“But that’s not how it happened. And I . . . I’m so scared I’ll be bad at it.”
I pull back to look into her eyes as she wipes away her tears. “Are you kidding?” I say. “You’re going to be a perfect mom. You’re going to be your mom 2.0, and—wait a second! How far along are you? How long have you known you were doing this?”
She ducks her head. “Like I said,” she murmurs, “it wasn’t entirely fair to be so upset about your secret.”
“Apparently,” I say.
“And that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have Sabrina and Parth visit the farm,” she goes on. “We already have a ton of baby shit. Kimmy’s dad mails us something new every day, and I haven’t felt ready to explain why we have four separate bassinets.”
“Because Kimmy’s dad is a baby-obsessed hoarder?” I say.
“He’s going to be an amazing grandpa,” she says wistfully. “I didn’t even want to tell him yet, but Kimmy accidentally blurted it out. I’m only a couple months along. So many things could still go wrong.”
I jog her by the elbows. “So many things could go right too.”
She gives a wan smile. “I don’t know what it means for us.”
“It means you’re going to be moms,” I say.
She shakes her head. “What it means for all of us, Harry. If my Google searches are anything to go on, I’m going to be tired all the time and a worried wreck whenever I’m conscious. I’m already not the ‘fun one’ in the group—”
I snatch her hands. “Cleo! That’s completely ridiculous. You are so fun.”
“Kimmy is fun,” she says, skeptical. “And I mean, it’s why I fell in love with her. But sometimes it’s hard not to feel like . . . like everyone already likes my girlfriend more than me. Even my best friends. And the more I grow into myself, the less room there might be for me.”
“How long have you felt like this?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Probably since I stopped drinking.”
“I wish you would’ve said something.”
“It’s embarrassing!” she says. “Being jealous of your own partner? I didn’t even tell Kimmy until a few months ago.”
“I love Kimmy,” I say, “and you know that. She has a lot of amazing qualities, and she’s become one of my best friends. But you know what my favorite thing about her is?”
The corners of Cleo’s mouth turn up. “Her banging body?”
“That’s number two. Number one is how happy she makes you. When you two started dating, it felt like the final missing puzzle piece to . . . all this. Our family. But that doesn’t make you any less essential. You and Sabrina are my best friends. Always. And I’m so sorry I ever gave you reason to doubt that.”
Her eyes gloss, and her voice quivers. “But what if having a baby changes me? What if the gulf gets wider and wider until we don’t have anything in common?”
“I don’t need you to stay the same, Cleo,” I say. “And it’s not ‘having things in common’ that makes me love you. We’re so different, Clee. All of us. And I wouldn’t change anything about you. Like I said, you are a missing piece of my heart, and Sabrina is too. If your schedule has to change, or you start singing Barney songs to yourself, or become one of those people who post about their kids’ diaper blowouts on social media—”
“You’ll put me out of my misery?” she asks quietly.
“God, yes. I’ll take your phone and feed it to the sea. But I’ll also still love you. You’re family to me. You and Sab both.”
Cleo’s smile fades. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on her either.”
“There might’ve been a better way to say it,” I admit, “but I think you needed to get some of that off your chest. And we probably needed to hear it.”
“Maybe.” Cleo chews her lip. “Sabrina’s pretty loyal, but when she feels wronged . . .”
“I’m not telling you to use your pregnancy as a bargaining chip,” I say, “but I think when she finds out what you’ve been dealing with, she’s going to understand. And then she’s going to plan you a very over-the-top party, with a photorealistic baby cake and actual live storks flapping around your house.”
Cleo devolves into laughter, letting her head fall against my shoulder. “I can’t wait.”
She laces her fingers through mine, and we stay there a little longer, watching the boats glide in and out, listening to full conversations held over megaphones as people pass one another in the water.
Everything is changing. It has to. You can’t stop time.
All you can do is point yourself in a direction and hope the wind will let you get there.
Another maritime metaphor. I am truly a local’s worst nightmare. But the point stands: change happens.
Two of my best friends are having a baby.
A near-painful joy flares through me. “Oh my god.”
Cleo looks up. “Hm?”
“I just realized,” I say, “I’m going to be an aunt.”
She snorts a laugh. “Harry,” she says. “You’re going to be a co-godmother.”
34
REAL LIFE
Saturday
“SHE’S GOING TO be upset that I told you first,” Cleo says.
“I can pretend not to know,” I offer.
She gives me a look.
“Or,” I say, “we can be up-front about it and talk it out.”
She gives me another hug. “You sure you don’t want a ride back?” She checks the time on her phone. She called Kimmy for a ride a couple of minutes ago. She’ll be down to the Warm Cup any second.
“I’ll meet you in a bit,” I say.
First I need to find something for Sabrina. We won’t be leaving this trip with matching tattoos—as it turns out, most artists won’t tattoo a pregnant person, thus Cleo’s true resistance to the idea—but that doesn’t mean we can’t find something to hold on to from this place.
After Kimmy picks Cleo up, I grab a second caramel latte, iced this time, and wander past shop windows. I have no idea where to begin. I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it. So far, the best option seems to be matching Tshirts that say GOT LOBSTAH on them, or matching Tshirts that say MAINEIAC over a lobster wearing aviators.
I follow a window display filled with lamps and cutesy tea towels around the corner, right to a window display filled with colorful buoys that have been turned into all manner of yard ornaments. I pause to let a grimy Subaru breeze through a stop sign at the next cross street, and that’s when I realize where I am.
Easy Lane. The backdrop to our fight last night. Up ahead, I spot the tattoo shop on the left. My first inclination is to get away from the scene of the crime. Then I notice the glossy gold shop number over the door on my right: 125.
Number 125, on Easy Lane.
It takes me a second to figure out what’s so familiar about that. When I do, I backtrack and check the number of the buoy store. 127. Wrong direction.
I’m looking for 123.
I wait for another car to pass through the intersection, and then jog across.