instead, she turns her gaze to Pete, staring at him through funky dark-rimmed glasses.
“So, how did you and Josie meet?” she asks. “Are you a teacher, too?”
Pete shoots me a fleeting glance, clearly looking for guidance, but when I provide him none, he simply says, “Um, no. I’m a physical therapist, actually.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “Do you have a specialty?”
“Sports and orthopedics,” he says.
“He works with a few Braves players,” I brag.
She looks impressed as he modestly adds, “Ex-Braves.”
As we all begin to peruse our menus, I decide to blurt out my news. “So Pete’s also going to be my sperm donor,” I announce.
Sydney claps and lets out a jubilant yelp. Gabe rolls his eyes and shakes his head. And Shawna, after a glance at Pete confirming that I’m not joking, begins to fire questions at me. Pete and I answer together, as he repeats what he’s said more than once. That he wants to help me—and do something good with his life. That he thinks he has pretty good genes. That he would love to have a relationship of some kind with my kid—but that he will respect my decision regarding his involvement. Shawna listens intently, without a visible trace of judgment or condescension, although at one point, as she murmurs how “absolutely fantastic” it all is, I wonder if she might be overcompensating a little. At the very least, I bet she’s relieved that she’s not in my shoes. Regardless, I appreciate her supportive reaction, and tell her as much, openly contrasting it to Meredith’s. As Gabe chimes in, Sydney jabs me with her elbow and announces, “Shh. She’s coming.”
Sure enough, I look up and see my sister marching toward the table, wearing a big scowl and the most boring outfit imaginable—dark jeans, a plain black tank, and her standard Manolo pumps, which would be okay except she gets them in a too-short-heel height (the only thing worse, the dreaded kitten heel). Her only accessories are stud earrings, her wedding ring, and a watch. Yawn.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says when she gets to the table. She hands me a gift bag stuffed with tissue paper and says happy birthday. She then crouches slightly to give me a stiff, awkward hug, patting my shoulders twice.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bag, then pointing to her chair. “You’re over there.”
She takes a step in that direction, then stops, looks at Pete, and introduces herself. “I’m Meredith. Josie’s sister,” she says, formally extending her hand.
“Hi, I’m Pete,” he says, shaking it.
“Hi, Pete. I think I heard about your heroic efforts at Bistro Niko.” She takes her seat, looking pleased with herself for having this nugget of information, probably because she knows I’m wondering how she heard it.
Pete laughs modestly and says he’d hardly call a “slap on the back heroic.”
“Certainly not like donating sperm.” Sydney tees me up with a big grin, practically rubbing her hands together.
“Oh, yes…I was just telling Shawna that Pete plans to donate his sperm to me,” I say, looking straight at Meredith.
My sister slides her chair in closer to the table and flashes a prim smile, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, Mom told me about your donor. I didn’t realize you were the same Pete,” she says breezily, then looks up at our waiter, who has returned to take our drink orders, and asks for a Coke Zero.
“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask, not trying to hide my annoyance.
She shakes he
r head and says, “Unfortunately, no. I’m not drinking tonight. We have early church tomorrow. Harper’s singing in the cherub choir.”
Of course any announcement containing the words church and cherub when you’re out to dinner has a fun-sponging effect, and I’m forced to go in the opposite direction, instructing our waiter that we’d love to kick things off with a round of tequila shots.
He smiles, nods, and glances around the table. “So, seven shots?”
“No. Six,” Meredith quickly corrects him.
“No. Seven,” I say. “I’ll take hers.”
—
DESPITE MEREDITH’S BEST buzz-kill efforts, my birthday dinner is a blast. I can tell Shawna and Sydney both really like Pete, and even Gabe seems to put aside our reproductive controversy for the evening. He is loose and happy, cracking jokes and telling stories, which is not his usual style. At one point, Sydney makes this observation, and jokingly asks Gabe if Leslie deserves the credit for his “improved mood.”
He nods with a little smile and says, “Yeah. Maybe so.”
“Totally so,” I say, deciding to throw Leslie a bone. I turn to her and add, “You’re good for him.”
