First Comes Love (37 page)

A
few hours later, I've landed in Atlanta and collected my bag and car. I drive home on a virtually empty highway, then pull up to my house, relieved not to see Leslie's car in the driveway.

“Hey!” Gabe says, greeting me at the front door in flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt. He looks happy to see me, though not nearly as excited as Revis, who is planting his paws on my shoulders and licking my face.

“Hey, you two,” I say, laughing as I hug Revis back.

“I've been calling you,” Gabe says, pulling my bag off the porch and rolling it into the foyer.

“Yeah. My phone's dead,” I say. “I left my charger in New York….”

“Kiss it goodbye,” he says, crossing his arms. “She'll never give that back to you.”

I raise my brows. “Meredith told you about our fight?” I ask, thinking that you can't really call it a fight; it was more of a one-sided falling-out.

“Yep. She called this morning, looking for you.”

I sigh and tell him that I left when she was still sleeping and got on an earlier flight. “So what did Meredith say?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Revis as Gabe takes a kitchen stool.

“She's worried,” he says.

I roll my eyes and mutter, “Yeah, right.”

“I promised to let her know when you turned up…so one of us should probably do that….”

I shrug and tell him to feel free to text her, but that she made it very clear she doesn't want to hear from me ever again.

“Well, she's pretty pissed at me, too. But I'll shoot her a text….” Gabe says, picking his phone up off the counter and starting to thumb-type.

“What's her beef with you?” I ask, rubbing the top of Revis's head, then his throat and belly.

“I kind of went off on her,” he says, still typing. “Put her on a little guilt trip of her own…”

I perk up a bit, feeling soothed by his loyalty. “And how did you manage to guilt Saint Meredith?”

“I flipped the script on her sanctimony….” he says. “I told her that if she weren't so judgmental, maybe you would have confided in her years ago.”

“And?” I ask. “What did she say?”

“Oh, she heard me….”

“But did she back down?”

“A little, maybe.” He puts his phone down. “Besides, I'm sure she's
way
more upset at Nolan….I take it you told her that part of the story, too?”

“Yeah,” I say, still feeling guilty about including Nolan in my confession, though there was really no other way to tell the truth. “I had to.”

“Is he going to be angry with you?”

I shrug, thinking that's the least of our concerns. “I hope not. I'm going to text him what happened….Just give him a heads-up…I'm sure he'll understand—and maybe even feel relieved….In any event, I know I did the right thing by telling her.”

“You did,” Gabe says, nodding. “I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I say with a big sigh. Then I tell him about our dinner with Sophie, sticking to the facts (that she married, had a son, then got a divorce, and is now in a relationship with a woman). I do not editorialize, wanting to hear his true reaction first.

“Was it cathartic?” he asks, missing the mark—which is rare for him.

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “The opposite…Meredith and I both expected to see more grief…more
longing
….I think part of us, on some level, went into the night actually
wanting
to see a broken woman…wanting to hear that his death destroyed her life….” My voice trails off as I silently finish my sentence:
just as it did ours.

Gabe stares at me for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Nah. You wouldn't want that,” he says. “You just wanted to hear what he meant to her. That he affected her in some profound and lasting way.”

I nod, thinking that this time he
is
right—that that really
would
have been enough. “Yeah. True,” I say, drawing a deep breath as I stand and take the stool next to his. “So it wasn't cathartic. But I do feel a sense of closure.”

“On the Sophie front?”

“Yeah. And also with Meredith…I hope she comes around…but if she doesn't…”

“She will. She always does.”

“She might not this time. But either way…I did what I had to do….And I feel that I can now move on with my life. I'm ready to have a baby. Right now.”

Gabe turns ninety degrees on his stool, as I do the same, our shoulders now squared. “Right now, huh?”

“Yeah.” I nod, feeling a rush of adrenaline as I hold his gaze. “Right now. And with
you,
Gabe. I want to have this baby with
you
.”

“You do?” he says. His smile is faint, but his eyes are unmistakably happy.

“Yes. I do,” I say, overwhelmed with a sense of calm certainty. “If the offer's still good?”

“Yeah.” Gabe grins. “I think we're both a little nuts here…but yeah, the offer's still good.”

“Can you picture it?” I ask him—because I'm finally
really
starting to. Not just motherhood, which I've been imagining in one way or another since I was a little girl playing with dolls, but a permanent partnership with Gabe—and the dark-haired, brown-eyed, brilliant child his genes will likely give me.

“Yes. I can, actually,” he says without any hesitation.

“Really?” I say, feeling a little choked up.

He nods. “Yes. You're my best friend, Josie. You're
more
than a best friend. I told you—you're my family.”

“You're my family, too,” I say. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I'm sure,” he says. “I'm sure that you're going to drive me crazy. And I'm sure this baby is going to kill my lifestyle….But I've given this a lot of thought—really since the first time you brought it up—and I'm also sure—
very
sure—that this will be the best thing I ever do with my life. That this baby will be everything to me. To both of us.”

