The Knocked Up Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  In the last few weeks, I’ve spent more time with Simone and Devon on the weekends than usual, grabbing any chance I can to join them for ski trips, movies, and dinners out. I was so damn occupied in the fall that if I don’t keep busy now, I’ll be like one of those lonely lions in a cage at the zoo, pacing back and forth all day long.

  Simone pretends to whisper, “Since I’m your responsibility, do you want to sneak off and get a hot chocolate?”

  “I love the way you think. But let’s make it down the hill first.”

  She nods, as she readjusts herself on her board. “Race ya.”

  She pushes off, shushing down the slope with ease, and I follow as I’ve done the whole day, watching as I go. I don’t let her out of my sight. Lately, I’ve felt even more protective of her. Every time something might happen to her, my heart feels as if it’s beating outside my body. The other day when I walked her to art class in the city, I kept her even closer to my side when we neared the crosswalk. That’s just smart in New York, of course. But I was like a fucking hawk the way I kept my eye on her.

  That evening after the day on the slopes, my brother and I hang in the lodge while Paul and Simone get ready for dinner back in the cabin.

  Devon lifts his glass of Scotch and takes a drink as we lounge in big wooden chairs by a roaring fire. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about a woman we chatted with while skiing.”

  “You chatted with a woman? Has hell frozen over?”

  He rolls his eyes. “We shared a fucking chair lift with her, dickhead.”

  “Oh. For a second I thought you were switching to my team.”

  “The likelihood of that is about the same as you switching to my team.”

  “About a ten million below zero chance?”

  Devon winks. “You got it. Also, I talk to women all the time, on account of not being a sexist asshole.”

  I raise my glass. “Good point.”

  “Anyway, this woman was fun, smart, and I suppose she was pretty, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “Pretty ladies are definitely my sort of thing,” I say, sticking out my tongue and flicking it at him.

  He gazes at the ceiling. “Why do I bother to help him?”

  I rub my ear. “I’m sorry, did I need help for something?”

  “Yes,” Devon says adamantly, leveling me with his big brother stare. “Do you want me to invite her to dinner so you can meet her?”

  I nearly choke on my whiskey. “Are you setting me up?”

  This is so not my brother.

  “I’m trying to. It’s been more than a year since Maggie, and you and Nicole are done with your project, so it seems like a good time.”

  “I just never thought you had any matchmaking bones in your body.”

  Devon waves me off. “Forget I said it.”

  I lean forward in the chair. “No, seriously. I appreciate it. But . . . I don’t know.”

  He takes a swig of his drink. “You’re not ready to date yet?”

  I drag a hand across my jaw as I sigh. His assessment is spot on. “That sounds right.”

  “Maggie, still?”

  I don’t answer him at first. I take a swallow of the whiskey, letting it burn in my chest while the fire warms my back. There was a time not so long ago when I would have answered quickly with a yes. But my ex-wife isn’t front and center in my mind anymore. She might still be my roadblock, my “danger ahead” sign. But she’s not preventing me from wanting to go on a date.

  Someone else very much is, and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me. I barely comprehend it myself. “No. It’s not about Maggie.”

  Devon raises an eyebrow in question. The answer dawns on him. “Because of Nicole?”

  I heave a sigh and nod. “Yeah, turns out I kind of like her.”

  “Well, isn’t that a humdinger?”

  “You can say that again.”

  I get my Ping-Pong partner back, but no greater clarity on my humdinger of a quandary. February flurries into town, bringing with it another epic chill, and a rounder belly to the woman at the epicenter of my thoughts. The month also means Valentine’s Day, and Cal tells me my show is going on the road for a few weeks.

  “Ratings are improving,” he says as he tells me the plan. “Your columns and field guide were a hit. And the crazy thing is, you’ve got female listeners and readers now, too. We want to do some live shows and talk to the crowds about their ideas of love, relationships, and what it takes to have several great dates. The best part? We’ve got a brand-new sponsor for it.”

  Sponsorship means the leash has loosened another few feet. A quick tour might also mean I can rebuild my credibility as a dating coach. Plus, I’ve nabbed my first consulting client in months in Flynn’s buddy.

  All in all, I can’t complain about work anymore.

  Nicole seems happier, too, now that her miserable days are behind her. She’s the picture of health and vitality, from the reddish tint in her cheeks, to the spring in her step, to the smile she’s been sporting a helluva lot more around the office. She told Cal she’s pregnant, and while she hasn’t said a word about who the father is, no one has pressed her, even our boss.

  “He didn’t try to get the nitty-gritty out of you?” I asked over lunch a few weeks ago.

  She shook her head. “HR rules. He can’t.”

  Ironic, since he had no problem getting personal with me when it came to bringing up my ex-wife. But I do understand that Nicole’s situation is different—seeing as how she’s baking a person inside her. A few years ago, a gal in advertising who has a female partner was pregnant. She never breathed a word about where the other half of the DNA came from. I have no doubt our co-workers are whispering and wondering who knocked up Nicole. But this is Manhattan, and everyone seems to know someone who’s gone into parenthood in an unconventional way.

