𝐀𝐔𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃

Prologue

I had twenty-three tabs open on my laptop, four pages of notes in my journal, two different fertility clinic websites bookmarked, and a sperm-bank profile pulled up on the television because apparently there was no dignified way to research having a baby by yourself. Every time I thought I understood what I wanted, I clicked another link and found ten more things to consider.

Family medical history. Genetic testing. Donor anonymity. Open identity at eighteen. Known donor agreements. Legal rights. Emotional implications. Counseling recommendations.

The possibility that my future child might grow up wondering why I had intentionally chosen somebody they could never know. The possibility that they would not care at all.

The possibility that I would spend the next eighteen years trying to answer questions I had not thought deeply enough about before making one of the biggest decisions of my life.

I sat cross-legged in the middle of my bed with my bonnet sliding toward the back of my head, one of Cartier’s old black T-shirts hanging over my thighs and a half-empty glass of wine sweating on the nightstand beside me.

I had been staring at the same donor profile for so long that the words had started running together. Brown eyes. Black hair. Six feet two. Athletic. Bachelor’s degree. No known family history of heart disease. No known family history of cancer. No known family history of diabetes. Good teeth. Good vision. No allergies.

He sounded healthy enough.

He also sounded like a description somebody had created to sell me a used car.

I clicked on the audio interview and listened to a stranger talk about his favorite childhood memory, but halfway through his story about fishing with his grandfather, I paused it. There was nothing wrong with him. That was what made the decision harder.

Every profile I had looked at belonged to a man who had probably sat in some small room, answered questions, given a sample, collected whatever money they paid, and gone home without thinking twice about the woman who might one day use it.

He was not responsible for knowing me. He was not responsible for knowing the child. That was the entire point.

But I could not stop thinking about what happened after.

Not the pregnancy. Not the baby shower, nursery, diapers, daycare, sleepless nights, breastfeeding, or little shoes lined up beside mine. I had thought about all of that until it felt almost tangible. I could picture a car seat in the back of my SUV.

I could see a high chair tucked near my kitchen island. I could imagine a little voice calling me Mommy while I packed lunches before work.

That part did not scare me. I was a pediatric nurse. Children were not some soft, filtered fantasy to me. I knew babies cried for reasons nobody could always identify. I knew toddlers could run fevers at two in the morning, children could choke on food you had cut properly, and parenting meant living with a level of fear that never completely left.

I knew motherhood was not matching pajamas and birthday pictures. It was responsibility, sacrifice, exhaustion, and loving somebody so much that their pain could break you open.

I still wanted it.

What I could not settle was whether I could look my child in the face one day and explain that I knew almost nothing about the person who helped create them because I had wanted a baby more than I had wanted answers.

I closed the profile and grabbed my journal.

The first page had a list titled Why now?

Because I was twenty-seven.

Because I had wanted children since I understood what motherhood was.

Because I had a career I loved, money saved, health insurance, a stable home, and a family who would support me even after they finished yelling about how I had chosen to do it.

Because I was tired of allowing something I deeply wanted to remain dependent on whether or not I met a man, fell in love, got married, and reached some socially approved point where I was allowed to become a mother.

I did not hate love. I was not bitter about relationships. I was not pretending I would never meet anybody. I simply did not believe motherhood had to sit on a shelf until a husband arrived to hand it to me.

I wanted my child because I wanted my child.

That should have been enough.

The second page was a list titled What matters most?

Health history.

Known family.

Intelligence.

Temperament.

Someone emotionally stable.

Someone who would not create unnecessary drama.

Someone I trusted.

Someone I would not regret being tied to.

Someone who would understand that this was about the child.

I read the list again, even though I already knew where my mind had been going for the last two weeks. Every question led me back to the same person, and every time it did, I told myself I was being ridiculous.

Cartier already had a child.

