by SM Lumetta
“It’s fine because there’s veggies in it,” she maintains.
Iris glares at the rest of us since she can only have juice or soda, but the lot of us are impervious as she has her baby, Will, with her today. He is truly adorable… until about an hour in when he isn’t.
The baby howls, unaffected by any attempts to soothe him. The four of us coo and make hush sounds, passing Will between us to see if the change might calm him. Iris’s friend Sasha looks close to her breaking point. She says she loves kids, but appears to be terrible with them. If she has her own someday, I hope the mommy instincts kick in. I want to do something to help but keep coming up empty, which worries me, given my newfound desperation to get knocked up.
Speak of the devil, Fox is the next person to walk through the door.
“Jesus, what are you crones doing to the poor kid?” he teases, stopping in front of Sasha, who still holds Will in her arms. She stops swaying and bouncing as Will turns his gaze and cries toward Fox.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” he leans in to tell the infant, who seems to be winding up for another earsplitting rendition of the song of his people, “it gets better.”
I roll my eyes, prepared to tell my friend what an asshole he is when the baby twists and reaches out to Fox. The room immediately goes silent except for Will, of course, who loses his ever-loving mind.
Just as Fox is about to walk away, Sasha panics and thrusts the squirming child into his arms. Will’s cries soon quiet to a whine before morphing into a hiccupping sigh. Within thirty seconds, he is entirely calm and has curled up against Fox’s apparently comfortable shoulder. His hold on the baby isn’t the most natural, but he does start doing the automatic mommy sway.
Everyone trades completely floored expressions before turning back to find Will is now completely out. Fox catches my wide, shocked expression and smirks. I can see shock equal to ours behind his cocky grin, too, but if you don’t know him like I do, it’d be easy to miss.
Fox has never been the kind of guy who loves kids. He’s good with people in general, and he’s fairly even keeled. Kids don’t gravitate to him, but they tend to love him because he’s often a big kid himself. He rarely goes out of his way to interact with them, but is disturbingly comfortable around them.
“Do you hear that?” Nora asks, setting up for a punch line. “It’s the sound of millions of ovaries exploding all across the world.”
“Cue audience,” I say. All the ladies in the room join me in a chorus of “aw.”
Holy shit.
I realize with a brick to the gut that he’s the guy. Nora eyeballs me. I don’t have to say anything, my expression tells her exactly what I’m thinking: My oldest friend in the world, Fox Monkhouse, is the future father of my baby… if he agrees to my terms.
The audience performs its own chorus of “aw.”
“Do you want a beer or something?” Fox asks. Does he know how nervous I am right now? “You look like you need to relax.”
Ugh. I’d debated with myself for almost a full week since my eureka moment. I’d debated with Nora for a solid day—in person—then via text until my eyes felt like they would bleed. Ultimately, we agreed this was the way to go. I’m still not sure why. Nor am I sure if I’m totally comfortable with it, but fuck it. Balls to the wall.
“Yeah, a beer would be great, thanks,” I say, and immediately start yoga-breathing when he walks away to go into the kitchen. “Calm down,” I whisper to myself.
When he comes back, he hands me the bottle and sips his while studying me. “So what’s up? You said you wanted to ask me about something? Is this for research?”
“Um.”
“Come on, Lollipop,” he says. “You can talk to me.”
I smile on reflex. Lollipop was a nickname he gave me when we first met at the ripe old age of four. Later on, someone asked him why he would insult me like that. I remember tilting my head, realizing I’d never thought about it like that—as if the nickname meant I had an abnormally large head on a stick body. Before I could defend him, Fox said, “I gave her the name because when I met her I thought she was sweet like candy. And lollipops were my favorite.”
Fox stares at me. My smile falters and he makes small circles with his head. “Out with it.”
“Yeah, I know I can talk to you,” I agree, but I chug a mega-sip from the beer. After painfully forcing the mouthful down, I say, “I just usually don’t have to.”
He makes the Kermit face—pursed lips with a downturned mouth, obviously named for Kermit the Frog’s comic look of anger or disgust.