She smiles, reaches for his hand, and says, “You think so?”
“Yes,” I say. “But here’s the real test. Can you get him to go to Johnny’s Hideaway tonight?”
Sydney laughs, knowing of my secret agenda to end up at one of my favorite, and Gabe’s least favorite, venues in town.
“Hellll, no,” he says. “No fuckin’ way.”
“Who’s Johnny?” Pete asks.
“You don’t know Johnny’s Hideaway?” I say. “And you’ve lived in Atlanta for how long?”
“Four years,” he says. “And no. Never heard of it.”
“Me neither,” Leslie says.
“You’re missing absolutely nothing,” Gabe informs them.
“Is it a bar?” Pete asks.
“It’s a nightclub,” I say. “And an Atlanta institution.”
“Please,” Gabe says. “It’s a creepy midlife-crisis meat market where you go to listen to ABBA and Neil Diamond.”
“I like Neil Diamond,” Pete says.
I flash Gabe a jubilant smile as he shakes his head at Pete. “You might like Neil Diamond when you’re driving around in your car…but a bar full of cougars belting out ‘Sweet Caroline’ while dirty old men look on with cigars under a disco ball? Not a pretty sight.”
Pete laughs and says, “That sounds like fun, actually.”
Gabe looks at him for a beat, then turns to me and asks in his dry monotone, “And you still want to use his sperm?”
Everyone laughs, except Meredith, who has already asked our waiter for the bill and is glancing impatiently in his direction.
“It’s very fun,” I say. “In a disco throwback-to-the-seventies kind of way.”
“Half the people in there are seventy,” Gabe says. “And one hundred percent of them are cheesy.”
“Not true,” I say, insisting that it’s become a mixed crowd, trendy and cheesy living in harmony.
Meredith pulls her AmEx out of her wallet as she announces, “I’m with Gabe. Johnny’s Hideaway is vile.”
Gabe snaps and points at her and says, “Finally. We agree on something.”
“Well, you two can just head on home. Syd and I are going to Johnny’s,” I say, then ask Shawna, Leslie, and Pete if they want to join us.
“Yep. I’m in,” Shawna says, without hesitating, reminding me of what I used to love so much about her.
“Me, too,” Pete says. “I wanna see this place.”
I smile, then turn to Leslie, expecting her to decline. Instead she nods, then bursts into the first lines of “Sweet Caroline.” Syd and I continue in unison.
“Oh, good grief,” Gabe says.
“C’mon. Please come?” I beg him. “For me?”
“Nope. I don’t do Johnny’s,” Gabe announces in the same tone that someone might say I don’t do drugs. Then he turns to Pete and says, “My man, you’re on your own tonight.”
—
JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, Shawna, Sydney, Leslie, Pete, and I join the line outside Johnny’s—which is housed in a nondescript building at the end of a retail strip on Roswell Road. In front of us is a loud, cackling pack of fifty-something women all wearing tight animal prints. After Sydney strikes up a conversation with them, we discover that they are attending a cougar-themed bachelorette party. The bride’s sash announces that this will be her LAST NIGHT ON THE PROWL.
“When’s the big day?” I ask her.
“Next Saturday,” she replies, adjusting her headband, which is actually a leopard-print thong. “Here’s hoping third time’s the charm!”
We all laugh and wish her good luck, then pay the suit-clad doorman our five-dollar cover, making our way into the dimly lit, black and red lounge, pulsing to the rhythm of “Little Red Corvette.” A large disco ball spins, casting glittering light onto the parquet dance floor.
“Wow. This place is awesome,” Pete says, glancing at the walls, adorned with photos of celebrities from Frank Sinatra to Arnold Palmer to Britney Spears to George Clooney (who apparently came by the club one night, as he is posing with our same doorman).
“Told you,” I proudly reply.
Leslie, his fellow Johnny’s virgin, nods in agreement, murmuring that Gabe’s really missing out, as I tell her for about the third time how impressed I am that she came without him. “It’s just so cool of you,” I gush, then admit that I like her more now than I thought I did at first—the sort of confessionary thing you blurt out when you’re drinking.
