We’d been hanging out—in a casual neighbor sort of way—for a few months when he asked me on a date.
A real date.
I had to let him down gently, informing him that Lucia was my priority, and I wasn’t in a place to start thinking about that sort of thing. I’ll never forget the way his lips curled into a gracious smile, but his eyes were a deep shade of glassy blue. Either way, it changed nothing between us. He still shovels the snow from my sidewalk in the winter and hand delivers my mail when he accidentally receives it. He also texts me movie recs and has gifted Lucia miscellaneous toys—always soft ones, never the noisy ones. We’ve also made a couple of jaunts to the farmers’ market together—all three of us, that is.
“Nice day for a walk,” he says, buying time. “You should’ve waited another half hour and I’d have joined you.”
That’s another thing—he loves our walk-and-talks, always offering to push the stroller when Lucia’s along and never complaining when we stop at the park to let her enjoy a few minutes in the baby swing. I can’t count how many times passersby have stopped to fawn at my daughter and then tell us what a beautiful family we are.
I shrug. “Just needed a little fresh air. About to head in and get back to work.”
Splaying a palm across his pristine dress shirt, he feigns an injury. “Ugh. Should be illegal to work on a gorgeous day like today.”
“Just tell that to my boss,” I tease, referring to my ball-busting alter ego. While I love being self-employed, some days it’s a struggle to find motivation to stay on task. A schedule—a strict schedule—is the only way around that. “Hoping she gives me a day off soon.”
“I meant what I said the other week. Name the date and we’ll go.” Two weeks ago we were drinking wine, chowing on pizza, and bingeing some trendy Netflix series when Dan suggested we take a road trip—the three of us. His grandparents had a farm in Wisconsin and he insisted it’d be fun for Lucia to see the animals. Plus, he said his mom loved babies more than anything in the world, and she’d be happy to babysit if we wanted to go into the city for a night.
His offer was tempting …
I haven’t taken a proper vacation since before the pregnancy, but I didn’t want to give Dan the wrong impression—not to mention the thought of leaving my only child with a complete stranger made me want to vomit on the spot.
I’m not there yet.
“I’ll let you know.” I point to my house ahead. “Going to head in and get back to work. Congrats on the new wheels …”
I trot along the sidewalk, skirting around the back of his shiny new car, heading back before he can stall me another minute. Dan’s a pro at that. He can turn any kind of casual small talk situation into a forty-five minute full-on conversation. Deep down, I imagine he’s lonely. The man was married for ten years—to his high school sweetheart no less. They’d been together since they were fifteen and then poof. And the house he bought is better suited for a family. Two stories with a finished basement and five bedrooms. Plus a fenced back yard and a playset leftover from the previous owners. Waking up to all that emptiness, all that wasted potential must get to him somedays. I can only imagine he chose this home hoping he could one day fill it.
And I have no doubt there’s someone special out there for him—it’s just not me.
Kicking off my tennis shoes in the foyer, I drop my ear buds on the entry console and duck into my office before Lucia hears me. Taking a seat, I find myself face-to-face with that damn letter again.
The odds of Lucia’s donor being a famous, crazy-hot tennis player are slim.
And if for some insane reason it is him—nothing about my life is going to change.
Also, my sister’s right … the answer to this question is going to haunt me the rest of my life if I don’t put it to bed now.
I tug a handful of hair, gather a deep breath, and place today’s letter next to the donor form from the file cabinet.
And then I compare the donor numbers.
W44321G …
and …
… W44321G.
It’s a match. Holy shit. It’s a match.
“Carina!” I yell for my sister. “Carina, hurry—get in here!”
Three seconds later, the office door swings wide, slamming against the wall.
“What?” she asks. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
Clamping a hand over my mouth, I hand her both papers. “It’s him. Fabian is the donor.”
Examining the numbers for herself, she sucks in a sharp breath. “I … I didn’t think … I mean, I thought it was a long shot … I didn’t …”