I smirk. I love-hate that face. Which side of the coin my affection for it falls on depends on the situation in which he plants it on me. I take a deep breath. “Okay. Do you remember that day at Dr. Beaufort’s? When I fainted?”
“You said you didn’t eat and your sugar dropped,” he recalls. “That was bullshit, wasn’t it?”
“Um, wow. Yeah, it was.” I’m surprised he picked up on that.
“Come on, Fordham,” he says, holding his arms wide. “Don’t insult me like that. I can be perceptive.”
I roll my eyes. “I know. You’re a smart guy and you only miss stuff on purpose.”
“What does that mean?” He sounds even more insulted, but I can’t deal with the misdirection.
“Nothing. Listen.” I take another sip and set the beer down on the breakfast bar. “Can we sit down? You should sit down.”
“Damn,” he says as he follows me to the couch. “Are you asking for part of my liver? Maybe a kidney?”
I sit. “Not exactly. More like a testicle.”
Nearly the entire whole of his face scrunches into a sucking-on-lemon expression. “I hope that’s a euphemism, because I use those.”
“A lot, I know,” I say, noticing my voice sounds annoyed. Why am I annoyed? Maybe because I can’t get my proposition the fuck out.
“Okay, spit it out, woman,” he demands. “And you know I don’t say that often. At least not in personal situations.”
I groan. “I want to have a baby.”
“Wait, what? What happened?”
I sigh. Fox and I don’t have super deep serious-pants conversations. At least, it’s rare. So this discomfort is unusual.
“My eggs are jumping off the proverbial cliff. Like the dodo,” I say. His responding look of “what the fuck?” prompts me to spell it out. “I’m going into early menopause.”
He remains silent for a beat too long as his eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”
My mouth drops open. “For real? Um, yeah. Unless you want to tell Dr. B that she’s an idiot. Not to mention the UC Santa Barbara specialist staff.”
He just stares at me. I’m going to smack him, and maybe throw up.
“So yeah, early menopause,” I begin to fill the silence gap, only for him to interrupt.
“Christ, I think you mean insanely early.”
I grunt. “Tell me about it. But apparently it can happen.”
“I had no idea that could happen.”
“Nurse Foxy, I don’t have a lot of time, and there are some medical options involved which are not really financially viable.” I blow past his incredulousness so I don’t lose steam and chicken out. “I’m looking to have a baby while I have a reasonable window. Of course, I insist you take a day or three to think about this, but… I want you to be the father.”
He should have seen this coming before now, but the statuesque reaction—the ultimate deer in headlights—makes it clear that hints have gone straight over his head. He doesn’t move or breathe for long enough that I wonder if he’s been spontaneously paralyzed. I stand, walk over, and wave a hand in front of his face. Thankfully, he blinks.
“Do… um.” He stops and starts. “Me?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I slump over with an exasperated sigh. “Honestly?”
“No, please lie.”
“Asshole.”
“Now you see the reason f
or my question,” he snarks as life finally creeps back into his posture.
I feel so much more exposed, regardless of the details I’m about to explain. “Well, because you’re my best guy friend. You’re good looking, smart—”
“Uhh… I’m hot.” He leans forward to somehow emphasize his point. Well, he isn’t wearing a shirt, so…
“You’re a dick.”
“Who’s hot.”
I love that the supposed insult doesn’t slow him down. “Fine,” I concede, “you’re hot.”
“Thank you.” He looks satisfied, so of course I roll my eyes. “I’ll ignore that.”
“Anyway.”
“Proceed.”
“I don’t expect you to be a dad, though I’d hope you would want to know him or her,” I say. I hear the unevenness in my tone and worry I’m about to get emotional. I’ve already started taking hormones with the expectation that if he doesn’t say yes, I go back to my daddy-in-a-test-tube list that Nora helped me pick. I can’t stomach the thought of going door to door down the list of guy friends like some twisted traveling pussy salesman. “Um, I just thought, you know, I care about you. You’re like family—”
“Gross.”
