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“Ohh,” I say, exhaling deeply. “Okay, that makes sense. I was a little bit confused when you said you needed to go home for a family thing. For some reason I assumed you lived alone.”

  “Not exactly,” she says. I glance over at her and catch her smiling at me.

  “So you have a cat sitter staying with Mr. Whiskers?”

  “Yeah,” she laughs, shaking her head.

  “I get it. You said your mom was overprotective of you, so now you’re overprotective of your fur baby. It makes sense.”

  “They do say we grow up to be like our parents,” she says.

  “I could only be so lucky,” I comment.

  “Are your parents even cooler than you, if that’s possible?” she says softly.

  “Yeah,” I say, “something like that.”

  I see our exit coming up, so I check my blind spots, hit my signal, and merge over to the exit lane.

  “You’re a very cautious driver,” she says, “even when you’re in a hurry.”

  “I can’t have anything happen to you,” I say.

  I feel the silent tension in the car between me and Mandy soften as she exhales deeply, looks up to the sky, and then over to me. She shakes her head softly and looks down at her hands.

  I’ll get her home in one piece.

  15

  Amanda

  “It was only out of an abundance of caution that I called you,” Sarah says as I drop my purse and keys on the kitchen table. “Jacob is sleeping. He was crying, and I was going to call the doctor, but I thought I should call you first. You know I tend to be paranoid.”

  I put my hand on Sarah’s shoulder and we make our way into Jacob’s nursery, which doubles as my home office on some weekends and evenings when I have to take work home. I figure that if I am going to be working at home, I may as well be close to Jacob. Plus, I think the hum of my laptop is soothing to him at night.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I stride quickly over to Jacob’s crib and see him lying on his back peacefully, and I let out a big, relieved sigh. “I think he’s fine. I’m going to keep an eye on him and give him some baby Tylenol. After that stupid ear infection, I’m sure it’s related to that. Sarah,” I say, turning to her, “you absolutely did the right thing.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders and give her a reassuring, comforting squeeze.

  “I’ll probably sleep in here tonight with him,” I say, gesturing to the small sofa positioned in the corner of the room.

  “Let me grab you some things,” Sarah says, going over to the linen closet just outside the nursery. “I’m sorry for interrupting your date. I know it’s normal for babies to cry. God, I feel so stupid saying that. Obviously they cry, and I’ve been doing this long enough to know babies cry for no reason at all. I’m paranoid. I’m sorry.”

  “You said that already,” I say with a laugh, taking the sheet and blanket she’s grabbed for me. “Stop. There’s no such thing as paranoid when it comes to Jacob. That’s why I like having you here. You’re overly cautious.”

  “Plus I make a mean eggplant carbonara,” she says.

  “Shut. Up.”

  She know this is my favorite dish and an absolute weakness of mine. It’s a weakness of hers, too.

  “Did you eat?” Sarah says temptingly.

  “No,” I say, feeling my stomach grumble beneath my hand. I toss the sheet and blanket down on the sofa. “I came home as soon as you called.”

  “Then let’s go get something in your stomach,” Sarah says, rubbing her hands together.

  I take another quick look at Jacob and he smiles, opening his eyes peacefully before stretching out and lulling himself back into his slumber.

  I pull the door closed behind us as we leave, but I keep it open a crack. I don’t want our chatting to wake him, but he’s a pretty heavy sleeper, and I don’t want to not hear him in case he start crying again. I do have the baby monitor in the kitchen, and another in the living room even though it’s an open floor plan and they’re adjacent to each other, and another in my bedroom, and then of course one in the bathroom, but it’s all because I’m careful. And maybe a little bit paranoid.

  I go over to the kitchen counter and find what Sarah’s prepared as she grabs a wine glass from one of the open shelves above the counter and a bottle of corked, chilled white wine from the refrigerator.

  “Here,” she says, pouring a generous glass for me, “you need this. I’ll forgo so I can spring into action if Jacob needs me.”