  As we play tonight against our long-time rivals, I watch her more closely than I have before. Not just because her ass still looks great. It does. Oh yes, does it ever look bitable. But because I understand that worry I felt for Simone much better. It’s doubled with Nicole, given what she carries inside her.

  Make that tripled, since our opponents are Crazy Swing Steve and his regular partner.

  Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet, paddle in hand, determination etched in her eyes. Steve juts his arm out as he slams a ball to me. I stretch for it, smashing it back across the table to his teammate.

  The other guy smacks the white ball in a neat diagonal to Nicole, who sends it screeching to the other side.

  Steve lunges for it, his teammate leapfrogging out of the way. The ball comes to me, and we volley like that until Steve’s swing seems to exhaust his teammate so much that the guy curses loudly as he runs for the ball, swatting it wildly across the table in Nicole’s direction.

  Ever the competitor, she races to the far corner, slapping the prize with a crisp backhand that sends her reeling. She’s all forward momentum, and it topples her, taking her down.

  The paddle tumbles from her hand, and she has no place to go but the floor. Her arms shoot out in front of her, and she breaks the fall with a loud smack of her hands.

  A rush of harsh breath.

  A crack of her knee on the hard surface.

  Falls are not uncommon in Ping-Pong. I’ve hit the floor a number of times. So has Steve. So has Flynn. So has Nicole.

  But none of that matters. My stomach plummets and dread ices my bones the instant the pregnant woman I’m crazy for hits the floor.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ryder

  “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

  Nicole says those words over and over again, like a mantra.

  Or like she wants me to shut up because I can’t stop asking if she’s okay. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her lower back, I gently help her to her feet.

  “Are you okay?” I ask again. My heart screams in my chest. Nerves skate up the back of my neck. If I w
as worried when Simone fell on her butt, that was nothing compared to now.

  Once she’s upright, I set a hand on her belly, feeling the small curve for the first time. I flinch inside, but not because I’m freaked out. My reaction is because she feels so different, of course, than she’s ever felt before. Gone is that flat belly. In its place is this blooming roundness that’s unexpectedly . . . attractive. But the awareness of what’s behind this curve brings an even sharper reminder of the stakes. A life. I have no clue what I’m doing with my hands on her stomach. I’m not a doctor. I can’t feel if the baby is okay. But I’ve got to do something.

  “I’m fine, Ryder. I swear.” She shakes out her wrist, wincing. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  She sucks in a breath as if she’s in pain. “My wrist really hurts.”

  “We’re going to the ER. Now.”

  Steve strides over. “You okay?”

  “I’m totally fine,” she says.

  “She’s not,” I snap. “Her wrist is sprained.” I have no clue if that’s the case, but it feels true, and I’m taking her to the hospital.

  I grab our coats and guide her through the bar, my arm wrapped around her like a shield.

  We make it to the doorway, and I slide her coat onto her arms then put my leather jacket on. Once outside, I hail a cab and tell the driver to take us to Mercy Hospital.

  All I can think about is her and the baby, and if the baby’s going to be okay. But I don’t want to say that out loud. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to know my mind is zipping to terrifying conclusions. On the drive to the hospital, I chatter on about Steve and his swing, and I smooth her hair, and I stroke her arm, and I tell her that we’re just being cautious by going to the ER.

  “You’re crazy,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re worried for nothing.” She’s trying to reassure me, and I will have none of that. It’s my job to take care of her.

  “You fell on your wrist and can barely move it.”

  And I’m terrified about our baby.

  I catch my breath, inhaling sharply.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I’ve never thought of her baby as mine.

  Not till now.

  But there it is. I’ve thought it. It’s moved from a shapeless, formless concept to the concrete way I see the life growing in her belly. Ours. Now that the new possessive pronoun is in my head, it won’t exit. It echoes as we reach the hospital.

  Our baby.

  “Are you okay?” she asks when I’ve gone quiet.

  I shake off the new thoughts. “I’m good. Let’s get you checked out.”

  We head inside. We aren’t seen quickly, and I suppose I should take that as a sign that she’s fine. An hour later, she’s called in, and I rise to join her when the curly-haired nurse gives me a steely glare. “Just the patient.”

  “But she’s eighteen weeks pregnant,” I say, and those are magic words. The nurse’s expression transforms, and even though she surely knows Nicole’s knocked up since Nicole disclosed it when we checked in, I bet there’s something about hearing the guy with the pregnant woman say it aloud that activates a sympathy bone. The nurse doesn’t know I’m the donor. She figures I’m the dad, and that’s good enough to give me full-time access to the mom-to-be.

  She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You can come with her. But be quiet.”

  I mime zipping my lips.

  Ten minutes later, the nurse has taken Nicole’s blood pressure and vitals, and says an ER doctor will be here any minute. She leaves, and I’m alone with Nicole, who’s perched on an exam table, cradling her wrist in her lap.

  “You know I’m fine, right?” she asks, gently chiding me.

  “That’s why we’re here. To make sure.”

  “I’m okay. I told you I’m okay.” But she doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds like she wants to reassure me.

  “It’s not just you, Nicole. It’s you and the baby.” I gently place my hand on her belly, and touching her bump feels as good as it did the first time. She smiles and presses her hand on top of mine.