He had businesses, responsibilities, and a life that did not need me appearing with a journal and asking him to help me create another human being. He was my best friend. The safest relationship I had ever had. The person who had known me before my breasts came in, before I learned how to do my brows, before my parents divorced, before college, heartbreak, nursing school, and the version of myself I had grown into. He knew when I was lying. He knew when I needed space and when giving me space would only make me feel abandoned. He knew my mother, my father, my brother, every ugly family detail I had ever tried to hide, and exactly how I liked my steak cooked.

I knew him too.

I knew his parents, his brothers, and the way their family loved loudly. I knew what he had done before Carter was born and how quickly he had changed course once Desire told him she was pregnant. Cartier had taken money he could have wasted and built something legitimate with it because he understood that being a father required more than showing up with cash. He was present. He knew Carter’s doctor, daycare schedule, allergies, clothing sizes, favorite snacks, and which Spider-Man movie he wanted to watch on repeat. He never talked about babysitting his own son. He never acted like parenting was something Desire should praise him for doing. Carter could be screaming, throwing a tantrum, or refusing to put on pants, and Cartier handled him with a patience I had never seen him offer most grown people.

If I had been choosing from character alone, there was no competition.

That did not make asking him any less insane.

I picked up my phone, opened our messages, and stared at his name.

Aujani: You busy?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Cartier: Depends what you want.

I rolled my eyes.

Aujani: Come over.

Cartier: That sound like work.

Aujani: Cartier.

Cartier: I’m coming damn.

I set the phone down and looked around my bedroom as though there was something I could clean that would make the conversation less strange. My laptop sat open like evidence. Notes covered half the comforter. A printed price breakdown from one fertility clinic was tucked beneath my journal, and the sperm-bank website was still reflected darkly across the television screen. I considered closing everything, then stopped myself. If I was serious enough to ask, I needed to be serious enough to let him see the work behind it.

Cartier let himself into my penthouse twenty minutes later because he had a key and had never understood the purpose of knocking anywhere he believed he belonged. I heard the front door close, followed by the soft thud of his shoes near the entryway.

“Jani?”

“In my room.”

He appeared in the doorway wearing gray sweats, a plain white T-shirt, and the same black fitted cap he had probably worn to one of his shops that morning. His eyes moved over me, the laptop, the papers, and the wine before settling back on my face.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“That look you get right before you ask me to do some shit I probably don’t wanna do.”

I pulled my legs beneath me. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“That’s why I said probably.” He crossed the room and picked up my wine without permission, taking a sip before grimacing. “This sweet ass shit.”

“Then stop drinking it.”

He took another sip before putting it down. “What you doing?”

“Research.”

“I see that.” He reached for one of the printed pages, and I slapped his hand away. “Why you hitting me?”

“Because I’m trying to explain before you start reading random stuff and making assumptions.”

“Then explain.”

He sat on the edge of my bed, broad shoulders relaxed, one hand resting over his thigh while he waited. Cartier did not look nervous because he had no reason to be. I was the one whose heartbeat had started knocking too hard against my chest.

“I want a baby.”

His expression did not change immediately.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Right now?”

“Not tonight, Cartier.”

“I’m asking a question.”

“I know.”

“You been drinking.”

“One glass.”

“And researching babies.”

“Having a baby. Not babies.”

He looked at the open laptop again. “You pregnant?”

“No.”

“You think you pregnant?”

“No.”

“Then what we talking about?”

I released a slow breath. “I want to become a mother.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. You been wanting kids.”

“I want to do it now.”

That gave him pause.

He leaned forward, elbows settling against his knees. “You got somebody?”

“No.”

“Then how you planning to do that?”

I gestured toward the computer.

Cartier looked at the screen, then back at me. “You finna buy some sperm?”

The way he said it made me laugh even though I had spent the last hour feeling like my stomach was tied into a knot.

“I’m not buying it like it comes from Amazon.”

“Shit, I don’t know. You got twenty tabs open. Might be a cart somewhere.”

“Can you be serious?”

“I am serious. You talking about ordering a baby.”

“I am talking about using a donor.”

His mouth shifted, humor fading as he realized this was not one of my random ideas. “You really been thinking about this?”