  “Thank you, Sarah, but I think I’ll be okay if I only have one glass.”

  “Just saying,” she replies. She tops off my glass with a little bit more wine and tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin under the sink. “So?”

  I sit down at the counter with an oversized helping of the eggplant carbonara, still warm from when Sarah made it: creamy, comforting cubes of roasted eggplant, tangy, bright capers, and rich basil, all served over a tangle of fettuccine.

  I take a bite and nod enthusiastically.

  “It’s really, really good,” I say, giving her a thumbs up with my free hand.

  “Not the pasta,” Sarah says, “Dylan. How the hell is Dylan?”

  “Mmmn,” I moan, slurping another long, creamy noodle into my mouth. “Good.”

  “Good?” Sarah says, leaning forward on her elbows. “Are you talking about the pasta or about the guy?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both,” I confess, slipping into one of the high chairs across the kitchen island from Sarah.

  “So tell me everything. Now.”

  I sigh and shake my head. Everything was much simpler before he came back into my life. I’ve been totally shaken to my core in the past day, and I think I like it.

  “He was sweet,” I say, “and sexy. And a perfect gentleman. But funny and a little salty too.”

  “Are you glad he’s back?” she asks. “I mean, it’s been a little crazy that you haven’t seen him in over a year.”

  “I know,” I say, taking another bite of my pasta. I want to just dive into this and forget everything because I don’t know how to proceed with Dylan. There’s just no right answer in this situation. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah. I am happy he’s back. But the thing is he never really went anywhere to begin with. I’m the one who had to leave. We both knew it wasn’t going to be, like, a thing.”

  “But then it very much became a thing,” Sarah says, arching an eyebrow at the baby monitor on the counter between us as I take a sip of my wine.

  “I don’t know that,” I say. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “I think you do,” Sarah says, “and that’s what the problem is. If Jacob were Eric’s, you’d just be a single mom dating some random hottie you once hooked up with.”

  “Right,” I say, “but instead, I might be unwittingly getting involved with my baby daddy, and that’s the scary part.”

  “Amanda, I know this may seem obvious, but you have got to get a paternity test.”

  “How am I supposed to maneuver that?” I say, hopelessness painting my insides. “I can’t very well go to Dylan and tell him he might be the father of my baby. He doesn’t even know I have a baby.”

  “Maybe you could take him on The Maury Show. You know, have someone else tell him.”

  “Great idea,” I say sarcastically.

  “I think you know what you need to do,” Sarah says, putting her hand softly over mine.

  “There’s just too much shit going on.”

  “I know. And that’s another thing. Have you talked to him about what happened after you guys hooked up?”

  “No,” I confess, “even though that was the literal first thing I wanted to ask him about. I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but I think I’m just afraid of what his answer will be.”

  “But you said he’s being so nice to you now,” Sarah says, “so the answer can’t be that bad.”

  “I guess not,” I say. I take the last bite of my pasta and put the bowl and fork into the dishwasher before going into a high
cabinet to grab a Tupperware to store the leftovers.

  “I think you’ll feel a lot better if you just talk to him. A simple conversation would clear everything up. All you have to do is ask him what happened. Easy-peasy,” Sarah says.

  “I agree that I’ll feel better if I talk to him,” I say, “but it’s not going to be that easy. Speaking my truth isn’t exactly my strong point.”

  “It’s so ironic,” Sarah says thoughtfully, “you’re so good at advocating for others, but you get so reserved when it’s your turn to speak up for yourself.”

  “Well, get this,” I say as I pop the lid on the Tupperware, “I almost blurted out that I have a kid. How’s that for speaking my truth?”

  “It might not have been the worst thing to have just blurted it out,” Sarah says, “just to get it over with.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “I think I should see where his head is at first. I don’t know what the right thing to do is here.”

  “The only wrong answer is the one your heart isn’t in. So what does your heart say, Amanda?”

