The Knocked Up Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  My heart bursts full and bright in my chest. I love that they get it. That they understand this is part of who I am. Maybe my path to parenthood is unconventional, but the end result is part and parcel of my very makeup.

  “And how adorable was that little girl we just passed?” I turn to Ruby and talk to my dog. “She’s so totally cute, and soon we’re going to have one of our own.” I bend closer to my pooch, tousling her silky, russet coat. “Do you want to be an aunt?” With my hands on her snout, I make her nod yes. “You do. Oh, you do want to be an aunt. You’d be such a good auntie dog.”

  Ruby wags her tail faster and paws at me. “I know, I know. We’ll get you a little niece or nephew very soon.” I rise and meet the gawking gazes of my best friends. If I shocked them when I started this conversation, I might have completely rendered them speechless now. I flash a smile and pat Ruby’s head. My dog leans against my thigh. “We’re going to be like elephants. Ruby and I. Raising our young in a little matriarchal society.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” Penny says, waving dramatically and pointing at her and Delaney.

  “Are we chopped liver?” Delaney asks.

  “You’re in, too?”

  Penny rolls her eyes. “If you’re doing this, we’re all in.”

  Delaney laughs. “We’re going to be part of your elephant matriarchy, you crazy woman.”

  For the rest of the run, I debrief my best friends on all the research I’ve conducted so far on Project Bun in the Oven, detailing obstacles and opportunities, pros and cons.

  By the time we’re done, I’ve told them I intend to approach this like I do one of my columns—with a Top Five Reasons Why list and a firm deadline.

  The clock is ticking.

  Four

  Ryder

  The next day, as I work on a column on third-date etiquette and expectations—let’s be real: the only thing a guy wants to know is if he’ll get the third night’s lucky charm—Cal Tomkin calls me into his office.

  My overlord is a lot like Peter Parker’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson, in the Spiderman movies. He speaks as if he’s firing bullets, and he’s made of geometric shapes. His head is a rectangle. His chest is a trapezoid. His lips are an oval.

  “Come in, Ryder. Have a seat.”

  Words you never want to hear from the man who signs your checks. Have a seat translates into “I’m so unhappy with your work I’m molting, and you’re one step away from getting fired.”

  I park myself in the blue upholstered seat across from his desk, prepared for the onslaught of angry feathers.

  Words don’t come, nor do feathers. Instead, Cal stands and strides to his bookshelf. Ah, so this will be a long, drawn-out kind of reprimand. Great.

  Drumming his fingers over the spine of one title, Cal appears deep in consideration. Like I don’t know what book he’s about to pick up. “Now, what is it I’m looking for?” he muses, as he taps a chubby, cylindrical finger against his chin.

  “Gee, I’m not really sure,” I say.

  “Hmm. I could have sworn I had a signed first edition from the author himself.”

  He hunts, dragging his fingers across the shelf in a dramatic show. I wonder, wonder, wonder if he’ll find it.

  “Aha,” he declares and plucks a yellow tome from the shelves. He spins around, a gotcha look on his blocky face, and brandishes an incriminating photo of me on the back jacket. A smiling, happily married me.

  Tomkin taps the book. “Got Your Back by Ryder Lockhart. Number-one bestseller. Translated into ten languages. Sold half a million copies.” He inhales deeply, as if he’s pleased. “The bible,” he says, venerating the book. “Men called this the bible.”

  I chuckle lightly as if humbly deflecting praise. “Well, I suppose you might find a passage or two in there about how to help a woman call to the saints, cry out plaintively to our maker, and say the Lord’s name over and over again, and it definitely wouldn’t be in vain.”

  Cal’s mouth forms a ruler-straight line. His eyes lock onto mine. I’m the target in his crosshairs. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” he barks. “You’re supposed to be the Consummate Wingman, but lately you’re the dickhead in the locker room.”

  I scoff like a pro. The textbook definition of scoffing because what the fuck? I actually utter a shocked “whoa” as I hold up my hands, warding off his attack. “That is not my shtick on the show whatsoever.”

