The Donafrio Donor (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

4: In Which She Negotiates with a Terrorist

4: In Which She Negotiates with a Terrorist

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“So let me get this straight,” said Jules, pausing to vigorously demolish her slice of chocolate sponge cake, “you slept with a man you know you shouldn’t have, but you – Miss Holier-than-Thou – don’t regret it?”

My attention was momentarily on Megan, who was currently struggling to balance two Styrofoam cups of coffee and four plates of cake on one tray as she wended her way through an obstacle course of tables and chairs. Great girl. Zero efficiency.

“Dani!” Jules snapped her fingers in my face.

“Sorry.” I reluctantly fixed my eyes on her. “I was just...thinking.”

“Are you ever going to tell me who he is?”

I mimed zipping my mouth shut. It wasn’t that Jules couldn’t keep a secret; it was just that she would judge me and I’d end up feeling God-awful about my weakness for men with accents and staggering height. If I’d told her about discovering who the sperm donor had been, that would’ve been another story. Jules was still under the impression that the donor had been a nameless face, someone to thank God for once in a while then forget about until someone inevitably brought up the question of who Mickey’s father was.

“Why bother telling me, then?” said Jules, obviously prickled. “And next time you want a one-night stand, think about your poor son and his poor sleep-deprived godmother.”

Of course. Motherhood had taught me the most important of lessons: Responsibility.

I was once a ditzy, head-in-the-clouds girl, losing everything I got into my hands. Lunchboxes would be misplaced at school, pencils would somehow find themselves out my pencil case, and I regularly purloined a few from my parents to purchase lost school books.

That used to be me.

Until I literally grew up and realised that I wanted a child more than anything in the world. I wanted the baby, but without the male presence that came with making one and raising it. Naturally, I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time, after coming out of a messy relationship with a – now that I’d experienced Carlo – wimpy guy named Tim.

“God, if you get any colder, they’ll stick a flag on you and call you Aspen,” was his parting shot.

Cold? I’d thought, hurt beyond belief. Am I really cold?

I’d seen the Healey Group’s television ad, something to do with a woman holding a big, fat baby and another person saying in the background, “You too can have this.”

I’d promptly visited the clinic the next day.

Responsibility.

I was going to be responsible for my actions because that’s what responsible people did. They didn’t shift the blame onto other people because it was convenient that way; didn’t decide to call it “a moment of weakness” because it was an easier explanation. They were liable for their actions, owned up and said: “I slept with Carlo Donafrio because, dammit, I wanted to!”

The fact that we hadn’t used anything was beyond foolish on our part but fumbling for a condom had been the last thing on my mind. It was just too bad no one had invented a pill that prevented STDs as well.

“I am thinking about Mickey,” I said fiercely, and Jules held her hands up in surrender.

The bell at the door tinkered as someone pushed it open. I looked up and saw Libby come in, a vision in some sort of floral cat-suit with an armful of magazines. Jules followed my gaze and wrinkled her nose in visible revulsion when she saw my friend.