I ignore him. “I thought that because you mean something to me, I won’t feel so disconnected and cold about where my child came from.”
He purses his lips at me as he breathes audibly through his nose. Like a cartoon dragon.
I begin to grow seriously uncomfortable. My heartbeat picks up and I feel the prickle of heat across my face. My palms are sweaty and cold.
“So you want me to jizz in a cup?” he asks, but I’d practically spaced out. I was about to take a jog around the block while screaming. “You know, the sperm collection clinics?”
“I know the clinics, yeah,” I say, looking down. Then I look at the corner of the room. The ceiling. The floor again. Side to side. “But, um, no.”
He creases his brow. “Where do you want me to jizz?”
Fucking hell.
“Dude. Even if you weren’t a nurse, you should know where the jizz goes.”
He glares at me. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can’t get pregnant by giving a blow job,” he says, tacking on a ridiculous theatrical cackle. “But if you insist on trying.”
“Fuck me,” I say with a growl. I rest my face in my palm, only to startle when he bursts out of his seat.
“Hold up. You want me to fuck you?” He’s shocked, like, legit shocked. “Are you insane?”
My skin burns and nausea sweeps over me. I blow out a careful breath, mumbling, “Clearly.” I grab my purse and dig for my keys. Somehow, I manage to scrape up some humor. “Joke’s on you, fucker! Heh… heh. Yeah, so I’ll see you later. Sometime. Or never. Whatever.”
As quickly as I can, I’m out the door and down the walk to the street. My face feels like it is literally on fire. A door slams behind me, but before I can turn, I’m upended. A strange squawk sounds, and I realize it was me.
As I stare at the cement of the driveway, then the porch, and finally, over the threshold, I ask, “Is this a caveman sort of thing? Because this is not the reaction I was expecting.” My voice creaks like groaning floorboards.
Next thing I know, the world spins, my purse flies on its own trajectory, and I land flat on my back on Fox’s couch. The force is enough that I bounce and might have ricocheted onto the coffee table if not for Fox caging me in with his arms. I consider whether I want to barf or not, but my train of thought is interrupted by Fox’s face in front of mine.
“Dude,” he says, far too amused for my liking. He says dude a few more times peppered in between his stupid-ass laughter. I consider unfriending him altogether. Not just on social media, which he doesn’t even use. “I’m analog,” he often says. That would explain his massive collection of vinyl. He even has a box of 8-track tapes and a stereo with an 8-track player. HE WASN’T EVEN BORN WHEN THEY WENT EXTINCT.
Not soon enough, he manages to pull his shit together enough to let me sit up. He sits next to me, giggling for the better part of a minute. “You should have seen your face. It was practically purple, you blushed so hard.” He turns to me. “I was just messing with you, Lolls.”
“Fucking hilarious,” I say, and it sounds kind of evil. I might be seething a little bit. This is an emotional thing for me—I’m second-guessing myself at every turn, and here I’m offering up the poon to my best guy friend in order to impregnate myself. No, he’d be impregnating me, right? God, just the thoughts of this are making me uneasy. It’s entirely possible that I’m going to throw up and I can’t even blame pregnancy yet.
Meanwhile, Bodhi Beach Comedy Showcase next to me is still far too amused by his own antics. Maybe he’s too immature for this.
“I should be a fucking actor,” he declares, and I shudder to imagine the size of his ego if that were a successful venture. “I’d have awards up the ying-yang!”
I briefly consider myself mentally incompetent for thinking I want to have sex with this man in order to have a baby. Maybe jizz in a cup is a better option. “I’ve got a steel-toed boot I’d like to shove up your ying-yang right now. Does that count?” I snark at him.
My blond surfer boy groans, briefly leaning on my shoulder. His scent is salty. He was surfing this morning. He always showers, but sometimes the ocean smell stays with him. There’s something comforting about it.
“You said I was smart,” he says before sitting up and turning to face me.
