First Comes Love (26 page)

Then, before I can thank him, let alone process the magnitude of the gift he's just bestowed upon me, my boss's boss winks and walks out the door.

T
he Wednesday morning following my first appointment with Susan Lazarus, and three days before I turn thirty-eight, Gabe walks into the kitchen with an extreme case of bed head.

“Nice hair,” I say.

He runs his hand through it and thanks me.

“Why are you up?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It's only six-forty, about five minutes before I have to walk out the door, but a good hour before Gabe normally hits his snooze button for the
first
time.

“I wanted to catch you before you left,” he says, yawning as he opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a jug of grapefruit juice, gives it a shake, then pours some into a glass. “Your birthday's coming up.”

“I thought you forgot,” I say.

“I did until this morning,” he confesses without a trace of remorse. “Why didn't you remind me like you usually do?”

I put my peanut-butter toast down on a paper towel, wipe my fingers on the edge of it, and say, “I'm trying to be less self-involved as I approach motherhood.”

“And how's that going for you?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“It's not easy,” I say. “I was starting to feel like Samantha Baker.”

“Who?” he asks, which surprises me; normally he nails movie trivia.

“C'mon. Molly Ringwald?
Sixteen Candles
? Remember how everyone forgot her birthday?”

“Facebook wouldn't let that happen to you.”

“You're not on Facebook.”

“But I'm sure Pete is.” He gives me a coy look, clearly testing me.

“Good point,” I say.

“So do you have plans with him?”

“No. I don't have any plans,” I say, making a big show of taking my folic-acid-filled vitamin with a long swallow of now-room-temperature green tea.

“Well, what do you wanna do?” he asks.

I think for a second and say, “I want to go out and get really drunk.”

“Spoken like a mother.”

“It'll be my last hurrah. Hopefully my last birthday without a child…Will you make a reservation somewhere fun?”

“Can't Sydney handle that?”

“Gabe,” I whine. “She's not my best friend.
You
are.”

“Fine
,
” he says with a sigh. “But can I get some guidance? Where do you want to go and who do you want to invite?”

“I'm sure you'll make the right decisions,” I say. Then, in case that's not enough pressure, I add, “You're the one person who
never
lets me down.”

“Okay,” he says. “Just send me Donor Boy's number. I assume you want him there?”

“Sure,” I say. “That'd be great.”

“How's his sperm count doing, anyway?”

“Well, let's see. He switched from briefs to boxers. He gave up cycling. And he's avoiding the sauna and hot tub. The boys function best at ninety-four to ninety-six degrees,” I say, gathering up my things.

“Tell me you're kidding.”

I
am
kidding, but I give him a shrug, enjoying the rare role reversal. Usually I'm the gullible, confused one. Gabe mumbles something under his breath about me being insane as I head out the door, feeling inexplicably triumphant.

O
DDLY ENOUGH,
D
R.
Lazarus leaves me a message later that morning, saying that she got my test results and would like for me to call her back at my convenience. I listen to it twice, and although her voice is perfectly neutral, my heart fills with dread and despair. I feel certain that she's going to give me disastrous news, and can barely keep it together during my ensuing science lesson on the differences between solids, liquids, and gases. The second the school day ends, I call her back, launching right in with “Just give it to me straight. I can't have a baby, can I? I need to start looking into adoption?”

She pauses for a few horrifying seconds, then laughs and says, “Not at all, Josie. It's not that dire….”

“Not
that
dire?” I say.

“It's not dire at
all
.”

I blink back tears of relief as she calmly continues. “You're fine. Just
fine
. And very healthy.”

“So I
can
have a baby?”

“Yes. You should be able to have a baby…but your ovarian reserve result, which measures the quantity and quality of your eggs and is a major indicator of fertility,
is
a bit on the low side for your age.”

“So…I'm more like forty than thirty-eight?”

“Something like that,” she says, with what I can tell is a smile. “It's nothing to panic about…but at the same time, if this is something you're really certain about, I don't think you should wait for very long.”

“Like, how long do I have?” I say.

“It's not that scientific,” she says. “But if I were you?…”

“Yes?” I say, putting all my faith in her reply. “If you were in my shoes…what would you do?”

“I would start trying immediately,” she says. “As soon as you make your donor decision.”

“Okay,” I tell her, instantly picturing Pete. “I will.”

T
HAT NIGHT, JUST
after I've given Gabe the update on my ovarian reserve, Pete calls to chat. Although we've been talking on the phone fairly regularly, there's still a little nervous energy when we do. Both of us are working to be witty, as is often the case with new friends, regardless of gender and whether one is considering donating his sperm to the other. About ten minutes into our conversation, he mentions that Gabe called him about going out on Saturday night.

“Oh, yeah…I know it's last minute. But thirty-eight isn't a birthday to get too excited about….” I say, thinking that that's especially true when your eggs are more like forty. “No worries if you have plans…” I try to sound more nonchalant than I feel.