  “How does it feel?” she asks, her voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh lights and sharp noises beyond the curtain.

  “Amazing,” I whisper.

  “I know, right? I’m barely showing, but every day my little bump astonishes me.”

  “Has the baby kicked yet?” Hope rises in me. The hope that she’ll say yes, and that I might feel it.

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. Probably another month.”

  I turn my hand over and thread my fingers through hers. It feels so right to hold her hand.

  Another smile is my reward, and so is the swift appearance of a doctor, striding into the room.

  “Dr. Summers.” He extends a hand. He’s young, and his hazel eyes are kind. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  He wheels a machine closer to the table, grabs an ultrasound wand, and slicks some gel on Nicole’s belly. As he roams her stomach like a man trawling the beach for buried treasure, he stares at the screen.

  Naturally, I stare at the screen, too, jaw agape.

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking baby.

  Holy perfect baby. It’s all curled up, but I can see the shape of the baby’s head. The curve of the back. The knees tucked up.

  It is awesome, and I don’t mean awesome like the sandwich I had for lunch was awesome. Seeing your baby is awesome in the true sense of the word—I am filled with astonishment.

  That astonishment coils into something even more intense when a noise bursts into the room. It sounds like hoofs beating.

  I. Can’t. Breathe.

  I’m listening to our baby’s heart, and it’s the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. I swear it moves through me, stirring up an unexpected kaleidoscope of emotions that’s magnified when I meet Nicole’s eyes. They’re wet, filled with happy tears. It’s almost too much for me to take, and I blink, looking away. When I do, I realize it’s because my eyes are threatening to fill with tears, too.

  My throat catches, and I swallow roughly.

  It’s as if I’ve been punched in the gut, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels shockingly wonderful, and I want to remember this moment forever. I want to recall every second of my own amazement.

  “Sounds like you’ve got one healthy baby in there,” the doctor says with a smile as he wipes the gel off Nicole’s stomach. After a quick examination of her hand, he decides it looks like it’s sprained, but can be treated with ice, an ACE wrap, and, ideally, no ibuprofen. As he writes up his orders, I meet Nicole’s eyes once more. Neither one of us says a word. We just hold each other’s gazes, and I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing—our baby is healthy.

  She flashes me a smile, and I return it with a goofy grin of my own.

  Holy shit. Our baby is healthy.

  I want to take a snapshot of this moment. I want to record every second of this strange and joyous connection I feel with her and the life growing inside her.

  The doctor leaves us alone, and I bend my face to her belly and press the gentlest kiss to her skin. “Hi, baby,” I say, and I know, I fucking know, that I’m already in love with our child.

  I take her home. I ice her wrist then reapply the wrap. I walk her dog around the block. When I return, I ask her if she wants me to spend the night.

  “Yes.”

  Romeo is already at the kennel since I leave on my trip the next day, so I don’t need to call the dog-sitter. I drop my keys with the tadpole charm on the living room table next to my phone. I take off my jeans and sweater, but that’s all. I’m not going to try anything with Nicole, given her damaged wrist. Besides, I’m not here to make a move on her. I’m here to take care of the mother of my child.

  She wears fuzzy pajama bottoms with snowmen on them, and a black tank. Her breasts look bigger. I keep that thought to myself. Now is not the time to compliment those beauties. She slides under the covers, and after I brush my teeth with an e
xtra brush she says I can use, I join her in bed. She yawns, then sighs.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you,” I say.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking care of me tonight.”

  “It’s the only place I wanted to be.”

  She yawns again.

  “All right, sleepy baby. Let’s make sure you get some rest.”

  She flips to her side, and I move closer, draping an arm over her. “Is this okay? Does it hurt your wrist?”

  “No. It feels good.”

  “Yeah. It feels really good,” I echo.

  Nighttime shrouds us, and shadows play on the dark walls.

  “Did you like hearing the heartbeat?” Her voice is an imprint on the air. It feels like a wish. A hope.

  I run my fingers through her hair and answer with my whole heart. “I loved it.”

  “Me, too.” Her voice is feathery. “When I first heard it, I wished you could hear it, too.”

  “Yeah?” I might be grinning like a fool.

  “I did. I wanted you to experience it, too. It’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.”

  “It really is magical.” I press a kiss to the back of her neck, and before I know it, she’s asleep in my arms.

  In the morning, it pains me to have to say good-bye. But work calls, and I’ve got to hit the road for a few weeks, right when I’m starting to feel so much for both of them.

  Thirty

  Nicole

  Penny plucks the pouch of a pair of maternity jeans, pulling it taut like a slingshot. She fires and the blue cotton bounces. “Oh! Look at the stretchiness! This is such a winner.”

  I narrow my eyes at her and deliver my absolute best you’ve got to be kidding me stare. “Those. Are. Hideous.”

  Penny bats her eyelashes. “They’re a building block.” Her voice is pure innocence. “A stepping stone to mom jeans.”

  “Did someone say mom jeans?” Delaney rushes to us with a shirt wadded in her hand. “Your mom jeans would go so well with your new peekaboo.”

  She unfolds it with a ta-da and strikes a pose.