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“But—”
“Or letmecontact him. I’m sure if he donated once, he’d be fine with donating agai—”
“This man donated eleven years ago,” the woman stopped me. “He never returned. I can tell you these things only because they’re part of his profile. That information is open to all clients, like yourself, who are looking to conceive.”
“So you can give me his DNA, but not his name?” I scoffed. “You can plant his seed inside me, but you can’t give me his last known address?”
“All donors’ personal information is strictly confidential,” the woman said. “You know that.”
“But this wasyourmistake.Yourerror.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why not just call him to let him know what happened to his sample,” I reasoned. “And while you’ve got him on the phone, maybe mention there’s someone else who’d already decided upon—”
“No and no,” the woman shook her head. “It’s not how we operate.”
A scathing string of curse words rose to mind, attached to phrases that might send a woman like this running from the room. Rather than unleash them, I choked them back. I was too depressed for even that little measure of fun.
“Fine then. Forget it.”
I stood up, using the last of my willpower to keep my shoulders held high. Silently, I slid the phone back into my hand.
“You’ve been a gem,” I told her, scrolling through my contacts. “A real diamond.”
I hit the call button, waving the woman off dismissively as she tried to say something else. On the third ring, my friend picked up.
“Addison!” I boomed, loud enough to be heard all throughout the office. “I’m going to send you a series of photos of someone. Four of them, in fact.”
I turned to look back at the assistant director, who was still looking on incredulosly.
“I need you to find out who this guy is.”
Five
JULIANA
Addison was one of my oldest New York friends — a city cop who’d pulled me over the first month I was here. She cited me specifically for ‘driving like an asshole’; a term I later learned was used to describe any drivernotfrom New York.
Growing up on the small town roads of rural Maine, I had to learn the glory of aggressive New York City driving the same way everyone else here did: by baptism through fire. I fought my citation down to a small fine, and after leaving the courthouse, took Addison to lunch to pick her brain.
We’d been fast friends ever since.
In the decade that followed I’d been her mentor, her financial adviser, her maid-of-honor, and her eldest daughter’s godmother. I’d been the shoulder she’d cry on, when her mother was sick. I’d been the one person she chose to confide in, when she was unexpectedly stricken by debilitating panic attacks. Addison was strong, fierce, take no prisoners — she reminded me exactly of myself. I loved her like a sister. I’d do anything in the world for her, and she for me.
Which was why asking her to use the newly-launched NYPD facial recognition network to find my mystery donor seemed like no big deal at all.
“Give me a few days,” she’d said. “If this guy’s walked down a sidewalk in the last sixteen months, I’ll find him.”
I wasn’t exactly sure she’d succeed, but I knew she’d try like hell. For those reasons alone, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my phone rang two days later and I picked it up to a single, spoken word.
“Devyn.”
I blinked in confusion, still licking the chocolate frosting from a Funfetti cupcake off my middle finger. “Wait… what?”
“The man you’re looking for is Devyn Bishop.”
An alert preceded the image coming over my phone: a single driver’s license photo of the man that had been burned into my brain. He was a little older, but somehow evenmorehandsome. His eyes had wisdom now. His stubbled jaw exuded a more experienced, yet still rugged sex-appeal.