“I'm in,” he quickly says.

I smile and tell him good, I'm glad to hear it.

“I've been thinking about what to get you,” he says.

“Oh, you don't have to get me anything. Your presence is present enough,” I joke. Incidentally, Meredith actually included that line on Harper's last birthday invitation—which I thought was a little bit pretentious. I mean,
puh-lease,
just let people get your kid a twenty-dollar gift, already.

“Oh, is it?” Pete asks.

“That…and your sperm,” I add with a laugh.

“Just tell me when and where to make the deposit,” he says.

I know it's only banter, but I seize the opportunity to tell him about my doctor's appointment last week. “They call it prenatal consultation,” I say. “It was interesting. I really, really liked the doctor—Susan Lazarus. She was very nice, very smart. Gabe liked her, too, and he's harder to please….” I bite my lip to halt the babbling, deciding not to tell him about my test results.

“Cool. So are you thinking of using Gabe now?” Pete asks. “For your donor?”

“Oh,
God,
no. Not at all. Never. He just went for moral support.” I take a deep breath, then add, “I told Dr. Lazarus about
you,
actually.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” he says, sounding flattered.

“Yeah. I told her that I had an excellent prospect….” My voice trails off, as I wonder how I'm ever going to take this conversation to the next level.

“And?” he asks.

“And…she…listened,” I say with a nervous laugh. “So would you want to meet her?”

“Sure,” he says, without a second of hesitation. “When?”

“At my next appointment?” I say, now sweating. I pick up the brochure that Dr. Lazarus gave me and start fanning myself with it.

“Sure,” he says again. “So would it be like a preliminary interview? Or more like a look-at-porn-and-ejaculate-into-a-vial kind of deal?”

“C'mon!” I say, pretending to be offended. “That's disgusting.”

“Sorry. But isn't that how it works?”

“I guess,” I say. “But can I make one request?”

“Go ahead. Though something tells me that it won't be your last.”

“I really don't want to know if porn is part of my journey to motherhood,” I say, laughing.

“Fair enough,” he says. “I'll light some candles and bring some roses and think romantic thoughts instead.”

I smile and tell him that's a much better visual. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Oh, and Josie?”

“Yeah?”

“You're welcome to join me….” he says jokingly.

“Ha-ha,” I say, pretending that my heart didn't just skip a beat.

O
N
S
ATURDAY MORNING,
my actual birthday, I wake up in a good mood and feel even happier when Gabe comes into my room and informs me that we have a reservation at The Optimist at eight.

“Perfect!” I say, as I start to make my bed. “Who all's coming?”

Gabe gives me a cagey look and says, “I thought you wanted to be surprised?”

“I never said that. I said I wanted you to
handle
the details,” I say.

“Well, I
did
handle them.”

“And?”

He sits backward on my desk chair, Fonzie-style, and says, “It's me, you, Leslie, Sydney, Meredith, Shawna, and Donor Boy.”

“Interesting,” I say, freezing in mid–pillow fluff.

“Okay,” Gabe says with a sigh. “What's your beef?”

I have several beefs, Leslie among them, but simply say, “
Meredith
's coming?”

“Yeah. She texted me yesterday and asked,” he says. “I had to include her.”

“What about Nolan?”

Gabe shakes his head and says he can't make it.

“Why not?” I ask, feeling disappointed that he can't be their family representative and also a little worried that he might be mad at me, too—that my sister managed to rile him up and somehow turn him against me. I remind myself that this hasn't happened to date, so I'm probably okay now.

“Meredith didn't say,” Gabe replies.

“What about Stacey, Kendra, and Leigh?” I ask, referring to my three closest college friends, none of whom Gabe particularly likes. “Did you invite them?”

He pauses, then confesses. “You left it up to me, so I
might
have exercised a little bit of discretion….”

I cross my arms and whine his name.

Gabe isn't having it. “Look. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a table for seven people at The Optimist on three days' notice? Can you just focus on the positive here?”

“It's not so hard when you've had relations with the head bartender,” I say.

Gabe gives me a sheepish look. “That was a long time ago.”

“That you had sex with her or that she sent you a naked selfie?” I ask, remembering how I accidentally glimpsed a rather spectacular full-frontal nude of her on his phone.

“Both,” he says, cracking his knuckles.

“But that
is
how you scored a last-minute reservation,” I say. “Isn't it?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

I roll my eyes and ask if Leslie knows about her.

“Yes, Leslie knows I'm friends with a bartender at The Optimist.”

“No, Gabe.
We
are friends.
That
was something else altogether. But whatever,” I say, then switch gears. “So Shawna's coming?”

“Yup. Meredith's idea. She gave me her number.”

“Huh,” I say, a little surprised. Even though Shawna and I both made an effort to repair our friendship after Daniel died, it has been several years since she joined one of my birthday outings.

“When's the last time you talked to her?” he asks.

“It's been a few months…and I don't think I've seen her since Oliver was born.”