But they were yours. Your family. Your constant. Your compass.
I was surprised with how my friends and sister had taken the news that I was in a race against the clock to get knocked up. They were so supportive, so excited, it made me feel a little less sorry for myself.
Persy volunteered to babysit for me as much as I wanted （“I already have two at home, what’s one more?”）， Ash offered to take night duties （“I’m a doctor, pulling all-nighters is no skin off my back”）， and Sailor said she’d give me all of her baby supplies and furniture （“My way of telling Hunter there’s no way in hell we’re having a third one”）。
Now there was just the measly, small business of, you know, getting pregnant.
Taking Devon Whitehall up on his offer was a no-go. I had zero desire to force my child into an outdated institution of stuffy, inbred white people.
Which was why we were now scrolling through sperm donor profiles to see if there was someone who tickled my fancy. Which was depressing, because the meaningful qualities in humans weren’t something you could find on a supermarket list. You had to experience a person to appreciate them fully. That was why online dating almost always sucked.
Blond and Bashful, AKA donor number 4322, born 1998, whose favorite animal was a dolphin might be genetically great, but what if he was a terrible human?
“What about this one?” Ash shoved the phone screen in my face. There was no picture of the guy—just another gray, faceless avatar—but a highly detailed description of him, and a profile name he chose for himself.
“Grill Master? For real?” I drawled. “If the one thing he chooses to highlight about himself is his talent for flipping burgers, I’m going to have to pass. If I’m paying for jizz, I want to get my money’s worth.”
And the jizz didn’t come cheap. I promised myself I’d go for the premium. The one that cost four-figures. My child deserved the very best.
“The man is 6’3” with dimples. In the staff notes, they said he looks like young Sean Connery,” Persy exclaimed.
“What about this one?” Sailor pointed at another profile. “Multi-ethnic. Tall. Athletic. Crazy high IQ. Best friends with his mom.”
I grabbed the phone from her, frowning. “Yeah. His blood type is AB negative, which means if god forbid something happens, it’d be a bitch to find blood donations for my child. He also calls himself Come Together. I mean, can it be any more ironic? Literally, he was the only bastard that came when creating our hypothetical baby.”
“All right, Grumpy Pants. Someone walked into this whole experience with some prejudice.” Sailor curved an eyebrow.
“Oh, you’ll find him, Belly-Belle. I promise.” Persy brushed my hair lovingly while Ash shook her head, still scrolling on my phone.
We went through profiles for about forty more minutes before we found the perfect match. He called himself Friendly Front Runner, was 6’1”， East Asian, with a master’s degree in political science and public policy. His dream lunch would be with Nikola Tesla, and his profile seemed engaging, fun, and intelligent without sounding like he was trying too hard.
“The guy’s perfect.” Sailor smacked her hand on the coffee table she was sitting on. “Honestly, I’d get knocked up by him if I had the chance.”
“Whatever happened to not wanting another child?” Persy teased, braiding my hair.
Sailor held her hands up. “I’m just trying to get our girl here to agree on a donor before all of our eggs die of old age.”
“There’s a limited number of vials for this guy, so you need to be quick about it,” Ash warned, flipping through his entire history on my phone.
I knew she was right. I also knew that Friendly Front Runner was probably the best option out there. He seemed genuinely funny and engaging. Down to earth and bright. And yet … I couldn’t get excited about choosing him as the father of my child.
I mean, what did I really know about this guy, other than his credentials and the things he would probably tell me on a first date?
Was he kind to strangers?
Did he chew super loudly?
Did he think pineapple pizza was an acceptable dish in civilized society?
There were so many makes-or-breaks that would remain a mystery to me.
And there was something else. Something I couldn’t stop thinking about, even though I knew it was a recipe for disaster.
Devon Whitehall’s suggestion.
“Oh-oh. We’re losing her again. I feel like I’m in a bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy.” Sailor threw a tempura shrimp into her mouth.