His face relaxes, and for a moment, I look in his eyes. I smile subtly watching the different colors of each. The hazel one is very green right now, but the golden-brown highlights are contracting and blooming with the sun that shines through the window directly on his tanned face. A loosely curled lock of his blond hair falls across the green eye. The shadow makes it look like darkened jade. The man is beautiful. A chiseled face, tall, lean yet muscular… definitely a specimen who’s worth pairing your DNA with. I internally enjoy the overly scientific thought. Physically, Fox is a fantastic choice to father a kid. He is smart, but then he opens his damn mouth and ruins it. I should have expected it, really. Regardless, I’m embarrassed and vulnerable, not to mention a little touchy, so I’m not sure I’m responsible for my reaction to his next ill-advised commentary.
“I knew where you were going. Don’t be so sensitive.”
I punch him in the face. It was an instant reflex, I swear.
“Okay, so let’s try this again,” he says a few minutes later. At least that’s what I think he says through the ice pack.
I’m surprised he doesn’t seem more disturbed or scared by the father-my-kid-the-old-fashioned-way request, but after the shock and awe has died down, he seems somewhat introspective. Of course, he’s nursing a bloody nose. He’s lucky I didn’t break it. I’ve really grown into my Krav Maga classes. I spend several minutes apologizing for hitting him. I’ll admit, though, that it felt really good in the moment.
“Lolls,” he groans, still a bit nasal, even though he’s taken off the ice pack, “I get it. We’re fine. I was a bit of a dick there for a sec, I admit. You didn’t need to Apollo Creed my ass over it, but I understand you’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed, first of all,” I say, but stop when he raises an eyebrow. “Okay, I’m embarrassed, but come on! I’m a little more than a year and a half away from thirty and my reproductive system decides to call it? It’s like woman failure.”
“Sophie,” he pleads, and I marvel at his softness. It’s the sensitivity he was lacking when we got to the real nitty-gritty of my proposition. It also sends a wave of goose bumps over me.
I take a quick breath and nod. “I know. Yeah, it’s not that, but that’s what it feels like. Think of it like erectile dysfunction but without any pills to stop it.”
He pales. And is still gorgeous. But the sickly look on his face cheers me. “Also, your obsession with referencing Rocky
movies did not go unnoticed. It’s a little sad,” I tease.
He rolls his eyes, leaning back on the couch. “I met Rocky in Hawaii just before we moved to Cali,” he begins. Flower takes that opportunity to hop up from her doggie bed, amble over, and climb up with him. Fox continues as if he didn’t even notice. “My mom went gaga, though did I ever tell you he was significantly shorter than my dad?”
“Yes. And you were three, by the way. You wouldn’t even remember if your mom didn’t have a Polaroid.”
“I remember it!” He’s a tad too defensive. How he can be so sensitive about his love of Rocky but give no fucks about being teased over his ABBA obsession, I’ll never understand.
I scoff.
“Whatever. I had a Rocky fascination because of it. At least that’s what Mom thinks.”
I find it hilarious he’s blaming Roz for this. “You also know his name is Sylvester—”
“No,” he insists, and I fight a smile. “It’s not. It’s Rocky. Because I like it better that way.”
“Did you see Demolition Man? It’s epic bad, but good in its badness.”
“Just stop talking,” he says. “You really do push it too far sometimes.”
When I keep my quiet amusement to myself, my hunched frame shaking slightly, he continues. “Okay fine. I saw it.”
I take a deep breath to clear the funny and I look up at him. “You loved it. Didn’t you?”
“Dammit, Fordham.” He flattens his lips together to avoid smiling, but then he side-eyes me and cracks. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, grinning.
“Know me better than someone should,” he says as if it were a throw-off comment, but it’s a compliment. Backhanded, sure, but a compliment nonetheless. At least in my mind. “So should we get back to the issue? I have a shift tonight, so I need to leave in an hour or so.”
“Right,” I say, burrowing into my corner of the sofa. My stomach flips a little, because we’re back to serious conversation. That said, I feel more relaxed now, knowing he’s comfortable with the topic, at the very least. “So… what do you think? Are you open to it? I don’t expect you to give me an ironclad decision right now, of course.”