  He calls my bluff. “Cut the surprised act. You and I both know that’s the role you’ve been playing.” His tone brooks no argument.

  I swallow dryly, shifting in my seat. “It’s not my intention to come across that way.”

  “It’s not? You sure?” He flips open the book and settles on my bio on the back page. I brace myself, even though all my old football instincts tell me to tackle him and strip the ball because that shit in my bio needs to stay locked up. “Ryder Lockhart is happily married to a talented and lovely pastry chef, after a whirlwind courtship in Manhattan. They have a dog named Romeo, and they like to cook, hike, and go to the movies. With a degree in psychology, as well as having spent his younger years being raised by the happiest mom and dad around, Lockhart knows what it takes to have the confidence to talk to a woman with the intent of forging a lasting relationship with that special someone.”

  Cal slaps the book onto his desk. It lands with a loud thud. He reaches for his coffee, takes a thirsty gulp, and sets the mug down on the book.

  I point to the book, so he knows his faux pas. “Excuse me, you just put—”

  “I know. It was my intention. Because that’s about all this book is good for these days. It’s a coaster, Ryder. A goddamn coaster.” He sets his palms on his thighs. “Where is the persona I hired? Is he hidden away in these pages?”

  Where is Ryder Lockhart? Ask Maggie. She killed him. Maggie took her cooking knife, sharpened the blade, and plunged it into my chest.

  Seven times.

  I clench my teeth and suck in a breath. “I’m right here.”

  Cal arches an eyebrow skeptically—his triangle move. “Then perhaps you’d like to focus more on what the show sponsors want. Be a little less Ten Ways to Screw the Hot Chick, and shift to Ten Tried and True Methods to Win the Love of Your Life.”

  The love of your life? The love of my life is Romeo. That’s loyalty. That’s true love.

  But the book isn’t selling how it used to, the classes are drying up, and surprise, I’m not in such fucking demand as a relationship consultant on account of my picture-book marriage going up in flames with the white picket fence as the kindling.

  Turns out that life coaches do better when they walk the walk and talk the talk.

  Whodda thunk it?

  “I can pull back on the sex talk on my show,” I offer, since I don’t have a lot of cards to play here at Hanky Panky Love. If the advertisers are getting cold feet, I’ll have to do something.

  Cal shakes his head, a beleaguered look on his face. “There’s nothing wrong with sex. Sex is great. We all love it. We’re all trying to have more of it. I’m not silencing you from talking about sex. We built this division of this media business on a willingness to write frankly, honestly, and humorously about sex. But it is always with the underlying goal of love. That’s why we’re named Hanky Panky Love. But lately, you’re all about the hanky panky, and not about the love. I’m asking you to find a way to tie your show and your column back to the mission: intimacy.”

  I shudder at that word.

  “Take Nicole Powers,” Cal continues, and the second he mentions her name, his expression shifts. He beams as if she’s the golden child, while I’m the bastard offspring. “She can talk about orgasms till the cows come home, but everything is tied back to finding the one. The one true love.”

  “Nicole does a great job,” I say, and maybe I’m a tiny bit jealous of his praise, but mostly I’m happy for her because that chick is the definition of cool. Who knew the woman could discover so many interesting ways to fit an eight-inch vibrator into the bedroom? I
read that in her column a few months ago, and I was damn impressed with how she suggested a squeeze-play action so the rabbit could join in woman-on-top.

  Plus, she kills it as a Ping-Pong partner. She’s hungry and ferocious and loves to win. So do I, and don’t let anyone tell you that that little table sport isn’t a wonderful way to work out aggression over your ex.

  “One true love,” I say, the words acrid on my tongue. But I don’t have the luxury of ignoring his request, so I gobble up a big dose of bitter, humble pie. “I can do that, Cal. I can absolutely refocus to finding the one true love.”

  “Thank you. I know you can, and I’m confident you will. I am sorry your marital fortune changed, but you still have a job to do, and when I hear comments on the show about getting laid, coupled with your remarks at the seminar last night, they concern me.”

