First Comes Love (28 page)

“Ah, so you're just being strategic? Like the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But for Gabe, it's Josie?” Sydney asks her.

Leslie laughs and says, “Honestly, I just wanted to see this place.”

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” I say.

“And more,” she says as we sail through a cloud of cigar smoke and sidle up to the bar lined with red upholstered swivel chairs.

“What do you girls want?” Pete asks, pushing a credit card across the bar. “Should we go with a retro cocktail? Harvey Wallbangers? Manhattans? Tequila sunrises?”

I say, “You know what? I'll take a whiskey sour.”

Shawna makes a face and says, “I forgot how we used to drink those! Make it two.”

Syd and Leslie say they'll stick with red wine—and Pete orders a Miller Lite, starting a tab despite Shawna's insistence that he's only getting the first round. Moments later, drinks in hand, we squeeze onto the packed but demographically diverse dance floor—from hot sorority girls to Virginia Slims–smoking divorcées to businessmen in crumpled suits. As the DJ spins hits from the fifties through the nineties, we dance in a sweaty cluster, occasionally merging with gyrating strangers or posing for provocative group selfies. At one point, my left breast even makes an accidental cameo.

A few rounds later, as Pete and I pair off and slow-dance to Poison's “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” I feel a surge of happiness. Although I recognize that it's probably just an alcohol-and-eighties-music-induced euphoria, I wonder if it might be a little more than that. If maybe it might actually have something to do with
Pete
.

“I'm so happy we met,” I say, smiling up at him, my arms around his waist.

“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me. “No matter what happens with us.”

“Meaning what?” I ask. “Are you backing out…?”

“Nope,” he says, expertly dipping me. “I just meant regardless of what happens
tonight
.”

I laugh and say, “Wait. Are you hitting on me?”

“Uh-huh. I think I am,” Pete says, putting his hand on my ass. “But at Johnny's, it's called making a pass….Can you dig it?”

“Oh, I can dig it,” I say, racking my brain for seventies slang. “You're such a Casanova.”

He gives me his cheesiest wink, then does a groovy spinning dance move. “Don't you know it, girl.”

I beam up at him, then say, “You know what?”

“What's that?”

“I was just thinking that you're hot. Really hot…but it's probably just the booze talkin'.”

“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart, baby,” he says, pulling me closer.

“Actually,” I say. “I don't think it's the booze. I think it's that your buzz cut is finally growing out.”

“Jerk,”
he says, pretending to be offended.

“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart,” I remind him, staring at the cleft in his chin. “But seriously. You really do look good tonight.”

“Good enough to kiss me?” he asks as the DJ starts playing “Jessie's Girl,” one of my all-time favorites.

“Maybe,” I say, giving him a coy smile.

“Well?” he says. “What's it gonna be?”

As Springfield bursts into his refrain, I decide to go for it. I stand on my tiptoes, lean up, and kiss him for just long enough to know that I like it.

“Wow,” he says, as we separate, his eyes still closed. “That was pretty nice.”

“
Pretty
nice?” I say.

“
Very
nice,” he says, then leans down and kisses me again. Our lips part.

“Get a room!” I hear Shawna shouting behind us, bringing back college memories.

I pull away from Pete, quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and say to Shawna, “You didn't see that.”

“Did, too,” she says, then points at Leslie and Syd. “And so did they.”

“It was nothing,” I announce to the group. “Just a little birthday kiss. Right, Pete?”

Pete nods in earnest agreement. “Yep. That's all it was.”

I stare at him, wondering if he's bluffing or telling the truth. I decide it's likely the latter, feeling a dash of disappointment. After all, it's very difficult to let go of the lifelong dream of finding love—and at the very least it would be nice to feel wanted. But then I remind myself of the greater picture, a bigger dream. I tell myself not to let one stupid kiss muddy the waters. That one day, it will just be a cute story to share with my daughter—or son—about my thirty-eighth birthday. How one night, shortly before my insemination, I kissed her biological father on the dance floor of Johnny's Hideaway.

A
BOUT AN HOUR
later, after we shut the place down (no easy feat), and Sydney drops me off in her Uber car, I walk in the house, ravenously hungry, heading straight for the kitchen. As I open the refrigerator, scouring for leftovers, I hear footsteps behind me and jump, dropping a Chinese take-out box that spills all over the floor.

“Hey,” I hear Gabe say.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, bending down to pick up the container and a big clump of white rice. “What are you doing creeping around like that?”

“Um. I live here?” Gabe says.

“Well, still,” I say, kicking off my heels, knowing that my feet aren't going to recover for days. “What are you doing up?”

“I can't sleep.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Well, I'm fuckin' starving,” I say, swearing more than usual, as I always do after a few drinks. “Do we have anything other than rice?”

“There should be some beef and broccoli in there, too,” he says.

I look again and spot another white container behind Gabe's carton of whole milk. “There it is,” I say, grabbing it and putting it on the counter. Then I pull a fork out of the utensil drawer, deciding that it's not worth the effort to get a plate or put anything in the microwave. Instead, I dive straight in.

“Nasty,” Gabe says under his breath, both because he never eats cold leftovers and because he thinks all food, even that which is consumed at three in the morning, should be put on a plate and eaten with a little civility. His words.

“Whatever,” I say. “
You're
nasty.”

“No,
you
are,” he says. “And you smell like an ashtray.”

He gives me a knowing look, leading his witness, as always. When I don't respond, he adds, “I heard you were smoking cigars tonight.”

“Paul Jolly was there. You know—our old neighbor? I took, like,
one
puff of his cigar. Who's your informant?”

“I talked to Leslie.”

“She called you
already
?” I say, thinking that she left only about twenty minutes before the rest of us.

