Nick peels her out of my arms and turns away.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing her.”

I gape at him. “Why?”

He frowns. “Because you just said ‘diaper change.’”

“That wasn’t an order,” I say with a laugh that turns onto a yawn. “Just an observation.”

He blinks, slowly. I haven’t quite gotten used to seeing him in his glasses. They’re stylish horn-rim frames and they make him look more distinguished. Not older, just wiser.

And more vulnerable. Messy. Casual.

Holly curls on his shoulder like a turtle that has crawled out of its shell and seeks comfort.

“Maybe I have some unprocessed issues, too, because Simone rarely changed a diaper. She would declare ‘diaper change’ and that meant I should do it.” His eyes go unfocused. He’s clearly two decades in the past.

Gently, so gently, I reach over, sliding my fingertips between his pecs and Holly’s little body, the back of my hand brushing against his bare, slightly-hairy chest where his shirt is unbuttoned as I find the right grasp to take the baby.

“Chloe, no, I —”

I get her in my arms and give him a firm look. “Some patterns can’t be reinforced, even if they’re for the right reasons.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll never change a diaper!”

“Of course. Just not this one, Nick.” I’m a pro. Holly’s freshened up in under two minutes, and I hand her back to him, triumphant.

“How about we take her for a walk in her stroller?” Nick suggests, using a sing-songy voice, the low timbre of his voice soothing. “If she falls asleep, we can find an outdoor table somewhere for dinner.”

“Food that isn’t microwaved? Dinner that isn’t delivered in a white cardboard carton? What is this planet you live on?”

“Planet Empty Nest,” he whispers as, on his own, he finds the stroller and uses Jedi Mind Tricks to get Holly on her back and snuggled up in the little pod, blankets tucked neatly around her.

Ouch. Not sure what to say to that.

I pop the pacifier in her mouth, then look up at him and say what I’m really thinking.

“You are a god,” I say, completely sincerely, in awe at his prowess.

With babies.

“I hear that a lot.” He shoots me a grin as he reaches for me, warm hands on my waist, the hug delightful even if my face is smashed against Holly’s burp cloth. “Mostly in bed.”

Nick

The joke is awful. Terrible. I’m not on my game, but I have to say something to cover for the “Planet Empty Nest” comment. The look on Chloe’s face feels like a slap.

But I’m not taking it back.

A kiss is a perfect way to delay the chance that I’ll say something stupid again, so I go for it. She melts into me, her body different, looser and more casual, even as I feel the effects of stress and sleep deprivation in the way she holds herself. Chloe tastes good. Great.

And then the baby starts to cry.

Chloe breaks away instantly, practically leaping away from me as if I’d burned her, eyes wild. Her reflexes are primed for newborn care, attention swiftly focused on the baby as she fusses over her in the stroller, muttering aloud about whether to pick her up or not.

“Let’s get her outside in the fresh air,” I say, taking the decision away from her. She looks at me with those big brown eyes, circles under them, the slight slant at the corners somehow deeper, the charm intensified by her vulnerability. With a grateful air, she follows as I steer the stroller out her front door, picking it up and walking down the handful of stairs to the sidewalk.

I turn around to find her gaping at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You did that so effortlessly. I have to turn the stroller around and coax it down, one step at a time, careful to make sure poor Holly doesn’t bunch up at the end like a neatly-folded suit in a carryon.”

Holly’s wiggling under the blanket, trying to decide whether she’s upset or not.

“Let’s move,” I say quietly. Funny how all this baby stuff kicks in after years of not doing it, like riding a bicycle.

Or making love.

Within a minute, the baby has settled down, and Chloe’s squinting in the sun. She looks like a hermit who has lived in a cave for a year and is finally seeing daylight.

We pass by my car. I look at Chloe, then at the box on my backseat. Holly begins to snurgle and Chloe’s distracted, hovering. I seize the chance and pull the box out of the back seat, tucking it in the carriage bottom.

“What’s that?”

I bite back a grin. “You’ll see.” Might as well get this over with. The damn thing is like a bad penny. I assume she’ll throw it away once I give it to her. As we walk, Chloe pushing the stroller now, I begin to have second thoughts.

“Thank you,” she says with a sigh, her shoulders releasing, one hand massaging her own neck. “I’ve been taking her out for walks, but then she cries and I can’t calm her down. You ever start crying with your baby?”

“Can’t say I ever did.”

“It’s pretty embarrassing. Especially when you cry louder than the infant.”

I rest the palm of my hand on her back. She lets out a little sound, so faint I almost don’t catch it. The sweetness in it, the unbearable contentment, makes me want to elicit that sound from her every day.

We walk like this, happy and free, Chloe nattering with great pleasure about Holly’s daily habits, her birthmarks, the way she pulls her fists into her sleeves and how she already sticks her tongue out in imitation. I watch Chloe, who is the same woman I met a month ago, yet she’s different.

She isn’t pregnant. Didn’t give birth.

But she glows.

“How does it feel?” I ask her as we halt at a stoplight, waiting our turn.

“What? Being a mother?”

“How does it feel to have gone through so much work to get here—and now you’re here?”

She blinks, taking in a deep breath, nodding, her mind clearly churning to find the right answer. I like this about her. She doesn’t react.

Chloe processes.

“Inevitable.” She says just one word, then smiles. Her eyes say she’s tired, but her mouth says she’s thrilled.

“That’s one hell of an answer to unpack.”