“Well, thanks,” she says. “Gabe told me how important you are to him…so…”
“Ah, so you’re just being strategic? Like the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But for Gabe, it’s Josie?” Sydney asks her.
Leslie laughs and says, “Honestly, I just wanted to see this place.”
“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” I say.
“And more,” she says as we sail through a cloud of cigar smoke and sidle up to the bar lined with red upholstered swivel chairs.
“What do you girls want?” Pete asks, pushing a credit card across the bar. “Should we go with a retro cocktail? Harvey Wallbangers? Manhattans? Tequila sunrises?”
I say, “You know what? I’ll take a whiskey sour.”
Shawna makes a face and says, “I forgot how we used to drink those! Make it two.”
Syd and Leslie say they’ll stick with red wine—and Pete orders a Miller Lite, starting a tab despite Shawna’s insistence that he’s only getting the first round. Moments later, drinks in hand, we squeeze onto the packed but demographically diverse dance floor—from hot sorority girls to Virginia Slims–smoking divorcées to businessmen in crumpled suits. As the DJ spins hits from the fifties through the nineties, we dance in a sweaty cluster, occasionally merging with gyrating strangers or posing for provocative group selfies. At one point, my left breast even makes an accidental cameo.
A few rounds later, as Pete and I pair off and slow-dance to Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” I feel a surge of happiness. Although I recognize that it’s probably just an alcohol-and-eighties-music-induced euphoria, I wonder if it might be a little more than that. If maybe it might actually have something to do with Pete.
“I’m so happy we met,” I say, smiling up at him, my arms around his waist.
“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me. “No matter what happens with us.”
“Meaning what?” I ask. “Are you backing out…?”
“Nope,” he says, expertly dipping me. “I just meant regardless of what happens tonight.”
I laugh and say, “Wait. Are you hitting on me?”
“Uh-huh. I think I am,” Pete says, putting his hand on my ass. “But at Johnny’s, it’s called making a pass….Can you dig it?”
“Oh, I can dig it,” I say, racking my brain for seventies slang. “You’re such a Casanova.”
He gives me his cheesiest wink, then does a groovy spinning dance move. “Don’t you know it, girl.”
I beam up at him, then say, “You know what?”
“What’s that?”
“I was just thinking that you’re hot. Really hot…but it’s probably just the booze talkin’.”
“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart, baby,” he says, pulling me closer.
“Actually,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the booze. I think it’s that your buzz cut is finally growing out.”
“Jerk,” he says, pretending to be offended.
“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart,” I remind him, staring at the cleft in his chin. “But seriously. You really do look good tonight.”
“Good enough to kiss me?” he asks as the DJ starts playing “Jessie’s Girl,” one of my all-time favorites.
“Maybe,” I say, giving him a coy smile.
“Well?” he says. “What’s it gonna be?”
As Springfield bursts into his refrain, I decide to go for it. I stand on my tiptoes, lean up, and kiss him for just long enough to know that I like it.
“Wow,” he says, as we separate, his eyes still closed. “That was pretty nice.”
“Pretty nice?” I say.
“Very nice,” he says, then leans down and kisses me again. Our lips part.
“Get a room!” I hear Shawna shouting behind us, bringing back college memories.
I pull away from Pete, quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and say to Shawna, “You didn’t see that.”
“Did, too,” she says, then points at Leslie and Syd. “And so did they.”
“It was nothing,” I announce to the group. “Just a little birthday kiss. Right, Pete?”
Pete nods in earnest agreement. “Yep. That’s all it was.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s bluffing or telling the truth. I decide it’s likely the latter, feeling a dash of disappointment. After all, it’s very difficult to let go of the lifelong dream of finding love—and at the very least it would be nice to feel wanted. But then I remind myself of the greater picture, a bigger dream. I tell myself not to let one stupid kiss muddy the waters. That one day, it will just be a cute story to share with my daughter—or son—about my thirty-eighth birthday. How one night, shortly before my insemination, I kissed her biological father on the dance floor of Johnny’s Hideaway.
