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  She sighed and set down her cup, staring into it. “No, he didn’t. I told you, it’s not like that with us.”

  “I still don’t get that,” said Maren before I could. “What’s the point of having a boyfriend if you don’t have sex? Are you even attracted to him?”

  “Yes, but our attraction is based more on mutual respect and admiration than on physical chemistry. We have a lot in common and enjoy spending time together. That’s enough for me right now. Not every relationship needs sex to feel complete.”

  “Okay, as long as you are happy, we’re happy for you.” I wanted to cut her off before she went into therapist speak and started to lecture us about equating sex with love and intimacy. Well, mostly me. I wasn’t sure what Maren’s problem with guys was. She didn’t seem to date assholes, but she never picked winners either. Stella was convinced she was still hung up on her high school ex, and sometimes I thought she might be right, although Maren always denied it.

  “Thank you,” said Stella. “What about you? How was your weekend?”

  “Fine. Friday night, I hung out with Nate, and last night I had a wedding. Then I hung out with Nate again afterward.”

  “Nate the guy across the hall?” Stella’s tone was surprised. “I thought you were just friends.”

  “We are just friends. I didn’t stay the night or anything. I only went to help him out.”

  “With what?” Maren asked.

  I paused to take a sip of coffee and consider how much I should tell them. I didn’t want to betray Nate’s confidence, but he wasn’t going to be able to keep his daughter a secret forever, and I knew I could trust my sisters. We had our differences, but our bond was solid. “Okay, you can’t say a word about this to anyone yet, but he found out he has a baby daughter.”

  Maren gasped. “When?”

  “Late Friday night when I was there, the mother left her outside Nate’s door with a letter saying she was his.” I summarized the contents of the letter and described Nate’s reaction.

  “He fainted?” Stella asked.

  I nodded. “Went down like a giant elm. Although he denies it.”

  “Of course he does.”

  At that point our meals arrived, and I waited until the server had left to go on, telling them about the first night I’d spent in his apartment.

  “You slept over? Did anything happen?”

  I picked up the little pitcher of maple syrup and soaked my stack of pancakes. “No. He only asked me to stay to help with her. Honestly, he is clueless when it comes to babies.”

  “What single guy isn’t?” Maren popped a strawberry in her mouth.

  Digging into my breakfast, I told them about the phone call with Rachel.

  “Holy shit,” remarked Stella. “I can’t believe a mother would abandon her child to a stranger for a month. For any length of time at all. I wonder what’s going on there.”

  “No idea,” I said, my mouth full of fluffy, maple-soaked deliciousness. “She’s lucky Nate is a good guy.”

  “Is he, though?” Stella cocked her head to one side. “You’ve told me some stories. I wouldn’t think he’s the dad type.”

  “I wouldn’t have either,” Maren added, “based on what you’ve said about him.”

  “He wasn’t,” I agreed. “But he doesn’t really have a choice now, and he’s trying really hard. You should see him with her. It’s so sweet.” In my mind I could still see him hold her up so he could smell her freshly washed hair. My belly fluttered.

  “You’re not doing all the work?” Stella sounded suspicious.

  “Not at all!” I felt defensive about Nate. “I mean, I had to show him how to do everything, because he’s never had any experience with a baby, but he’s getting the hang of things. He feeds her and changes her and burps her and rocks her to sleep, and we gave her a bath together last night. Right in the kitchen sink, and afterward he took her and dried her off and got her ready for bed. So damn sweet.”

  My sisters exchanged an amused glance. “You mentioned that.”

  “What?” I demanded. “What’s that look for?”

  “Be careful, Em,” Stella said. “Don’t let him take advantage of you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Maren chimed in. “She means don’t let him think he’s got a sexy nanny living across the hall at his beck and call.”

  “He doesn’t think that,” I said, annoyed. “I volunteered to help him. And we didn’t have sex! We’re just friends.”

  “Okay, don’t get angry. I just know how you get and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “How I get?” I set my fork down too, my appetite diminished.

  “Yes,” Stella said in her I-am-a-therapist-so-I-know-more-about-your-feelings-than-you-do voice. “When you get a crush on someone, you go kamikaze immediately. And your crushes are never on guys who want that.”

  “I don’t have a crush on him,” I lied, staring at my plate. “We only messed around a little. Jeez. I’m sorry I told you.”

  Stella sighed. “No, no. Don’t be sorry—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Emme, I only want you to be careful. I’ve seen you fall for the wrong guy, hard and fast, plenty of times.”

  “I’m not falling for anybody,” I said, hoping it was true, “Nobody is falling, so you can stop worrying. Nobody is even having sex. Although if we did decide to have sex, it would be nobody’s business but our own. After all, if you and Buzz can have dating without sex, why couldn’t Nate and I have sex without dating? Everybody should be free to do what they want.”

  “You’re right,” said Stella in a voice so calm it irked me. “You’re right and I’m sorry. Different relationships work for different reasons, and I hope you and Nate have one that works for you. If it’s sexual without being romantic and you’re okay with it, then great.”

  “We only want you to be happy,” said Maren, rubbing my shoulder.

  “Thank you.” I picked up my fork again and stabbed through my stack of pancakes, but I really didn’t want any more.