  I tilt my head, a suspicious curiosity zipping through me. “I didn’t see you at the seminar.”

  “Of course not. I sent my son to attend.”

  I groan as I remember the goateed man feverishly taking notes. “You had a plant there to spy on me, Mr. Tomkin?”

  “I don’t consider it spying. I see it as conducting due diligence on the investment I made in your brand.”

  “I told those guys at the class to treat women well,” I say, defending my closing act in the session.

  His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “By giving them a huff and puff orgasm?”

  I stand and park my hands on my hips. “Is that not part of treating a woman well?”

  “It absolutely is, and I make sure Mrs. Tomkin is showered in gifts in that department,” he says, and I immediately hit the erase button on the last ten seconds.

  I focus on what I have to do next. I need to convince him I can be the guy I once was. I thread my fingers together, showing the union of my hands. “The bond between love and intimacy is a beautiful thing. That’s why I aim to give men the confidence to talk to the women of their dreams.”

  His pale eyes glitter. “Exactly. That’s the Ryder I want.”

  I heap on another spoonful of sugar. “I hear you, sir. I understand what you’re saying. You need me to focus less on getting laid, and more on getting her heart,” I say, bringing my fist to my sternum and tapping so hard you can hear it.

  “Yes. Keep it bawdy. Keep it fun. But don’t lose sight of the end game. You’ve got their backs. You’re helping the men of the world connect with their soul mates. Do that, and you’re golden.”

  I need to polish my rough edges. That’s all this is. I’ll refocus my show, clean up my seminar act, and I’ll be good to go. No one needs to know I don’t believe the bullshit I’m selling anymore. All I need to do is sell it. “I can do that.”

  He pats the edge of his desk, which he does whenever he’s about to say something sympathetic. “I know it can’t be easy, and I know things have changed with Maggie out of the picture,” he says, and cold dread runs through my body. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to the mention of her name. I’d rather not have the sympathy.

  “I’m fine. Romeo and I have moved on.”

  “Good. I have a new assignment for you. It’s a big project.” He spreads his arms wide as if showing the scope of the work. “We have an advertiser behind it, and I think we can turn it into a book deal if it works out.”

  My ears prick. Book deals that work out are like little money machines that spit up cash in the form of royalties every month.

  “I want you to produce The Consummate Guide to Ten Wonderful Dates That Can Lead to Love.”

  “You do?”

  “We’ll run it as a series of columns. I think it can be wildly successful across all our mediums. You can use it as the fodder for your show as well.”

  “Isn’t that like that movie How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days?” I ask, cringing inside because Maggie loved that movie.

  Cal scoffs, shaking his head. “Dear Lord, no. That was based on a bet. McConaughey was trying to win an advertising account and if he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, he’d land the deal. This isn’t about that sort of romantic swagger. This is a roadmap to the possibility of true, authentic love. The point of this assignment is to provide the recipe to help men along in their romantic quests. I want you to outline the dates, the topics of conversation, the stages of getting to know each other, and the expectations.”

  “A dating guide?” I say, since this is a little different than some of my most popular columns in the last year, like “Ten Post-Sex Pitfalls to Avoid.” It’s a little squishier than “Five Positions Guaranteed to Bring Your Woman Toe-Curling Pleasure.” It’s a little tougher than “How to Spice Up Your Sex Life with a Long-Term Lover.”

  Cal nods enthusiastically, his face now oblong. “I want this to be the definitive handbook on where to take her, how to romance her, and how to win a woman’s heart.”

  And once you do, she’ll stick her fist into your chest, hunt around for that damn organ, and rip it out, holding it like a bloodied trophy above her head in the arena.

  “That sounds simply fantastic,” I say with a grin so roomy you could pack a bunk bed in it. “So you want me to write about how to woo a woman in ten dates?”

  This is like being given the directive to build a bomb.

  He nods.

  “And talk about it on air?”

  Another nod.

  “And outline ideas for dates to take her on?”