  I swallow hard and glance over at Jacob’s nursery, a thin beam of light slipping out between the open door and the wall of the hallway. I want to protect him. I need to protect him. I don’t want to introduce any uncertainty into his life. And Dylan is a big, smart-mouthed bundle of uncertainty.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Sarah pats me gently on the back before grabbing her purse from the kitchen table and slipping her flats on by the front door.

  “It’ll come to you,” she says. “By the way, I booked the clown for Jacob’s party.”

  How could I have let it slip my mind? I’ve been so preoccupied with thoughts of Dylan for the last twenty-four hours and I almost forgot about Jacob’s birthday party.

  “That’s perfect,” I say. “Thank you. Not a creepy clown though, right?”

  “Actually, I made sure I booked the creepiest clown possible. There’s this special website where you can book all sorts of creepy shit for kids’ birthday parties. Clowns with extra rows of teeth, boogie men, grim reaper, monsters under the bed, nuns with rulers. He’s gonna love it. You gotta get them afraid of that crap early.”

  “Goodbye, Sarah,” I say as she sticks her tongue out, shutting the door behind her.

  I go over to Jacob’s room and carefully, slowly push the door open.

  It’s not a coincidence that I’ve decorated his room with a beach theme, though I do think my subconscious mind took over when I was selecting things for his room: a painting of the beach with a group of baby animals in swimsuits frolicking and playing on the sand; a big clock with seagulls on the ends of each of the hands, pointing to the numbers with their beaks. The crib is painted white and Jacob’s blankets are a white and blue checkered pattern, like a nautical picnic blanket.

  I put my hands on the edge of his crib and look down at him, all peaceful breathing and chubby limbs.

  To say my life is different from how it was a couple years ago would be the understatement of the damn century. A year and nine months ago, I had a closet full of sleek suits and I was only focused on one thing. I laugh to myself and shake my head as I reach down to take Jacob under his little chubby arms when he starts cooing and opening his eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes look back at me with pure love.

  I don’t think I ever knew this kind of love was possible. It’s not that I was on the fence about ever having kids; on the contrary, I’ve always known I wanted at least two kids. But when I went into that appointment with Dr. Belmore, I had no expectations beyond maybe a mini-lecture about my age and waiting too long to have kids, and maybe about my weight. She made me feel so at ease, and that made the news about my pregnancy all the more shocking.

  Shocking doesn’t even begin to cover it, though. That mental calculation I’m always doing in my head took over immediately, as I tried to count the days from my last period, the last time I’d had sex, all of it. The mental calculation was both quantitative and qualitative when I tried to remember, even though it turned my stomach, the exact day I’d last had sex with Eric.

  But then, quickly - quickly than I’d thought possible - the shock slipped away and what was left was pure joy. There was another person growing inside me. It sounded almost bizarre to think about. Unexpected, shocking - yes, all those things, every word I could think to myself to describe the level of what the hell is happening to me - but then strangeness. Addictive, captivating strangeness, the kind of strangeness that can only be realized when you step back and realize there is nothing you could have done to prepare for this moment.

  And that’s me, the planner. I’d never planned for this, and that’s what made it all the more incredible.

  A year and nine months ago, I was only focused on one thing. Before midnight, I was focused on forgetting Eric, focused on pushing that relief I felt in the back of my mind to the forefront of my mind. After midnight, I was focused on me and Dylan, on one night of pleasure that would obliterate my mind and change me forever.

  I look down at my baby as I go over to the little sofa in the corner. Swaddling him in the blankets Sarah had grabbed for me, I settle in and put my feet up on the small gray ottoman.

  Jacob’s eyes are blue like Dylan’s, and even though I was always better at writing and history in school than I was at science and math, I know it’s more likely - though not certain - that a baby will have blue or green eyes if both of the parents do.