“For months.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

“I needed to know what I wanted before I started letting everybody else give me opinions.”

“I’m everybody else now?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

I reached out and touched his arm before the small sting in his voice could turn the conversation in another direction. “You’re not everybody else. That’s why I wanted to figure out whether I was serious first. You would’ve had questions, and I needed to have answers.”

“I got questions now.”

“I figured.”

“Why?”

“Why do I want a baby?”

“Why now?”

I looked toward my journal, although I did not need it to answer. “Because I’m ready. I have a career, money saved, a home, and support. I’ve wanted to be a mother for years, and I don’t want to keep waiting on a relationship to give me permission. I could meet somebody next year, or I could meet somebody at thirty-five. I don’t know. What I do know is I want a child, and I don’t want that desire tied to whether I have a boyfriend or husband.”

Cartier remained quiet, studying my face closely enough that I had to fight the urge to look away.

“This got something to do with your ex?”

“No.”

“He call you?”

“No.”

“You see he having a baby or some shit?”

“No, Cartier. This is not about him or any other man. I’m not hurt. I’m not trying to prove anything. I want to be somebody’s mother.”

He nodded slowly, accepting the answer even if he had not finished processing it. “And you good raising a baby alone?”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I have family.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

“I understand what you asked.”

“Then answer it.”

“Yes,” I said. “I am prepared to be the primary parent. I know it would be hard. I know having family around does not replace having another parent in the house. I’ve thought about daycare, maternity leave, work, appointments, emergencies, all of it.”

“You can’t think about all of it.”

“I know that too.”

His gaze moved to the printed clinic information. “So you picked somebody?”

“No.”

“You looking?”

“I was.”

“Was?”

I took another breath. This was the point where I could still change my mind, close the laptop, and tell him I had only wanted his opinion. He would ask questions for the next week, but eventually the moment would pass. Our friendship would remain exactly what it had always been, and I could return to choosing between strangers whose childhood memories I had to learn from recorded interviews.

Instead, I said, “I don’t think I want an anonymous donor.”

“Why?”

“Because I keep thinking about the child. I can handle not knowing the person, but I don’t know how they’ll feel about it. I don’t want them to have questions I can never answer. I don’t want to rely on a medical questionnaire that might be incomplete or outdated. I want to know the family they come from. I want them to be able to know too, even if it isn’t in a traditional way.”

“So a known donor.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

I swallowed.

Cartier watched me for another second before his eyebrows lifted. “Why you looking at me like that?”

“Because I was thinking—”

“No.”

“I haven’t asked yet.”

“You don’t gotta.”

“Cartier.”

“Nah.”

“You don’t even know exactly what I was going to say.”

“You want my sperm.”

The bluntness of it made heat crawl into my face. “That is not how I was going to phrase it.”

“What other way is there to phrase it?”

“I was going to ask if you would consider fathering my child.”

“That sound worse.”

“It does not.”

“It sound like you need me to take my shoes off and climb in the bed right now.”

“I’m talking about insemination.”

“Still my baby.”

My mouth closed.

He stood, ran one hand over his beard, and paced toward the television before turning back around. There was no laughter left in him now. His shoulders had tightened, and his expression carried the same stillness he wore when something required more thought than he wanted anyone to know he was giving it.

“You planned this whole conversation?”

“I planned what I wanted to say.”

“And in your plan, what happens with me?”

“You would be known.”

“Known?”

“Yes. The baby would know who you are. You could have a relationship if you wanted one.”

“If I wanted one?”

“I don’t want to force a responsibility on you.”

“But you want my child.”

“I want a child, and I trust you.”

“That ain’t the same.”

“It’s part of why I’m asking you.”

“What’s the rest?”

I folded my hands in my lap. “I know your medical history. I know your family. I know your character. You’re intelligent, healthy, and you’re already a good father. You love Carter. You show up for him. I would never have to wonder whether I chose somebody careless or cruel. I know you.”

His jaw shifted.