  He strokes his chin, taking a beat. “Ideally, I’d love for you to actually go on some of these dates.”

  “With the goal of getting a woman to fall in love with me?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Well, we can’t really guarantee that’ll happen. Love is a fickle and precious thing. But it would be helpful if you can find a woman willing to, say, take a trapeze lesson with you. Think of it as field reporting. You’re actually going to roll up your sleeves, get out there on the ground, and let us know what works.”

  And when the green wire touches the red wire, the bomb explodes in your face, kids.

  Cal rises and slaps me on the back. He walks me to the door, stops, and wraps his hand on the knob. “And if you don’t turn this ship around, your show is canceled.”

  That just makes this bomb-making assignment a real winner, now doesn’t it?

  Five

  Nicole

  “Ooh, look! A new one just was added to the database,” Penny coos in excitement as she points to the screen.

  We’re gathered around my iPad at Speakeasy, our favorite Midtown haunt, perusing the latest offerings on a bank I’ve been in touch with in Manhattan.

  “He’s five-foot-nine. College educated. Plays the violin. And he has red hair,” Delaney reads, then runs her fingers over the ends of my hair. “Do you want little redheaded babies?”

  I laugh. “I think I’d like the choice whether they should have red hair or not, and clearly I’m only bringing recessive genes to the equation.”

  Penny swipes left dramatically as if the new donor is a Tinder no. “Anyone else? And are we ever going to see what they look like besides when they were five years old?”

  I shake my head. “In most cases, only childhood photos of donors are posted. Every now and then you hear of a woman who’s seen adult photos of her donor, but that’s highly unusual, and only allowed at a few, select banks. It’s actually quite rare to even see high school or college photos, since a lot of donors only do it because it’s anonymous.”

  Penny points to the screen, reading another donor’s profile in frustration. “Look. This guy is six feet, has blue eyes, played hockey in high school, went to UCLA, and works in tech. But what does he look like?”

  “Unfortunately, we’re just going to have to imagine,” Delaney says, with a heavy sigh.

  Penny reaches for her red wine. “That makes me so sad I need a drink.”

  “And let’s be honest, looks do matter,” Delaney adds.

  I nod vigorously. “They do. That doesn’t make me vain, right?”

  My
girls shake their heads in unison, defending my stance. “We all want a cute elephant baby for our matriarchy,” Penny says, patting my hand.

  I laugh. “But seriously. You think it’s reasonable to want a handsome donor, right? In addition to all the other things that are obviously critical. Not a serial killer. No criminal record. College degree. Height, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Absolutely,” Penny says, setting her wineglass down with a resounding smack. “How are you possibly supposed to say a green-eyed, five-foot-ten, college-educated man with no murder convictions is enough?”

  “It’s like online shopping without seeing what you’re buying,” Delaney adds. “Who buys anything on the Internet without seeing a photo? You don’t shop for shoes just by the size, color, and style. You need to see them. Try them on.”

  “I don’t think trying on is an option.” I wink.

  Delaney sticks out her tongue. “But you need to see the goods. You can’t fly blind.”

  I reach for my water. No more chardonnay or mojitos for this mama-to-be. I’ve had all my health screenings, too, and my doctor sees no reason why I can’t get pregnant. All I need is the other half. “I just wish I knew more about these men.”

  Penny peers at the site’s latest offerings once more. “This is crazy. You can select whether someone has skills in auto mechanics, plumbing, or kickboxing. You can choose if your donor has detached earlobes, a particular kind of eye spacing, and his favorite subject in school. You can even opt for someone who’s a good cook. But you can’t see if his jawline is actually square, if his lips are truly full, or if he’s as handsome as you’ve dreamed.”

  I scrunch my forehead and imagine my dream candidate. Briefly, my mind is blank, but then an image pops into my head. “I just wish I knew the guy was going to be a Ryder Lockhart level of hot,” I say, matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, he is a hottie,” Penny says, and Delaney nods her agreement. They’ve both met him at my work events and the occasional group happy hour.