  I watch the shape of Jacob’s lips as he smiles and puts his little balled-up fists in front of his face and yawns. He’s just a baby. He’s a baby with his own little personality and he’s a baby who likes to make a big damn mess with his food and likes splashing me with water when I give him a bath in the sink like he’s trying to screw around with me on purpose, but he is just a baby, and I shouldn’t be projecting my hopes and desires onto him.

  That isn’t fair to anyone.

  Maybe I’m just overthinking. I bounce Jacob on my lap for a few moments before putting him back in his crib and pulling the curtains over the window a little bit tighter. The hum of my computer on the other side of the room will lull both of us to sleep, and I watch Jacob’s crib as I make up the sofa into a bed, tucking the sheet into the cushions, slipping between the sheet and a big blanket, and turning so I can watch Jacob until I fall asleep.

  Sarah absolutely did the right thing by calling me, and I’m just glad it was a false alarm. Of course now I have to keep up the charade for Dylan that I have a cat. He called the imaginary cat Mr. Whiskers as a joke, but I think if he asks I will tell him that’s actually the cat’s name. It seems to fit.

  And before anything proceeds with Dylan, I have to talk to him. I’m not mad at him anymore - I don’t know if I ever really was - but I have questions.

  I have a lot of questions, but really, I only have one question. There’s only one question he can answer. All the other questions have to be worked out later.

  I close my eyes and slip into a peaceful slumber with Jacob just a few feet away from me. The buzzing of my computer turns into the rumbling of the ocean as I dream of Dylan.

  16

  Dylan

  “She said she had to get home for her cat,” I explain, wheeling my chair away from Nick.

  It’s been two days since our date, and I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. It’s not like I’ve tried - why would I want to think about anything but her sweet lips on mine and her luscious curves in my hands?

  I’m working on a big piece for Nick right now - a Moby Dick-inspired sleeve that’s going to take a few sessions. This the first of the sessions, and right now I’m just finishing up the sketch and deciding with him on the positioning of the piece.

  Nick is a skinny kid with a buzzed head and big, thick beard. He plays stand-up bass in a local jazz band. And apparently he likes classic American literature.

  “And this was a first date?” he says, peering over my shoulder at the sketch.

  “Second first date,
” I say, “we had a thing a couple of years ago but I haven’t seen her since then.”

  “And she had to get home for her cat?” he says, tugging on his beard, nodding at the sketch. “I think this is good, let’s get it started.”

  “That’s what she said,” I reply. I grab a fresh plastic, disposable razor from the stash I have in one of the baskets at the front desk of my studio. “Let’s get you prepped.”

  Nick and I go into one of the rooms where I work on my clients. It isn’t the first time I’ve worked on him. He’s got several tattoos already, and I always like working on him.

  Like I told Mandy when I first met her, when people get into a chair in my studio, they tend to open up to me. I’ve heard wives of politicians tell me about their husbands’ philandering, I’ve heard about prom kings and their woes about leaving their girlfriends to go off to play college football. I think people find me trustworthy. Maybe they just get bored sitting in the chair, whether it’s an hour or four hours. Maybe they need something to take their mind off the slight pain they feel when the needle jabs them in the flesh over and over.

  Nick gets into the chair and pulls up the pant leg on his skinny jeans. I laugh to myself. Kids these days and their skinny jeans.

  I quickly but carefully shave the back of his calf to get a clean, fresh canvas for the new ink. I pop the razor into the special box I have for sensitive waste, and grab the sketch I’ve prepped.

  “Have you talked to her since Saturday night?” Nick asks, checking out his skin after I transfer the stencil from the tracing paper to his skin. “Looks good.”

  “We texted, yeah. Just a little bullshitting. I don’t like texting. I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

  “Did she say anything about the cat?” Nick asks.

  “Yeah, she said everything’s fine. I don’t know if she had to take him to the vet or what happened. I didn’t want to press. Seems like whatever it was ended up not being that big a deal after all.”

  “Huh,” Nick says, crossing his arms.