He might be right.

“Adopted. In the last two weeks. The adoption was in the planning stages for a long time before we met. She’s a single mother by choice.”

“Oh.” The corners of his eyes and mouth drop down in a contemplative look. “Makes sense. Is that the baby gift?” He takes the wrapped book out of my hands, then grins, looking like a little boy for a split second. “It isn’t… ?”

“It is.”

“Walter the Farting Dog. Spreading the joy of flatulent canines to a new generation.” His eyes meet mine, nostalgia and memory reflecting back like sunlight on a prism.

And then: “Anyone using the washing machine?”

The moment has passed.

“Nope. It’s all yours,” Charlie declares, gesturing like a model on a game show.

“You gone all night, Dad?” Hope blossoms in my chest. He’s asking to spend time with me.

“No. I’ll be back after dinner.”

“Cool. Board game?”

“Cards Against Humanity?” Charlie asks with an eagerness that makes me groan. “I’ll make nachos.”

“Sure.” I’ll suffer through my brother’s perverted card combinations if it means time with my son.

“See you tonight.” His back retreats down the hallway. I hear shuffling sounds, then the water turns on for the laundry.

“Have fun,” Charlie says, laughing. “Remember when the height of his day was sitting on the sofa, being read to?”

I look at my kid, whose size-fourteen shoes now litter the shoe rack, longer than mine.

“Like it was yesterday.”

Because it was.

* * *

The entire drive over to Chloe’s place in Cambridge feels like someone has a radio dial in my head and is hitting the Scan button over and over. So many words. So many thoughts.

Not enough kissing.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel right now. I miss her. More than I have any right to admit.

I admire her. The kind of woman who decides what she wants and doesn’t wait for someone else to make it happen is appealing. Simone expected me to make her happy. Demanded that I take charge of her emotional state. Insisted that I was responsible for whether she had a good life or not.

Years later, I know she’s wrong. Hell, I knew it back then, too.

Meeting Chloe just confirms it. Sophisticated, genuine, smart, funny, and sensual as hell, she’s the whole package.

And now she comes with a ten-day-old newborn attached.

Different package.

A Masshole with a Second Amendment bumper sticker next to a gay pride rainbow cuts me off at Western Avenue, my laughter at the cognitive dissonance a welcome break.

Can two wildly disparate ideas truly co-exist?

Maybe on a car bumper, sure.

But in real life?

Lady Luck is with me as I slide into an easy parking spot down the block from Chloe’s place. Maybe it’s a message, as Elodie would say. A sign. A manifestation of deep wishes.

Or maybe it’s just someone running out for an errand and the timing’s right.

I grab my gift, leaving the shoebox filled with Chloe’s past with her ex in the backseat, ready to give it to her when the time is right. She’s now less than a block away and I can’t tolerate the distance. Must close it.

Must smell her. Taste her. Look at her with hungry eyes.

And meet her new life.

My old life is back at my house, doing laundry and playing Pokemon Go.

The road Chloe lives on is neat, with condos galore, most of the building fronts containing gardens and neatly-manicured yards. Bushes trimmed and outlined, mulch and multi-colored blooming plants, and stars that are painted the right colors all feed into the image of a neighborhood for people who live in Cambridge for all the right reasons.

As I hit the buzzer for Chloe’s front door, I hear the unmistakable sound of rushing footsteps, trying to keep the peace. Chloe opens the door and looks at me with a thousand-watt smile. My heart speeds up, my hands tightening on the gift in my hands, and then she’s in my arms, pressing against my chest, my hands desperate to find more of her in the embrace.

“You’re here! She’s sleeping,” Chloe whispers, her breath hot on my neck. I kiss her cheek with a gentle hello that feels like everything and nothing.

As she lets go, we pull back slightly, catching each other’s eyes, her hands on my forearms, brushing against my tight arms, fingertips turning me tense with desire.

I inhale, catching a sweet citrusy smell. And baby powder.

Strange combo.

“I’m so glad you—”

Without thinking, I kiss her, my palm splayed against the base of her spine, covering her sacrum, my hands hot and grateful for the way she melts into the kiss. Her palms press against my shoulders, then ride up my chest, to the nape of my neck. I breathe hard, her intoxicating presence making me forget all my earlier confusion.

The compartment in my mind that allows me to be Nicholas Grafton, director of branding for a Fortune 500 company, boss to more than twenty employees, father to three young adults, good citizen and decent brother, feels hollow, woefully empty and false as my kiss with Chloe turns into a series of touches and breaths, tongues searching, lips warm and minty, her cheek burning against my clean-shaven face, my fingers on the fine bones of her spine as she molds against me.

This isn’t just about sexual attraction, of which there is plenty. A sense of completion consumes me as the fire we ignite burns and burns. Her body is mine as my fingertips press into her ass, anchored by her body. Having her in my arms for the first time in weeks, the box inside me designed to be filled with love feels occupied. Full.

Love.

I pause.

Chloe breaks the kiss, panting, looking up at me through long lashes, her lipstick intact though slightly blurred on her upper lip.

“You sure do know how to greet a woman,” she says with a saucy smile.

“You make it very easy,” I say, pulling her close again, taking the plunge. “I missed you.” My breath mingles in her hair, making her shiver, her neck smooth as I press my lips against the hollow beneath her ear. She feels good. Real and raw.

“Me, too,” she murmurs, hand on my hip, fingers hooking into my belt loop. The gesture is so casual and deceptively simple.

“Chloe?” A man’s voice, older and filled with an elegant gravel sound, comes from Chloe’s kitchen.