“No. I called
her
.”

“Failed attempt at a booty call, eh?” I say.

“I
never
fail at my booty calls,” Gabe says, which is probably close to the truth.

“Well, then, why isn't she here?” I ask.

“Because I didn't invite her. I was just starting to worry about where
you
were….I called you first….Check your phone.”

“It died….I took a lot of videos. I caught Leslie in some hot girl-on-girl action,” I say, thinking of the impressive grinding she and Sydney did to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Granted, it was all initiated by Syd, but still.

“Yeah. Well, I hear you were caught in some girl-on-
boy
action,” Gabe says. “Makin' out on the dance floor, huh?”

“Holy
fuck,
she's a snitch,” I say, taking another bite of beef.

“Oh, so you wanted to keep it a secret from me?”

“No, it's not a secret,” I say, with my mouth still full. “But she's exaggerating.”

“Right,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You know what, Josie?…Johnny's Hideaway is bad. But
making
out
at Johnny's Hideaway is on a whole other level.”

“I did
not
make
out
at Johnny's,” I say, scraping up the last bite.

His arms still crossed, he cocks his head to the side. “So you didn't kiss Pete tonight?”

“Yeah, I kissed him,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But that's a far cry from making out.”

Gabe gives me a disapproving stare.

“What? Don't give me that look,” I say, then add, “You know…if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous.”

It is the sort of thing I would never say sober, which begs the question—is it really what I deep down think?

“Jealous of
what
?” Gabe retorts. “I mean, if you want to choose his mediocre sperm, go right ahead. But I'm ninety-nine percent sure you'll be sorry.”

“Mediocre sperm!” I laugh. “Wow. You
are
jealous. That's really cute.”

“I'm not
jealous,
” he says. “I just think it's a
really
bad idea to be making out with your sperm donor. If you want to date him, date him, but then put this project on hold.”

“I don't want to date him. I just want a baby—and some sperm.”

“Okay. Well, then, frankly speaking…I think you could do better than Pete.”

“That's mean,” I say. “He's a really nice guy.”

“I know. But in the world of sperm? He's your top pick? C'mon, Josie…”

“Well, who's better?” I say, grateful that I switched to water when I did, that I can at least hold my own in the debate. “The vegan runner? Gabe, c'mon, read that essay again. He sounds like a freak. Besides…I just don't like the idea of using a stranger. I'd rather go with a known quantity.”

He stares at me, nodding, then uncrosses his arms and presses both palms onto the counter. “Okay, well, how about a
really
known quantity?”

I deposit the beef container into the trash and start in on the rice. He snatches it away from me and throws it in the trash, too.

“Hey!” I say.

“You told me to never let you eat white food late at night. I'm trying to be your friend here….So. Back to the known quantity…What about using a close friend instead of some guy you just met on Match?”

I narrow my eyes, confused. “How close of a friend?” I ask. Surely he can't be suggesting what he seems to be suggesting.

“Like…I don't know…a best friend?” he says, averting his eyes, looking distinctly nervous.

“You're kidding, right?” I say with a laugh.

He meets my gaze and shakes his head, stone serious.

My heart flutters even more than it did on the dance floor when Pete and I kissed. “I thought you didn't like messy?” I say.

“I don't,” he says. “I still think you should go with a complete stranger. But if you won't do that…you should go with someone you can trust. Someone who would always have your back. And your kid's back.”

“You mean
you
?” I confirm.

“Yes. I mean
me.
”

“And what would that make you?” I ask, my mind racing.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Would you be just the donor? Or, like…the father?”

He swallows, then says, “Well. Both, I guess.”

“So more than a donor?”

“Yes,” Gabe says. “More than a donor. More than you'd get with Pete. I'd be the dad, too.”

“And what about us?” I ask, fleetingly wondering if he isn't about to reveal some sort of crush on me—like Andrew McCarthy in
St. Elmo's Fire
.

“What
about
us?” he asks.

“Well…you're not suggesting…” My voice trails off as I motion between us, but his face remains blank.

I finish my thought. “You're not suggesting that we have
sex
?” I say. “To get pregnant?”

“Oh. God, no,” Gabe says, making a face. “Nothing like
that
. We'd still use this doctor lady. And we'd be totally status quo on the friendship front….”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “But wouldn't that be weird?”

Gabe shrugs. “Maybe…but I don't know…I think it would be more like having Revis together.”

“But Revis is a
dog,
” I say.

“I know that.”

“And besides, Revis is
mine
.”

“C'mon, that's a technicality and you know it. Who walks him more? Who takes him out at night? Who paid that last monster vet bill when he ate that sock?”

“It was
your
sock,” I say. “That you left out.”

“C'mon, Josie. Whose bed does he sleep in if given the choice?”

“It's fifty-fifty,” I insist.

“Bullshit. That dog loves me more, and you know it.”

I start to protest, but Gabe is on a roll. “Bottom line, I love Revis as my own. I'd do anything for him. And I'd take him if anything ever happened to you.”

“What if we got into a fight?” I say.

“We
do
get into fights.”

I shake my head. “No, not like stupid arguments over leaving dirty dishes in the sink,” I say. “A
real
fight.”

“Don't be dumb,” he says. “You know that wouldn't happen.”

“It
could
.”

“Okay. You're right. It could. And if it did, we'd be like other divorced couples who share custody. Only we were never married in the first place. We'd just be skipping that part.”

I nod, though I'm having trouble believing what I'm hearing. “What does Leslie say about this?”

“I haven't discussed this with Leslie.”

“You think she'd be okay with it?”

“I do, actually,” he says, so quickly that it's clear he's given it thought. “I mean—here's the way I look at it. What if I already had a kid? Would she
not
date me?”