“Gross,” she says, cutting me off with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t want to make meat jokes. And I don’t want to date Sam.”
My brows shoot up. “What? But you always—”
“I only talked about Sam so you wouldn’t feel sorry for me up here in the wilds of Vermont, single with no chance to mingle, while you feasted at the smorgasbord of bachelor delights in New York.”
I blink. “You should have told me. You could have come down to visit. I could have set you up with someone. I have at least a few friends who aren’t hairy goblins unworthy of your Nance-ness. My friend Mark’s a great guy and an accountant. You could have crunched numbers or made a spreadsheet together or whatever math geeks do when they’re in the mood.”
“But it wouldn’t have worked out long term,” she says. “Those men’s lives are down there, and my life is here with the store and Gram. And I don’t want to change that, I just…” She gulps. “I just need one little thing. One little thing that’s so hard and scary to ask for…”
My frown deepens, but before I can ask what’s got her so spooked, she pushes on, “But you don’t have to be scared. Because this really isn’t a big deal. It’ll take you five minutes. Ten minutes tops! And if you do this teensy-weensy favor for me, Elliot, I promise I’ll be your best friend forever and ever.”
“You’re already my best friend forever and ever,” I say, my stomach tightening. This is weird, and not in a way I enjoy. I’m all for pranks and silly adventures but seeing a friend this nervous to speak frankly with me isn’t my bag. At all. “And since when do you get nervous asking me for a favor?” I continue, trying to keep the hurt from my voice and failing. “I know it’s been a while since we had our Friday phone calls, but we can get back into the habit in the new year. I’ve just been so busy with the app redesign and—”
“No, it’s not you.” She crouches down on the stone wall until she’s in a squat and her eyes are level with mine. She reaches out, taking my hands. “It’s me.”
“Your fingers are freezing,” I mutter, wrapping them in mine. “We should go inside.”
“No, not yet. I have to do this first. If I don’t do it now, I won’t ever do it. I’m already starting to sober up. I can feel my face again.” She scrunches her nose. “Except my nose, but I think that’s the cold, not the champagne.”
“Nancy, you’re making me worry.” My throat tightens and my already sinking stomach drops into my shoes as a horrible suspicion takes shape in my mind. “Are you sick?” I rasp. “Do you need blood? A kidney? A piece of my liver? Ask and it’s yours.”
Her lips quirk. “Thanks, but I don’t drink that much. I hardly ever drink, in fact. You know that.”
“You could still have a liver issue. People do,” I say, defensive for some reason.
Probably because I’m scared for her, this woman who is practically my family and the only one who will ever understand how much 1980’s music means to me. It’s just so simple and happy and was always there for me when my life was anything but. Nancy never judged me for blasting the song “The Power of Love” in our apartment when I had a bad day at class or learned my dad was never coming back from whatever beach he’d washed up on with stepmother number four.
Nancy just made me a grilled cheese, cranked the volume, and danced along.
And that’s why my kidney is hers if she needs it.
I’m about to say as much when she whispers, “I do need something kind of like that, but much easier to donate.”
I scowl. “And what’s that?”
“Um, just a little…DNA,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Slipped into a donation cup I will provide for your convenience, then promptly stick into a dry ice container and mail to my fertility specialist when you’re done. How easy is that?”
Time slows and my heart beats louder in my ears.
Surely, she isn’t…
She can’t mean…
I must have misunderstood.
Nancy gulps and reverses our grip, taking my fingers in hers. “It might seem a little weird at first, but it isn’t, I promise. And it won’t be. Ever! You can have as much or as little involvement with the baby as you want. Hell, we don’t even have to tell them that you’re the father. We can keep it a secret until they’re eighteen or thirty or until you’re dead. As far as you’re concerned, it can be like you had nothing to do with knocking me up.”
“You’re drunk.” I try to pull my hands away, but she holds on tight.
“I’m not,” she says, fear creeping into her blue eyes. “Or, I am, I guess, a little, but only because I’ve been so nervous about this conversation. But there’s no one else I want to have a baby with, Elliot. You’re my best friend, and I know you’re not a serial killer. You’re a kind, smart, funny, wonderful person, and that’s the kind of man I want as my baby’s dad.”
“And you’ll m-meet the man you want to marry someday,” I stammer, still reeling. “And when you do, I’m sure he’ll want to be the father to your baby.”
“Well, he’ll just have to be happy being a stepfather and trying for a child of our own if I’m still fertile by then,” she says, her gaze hardening. “I’m thirty-four years old, Elliot, without a baby daddy prospect in sight. I haven’t had more than a first date in months, and in a year, I’ll be considered a geriatric pregnancy. Geriatric! I don’t have time to wait around and cross my fingers that my dream guy will suddenly decide to move to Jingle Bell Junction and open a fudge store.”
“There are already two fudge places on Main Street,” I mutter, as if that matters. As if that’s the point of this increasingly insane conversation.
“If I’m going to make my dream of having a family of my own come true,” Nancy presses on, “I have to do it on my own.” Her tone acquires a pleading edge as she adds, “With a little help from my best friend. Please, Elliot. Please say yes. It would mean so much to me.”
I try to swallow, but there’s suddenly a fully grown chipmunk in my throat.
No, the chipmunk is crawling up the outside of my pant leg, loudly demanding satisfaction, and an end to his formal-wear-induced suffering.
“Is he rabid?” Nancy asks.
“No, just uncomfortable.” I gather the fretful critter in one hand as I stroke his striped head with the other.
By the time I help Andy out of the tuxedo jacket, my little sister, Ashton, is at the door to the patio announcing it’s time for dinner.
I offer Nancy my hand. She takes it and climbs off the edge of the fire pit, holding tight to my fingers as she tips her face closer to mine. “Just think about it, okay? It doesn’t have to be weird.”
“Right, okay,” I say, but it’s already weird, and getting weirder with every passing moment.
Dinner is weird and dancing the conga line with Nancy behind me is weird. Even sneaking chunks of fruitcake wrapped in pieces of paper that say “ogre dung” into the gift bags is weird. Nancy and I are giggling the entire time, but the fact that she wants me to jizz in a cup and deliver it to her like a piece of pizza I’ve warmed up in the microwave back in our college days is there between us the entire time.