“You know me enough to know I’m not giving you no baby and disappearing.”

“I didn’t say you had to disappear.”

“You said I could have a relationship if I wanted one.”

“I was trying not to assume.”

“Assume what?”

“That you would want to raise another child.”

Cartier stared at me like I had said something deeply stupid.

“That would be my baby.”

“I understand biologically—”

“No, you don’t understand.” His voice dropped lower, calm but firm enough to make me stop. “If I do this, I’m not donating shit. I’m not gonna be some man you point out in pictures, and I’m not visiting when it’s convenient. That would be my son or daughter the same way Carter is mine.”

The room grew quiet around us.

I had imagined him asking for time. I had imagined him laughing, refusing, or telling me I had lost my mind. I had not imagined the possessive certainty in his voice. It should have scared me. Instead, something inside me relaxed.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, you would be the father.”

“I would be the daddy.”

The correction came without hesitation.

I nodded. “You would be the daddy.”

“And we make decisions together.”

“Yes.”

“I’m at every appointment.”

“Yes.”

“My family knows that baby.”

“Yes.”

“They got my last name.”

“We can discuss the last name.”

“We discussing it now.”

“Cartier.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. This is why I wanted a conversation instead of you announcing terms.”

“Ain’t no terms. I’m telling you what it is if I agree.”

“If?”

His eyes held mine.

“You haven’t agreed?”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“You also haven’t said no.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“I’m not excited.”

“You smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

I pressed my lips together, which only made his mouth curve.

“There she go,” he murmured. “Already trying to have my baby and lie to my face.”

“I asked one question. Nobody is trying anything.”

“You researched my whole résumé.”

“I did not research you. I know you.”

“Same difference.”

“It is absolutely not.”

Cartier returned to the bed and sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. He picked up my journal, and this time I let him. He read the headings, flipped through the cost estimates, then paused on the page where I had written the qualities that mattered most.

Someone emotionally stable.

Someone I trusted.

Someone I would not regret being tied to.

His thumb rested against that final line.

“You think you wouldn’t regret being tied to me?”

“I’ve been tied to you since fifth grade.”

“That ain’t the same as sharing a child.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You know this would change everything.”

“I know.”

“You say that now.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought about it?”

“I think you thought about the baby. I don’t know if you thought about me being in your face every day for the rest of your life.”

“You’re already in my face every day.”

“Different.”

“How?”

“Because you can’t get mad and decide you need space for a week. You can’t date somebody who don’t want me around. You can’t make decisions and tell me after. You can’t move with my child. You can’t treat me like a donor when it’s convenient and a daddy when you need something.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know what you would do. Neither one of us do.”

That was the first thing he had said that I could not answer with confidence.

Cartier closed the journal and placed it between us.

“I need you to think about what you’re really asking.”

“I have thought about it.”

“Then think some more.”

“How long?”

“A month.”

“A month?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s arbitrary.”

“That’s enough time for you to come down from whatever baby fever got you sitting in here shopping for sperm.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Then a month won’t hurt.”

“And what are you doing during that month?”

“Thinking.”

“About whether you want another child?”

“About whether I wanna have one with you.”

The words settled differently than everything else he had said. Maybe because there was no joke attached to them. Maybe because for one brief second, Cartier looked at me in a way I could not immediately name.

Then it was gone.

He stood and pulled the hem of my shirt away from my thigh.

“This mine?”

“You gave it to me.”

“I left it here.”

“Same thing.”

“Nah, stealing and receiving gifts ain’t the same thing.”

“You have twelve more.”

“That don’t make this yours.”

“It’s been mine for three years.”

Cartier shook his head, but the seriousness had softened around his mouth. He walked toward the door, then stopped.

“One month, Jani.”

“If I still want it?”

“You ask me again.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll give you an answer.”

I watched him leave my bedroom, heard him open my refrigerator as though he had not just rearranged the entire direction of my future, and looked down at the closed journal beside me.

He had not said yes.

But he had not said no either.