I break into a big grin, then give him an even bigger hug. As we separate, I tell him he's officially on the hook, no take-backs, and that I'll be calling Dr. Lazarus first thing tomorrow morning.

“
S
O HOW WILL
this work, exactly?” Sydney asks me the following afternoon as we sit on our usual bench on the playground, supervising the kids during recess. I've just told her about the appointment I booked with Dr. Lazarus for later this week—and my decision to use Gabe's sperm.

“Do you mean the actual procedure?” I ask her.

“Yeah. Will you have to do IVF?”

“No,” I say. “Not yet. My ovarian reserve is on the low side, but we decided to try one straightforward round of insemination first….”

“So no fertility drugs?”

“No,” I say. “Just an injection of hCG to trigger ovulation beforehand.”

“Then what?”

“That's pretty much it. Then we just wait and see what happens….” I say, the weight of my decision sinking in more with every passing hour.

“So no lawyers, either? Like you were going to use with Pete?”

“Correct,” I say, getting butterflies hearing Pete's name and thinking about our dinner plans tonight. I push him out of my mind and continue, “They just take the sample from Gabe…then wash and process it to basically concentrate the sperm and maximize the chances of conception….Then they just shoot it up there. It's a supereasy procedure.” I pat my stomach and smile. “It's like a normal pregnancy…minus his penis inside me.”

“Oh, yeah.
So
normal.” Sydney cracks up just as Edie runs over to our bench, calling my name in deep distress, as she does about twice a week. “Miss Josie! Miss Jo-
sieeee
!”

“What's wrong, sweetie?” I ask, pretending to be more alarmed than I am.

“Wesley called me a ‘dumb girl,' ” she sobs, tears streaming down her face. “He's
so
mean.”

I put my arm around her and tell her what I believe to be true based on months of observation. “Sweetie, Wesley teases you because he
likes
you.”

“No, he
hates
me,” she insists as I catch Wesley over by the monkey bars, eyeing us with a mischievous smile.

“Trust me….He likes you,” I say, picturing the two of them one day dating and telling the story of how they met, back in the first grade in Miss Josie's class. Stranger things have happened.

“And guess what?” I continue in my most excited, I-have-a-big-secret voice.

“What?” she asks, wiping away her tears and looking at me with wide, trusting eyes.

“I like you, too,” I whisper in her ear. “A
lot
.”

Edie's tears instantly clear. She gives me a big smile before scampering off, happy again.

“Teacher's
pet,
” Sydney says, elbowing me.

“Guilty,” I say, smiling. “She's just so sweet…like her mother, actually.”

“Too bad her dad sucks,” Sydney says.

I shrug, feeling blissfully indifferent to Edie's dad, then say, “I don't know. Will's really not
that
bad….He's just a little lame….I'm glad I'm not married to him.”

“
Wow
. You really have made progress,” Syd says.

“Yeah. I guess I have,” I say, thinking of what a strange but powerful turn my life has taken since the first day of school, back when I feared Edie, despised Will, and pinned all my hopes on some man I might never meet.

A
COUPLE OF
hours before our reservation at Sotto Sotto, my favorite Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Pete calls me, asking if he can come pick me up. I tell him I appreciate the offer, but that it makes no sense for him to drive all the way to Buckhead when he lives in Inman Park, so near the restaurant. “How about I pick
you
up?” I say.

He starts to protest, insisting that he doesn't mind the driving, but I cut him off and say, “When will you learn you're not dealing with a traditional girl here?”

Pete laughs. “Okay. Good point. Do you want to come early for a drink?”

“Sure,” I say. “Seven?”

“Perfect. Eighty-seven Druid Circle…just past Krog Street Market.”

I scribble the address on a notepad and say, “Got it. See you soon.”

“Can't wait,” Pete says.

A
FEW MINUTES
past seven, I am standing on the front porch of Pete's charming Craftsman bungalow, ringing his bell. The door swings open immediately, and there he stands, looking cuter than ever.

“Hi,” I say, smiling.

“Hi, you.” He smiles back at me, then steps aside, holding the door. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside.

He gives me a hug. I can't tell if he's wearing cologne or if it's just soap, but I love his scent.

“You smell nice,” I tell him as we separate. “And I like your hair.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” he says, running one hand through it, looking endearingly self-conscious. “I actually meant to get a haircut today….”

“No, I
really
like it,” I say. “I like a little longer hair on guys….”

“On guys, huh?” Pete says teasingly.

“On
you,
” I clarify.

He smiles and thanks me, then leads me to his kitchen, where a very basic plate of cheese, crackers, and green grapes awaits us. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine? A beer?”

“I'd love a beer,” I say, sitting at his small round table. I watch him pull two SweetWater beers out of the fridge. He opens them, then pours them into chilled mugs from the freezer. He hands me mine, then sits beside me.