  Would I really be okay having sex without romance? On the ride home, I thought about it. The truth was, I wasn’t sure. I’d never wanted to be that kind of person before. Maybe that was my trouble. Maybe it wasn’t men who disappointed me; maybe I was setting myself up for disappointment every time by expecting too much.

  Maybe, as Nate had put it, sometimes a fuck really was just a fuck.

  After all, it was mostly about anatomy, right? Intercourse. Penetration. Insert Part A into Slot B. Why, I wondered, had I always been so convinced there had to be emotions involved? Couldn’t you do it because it felt good? Because it relieved tension? Because it made you feel sexy and desirable and wanted? Look how good I’d felt in my skin this morning after that orgasm last night—good enough to wake up early and do yoga, for goodness sake! When was the last time I’d done that on a Sunday morning?

  Maybe all this time, it was those women leaving Nate’s apartment in the morning who’d had it right, and smug, self-important little me who’d had it wrong.

  But how could I be sure?

  Eight

  Nate

  Sunday morning, I woke up determined to do what I’d promised myself and stay away from Emme. I wouldn’t text her with updates. I wouldn’t call her for advice. I wouldn’t invite her over to help. I needed to do things on my own, even if I was going on less than five hours of sleep and craved nothing but caffeine and sugar.

  During Paisley’s morning nap, I emailed my boss and told her I needed time off for a family emergency. She replied very quickly that she hoped things were all right and that it shouldn’t be a problem to cover my caseload for the week. But she requested I come in on Monday morning, if at all possible, to get things in place. I told her I would let her know by the end of the day if I couldn’t get there, then worried all afternoon about how I was going to make it happen. Did I take Paisley with me? I imagined myself walking through the lobby doors of the firm’s building wearing a suit, tie, and the
baby sling and wanted to die. But as I had no one to watch her yet, I didn’t know if I’d have a choice. I figured I could ask Emme and that she’d probably say yes since Monday was her day off, but I didn’t want to.

  After Paisley woke up and drank her bottle, I took her to the grocery store, which turned out to be a much bigger ordeal than I had anticipated, and I had anticipated a pretty fucking big ordeal. First, the carts at the grocery store didn’t have those built in seats for infants like the carts at Babies“R”Us, and I struggled to balance her car seat in the front compartment where little kids were supposed to sit. After a few minutes of grappling and sweating and muttering curse words under my breath, I was rescued by a merciful woman who took pity on me. “Here," she said. “Let me show you how to do it.”

  When Paisley’s car seat was secure, I thanked her. “I’m new at this dad thing," I said apologetically. “Still learning how to do everything."

  Things went okay for the next twenty minutes or so, but it was taking me forever to shop because I couldn’t leave the cart and run to grab something I’d forgotten two aisles back—and I kept forgetting everything (sleep deprivation is no joke). It’s not like I could say to Paisley, stay right here, I’ll be right back, and dash over to the produce section again. I had to bring her with me every time.

  Then, of course, she decided to shit herself right in the middle of the canned vegetable aisle. Her face turned a shade of red that rivaled the crushed tomatoes, and she grunted like a four-hundred-pound deadweight lifter. Other shoppers, who previously had all stopped to tell me how cute she was, now seemed to avoid us. When she was finished, the stench surrounded us like a toxic cloud everywhere we went. It was so bad I ended up cutting the shopping trip short and running for the checkout without even hitting the dairy aisle, even though I was out of eggs and milk. Then, as we were waiting to be rung up, she decided to start screaming over absolutely nothing and wouldn’t stop.

  “Sorry," I said to the cashier. And the customer ahead of me. And the customer behind me. And the woman one lane over. And anyone I passed on my way out to the parking lot.

  I put her in the car first and then loaded the grocery bags into my trunk. It was on the way home that I wondered how I was supposed to get her and all of the grocery bags up to my apartment without the big cart. “How the hell do people do this?” I muttered out loud.

  Her answer was a fresh round of wailing. I didn’t blame her.

  In the end, I made the first trip up to my apartment carrying as many grocery bags as I could in one hand and her car seat in the other. Then I put her in the stroller, wheeled her down to the parking garage, and loaded up. Bags were hanging off my arms and bulging out the bottom of the stroller, but I managed to get everything in one trip.

  The one good thing that day was that I managed to bathe her all by myself without doing harm to either one of us or making too big a mess in the kitchen. In fact, she actually seemed to enjoy getting her hair washed, and when she was dry and dressed in a clean sleeper, I sat her on my lap and brushed her hair for the first time. I couldn’t get it to lie completely flat, but it looked pretty fucking cute. She seemed to like that too, although she kept trying to grab the brush out of my hand. When I was done with her hair, I let her play with it, and she immediately tried to eat the thing. I watched her gnaw on the handle for a couple minutes, then I took out my phone and snapped a picture of her—my first.

  The realization hit me that I was probably going to take thousands of photos of her in my lifetime, but this was the very first one. It choked me up a little, although I would never admit it to anyone.

  Of course, the next thing I wanted to do was send the picture to someone, because what good was it to have a cute kid if you couldn’t show her off? Emme was my first thought, not just because she was the only one of my friends who knew about Paisley, but because I genuinely wanted her to see the photo. Was it breaking my vow to text it to her? It’s not like I was asking for help or anything.

  Paternal pride overruled my stubbornness, and I decided to send it.

  First bath on my own. We survived. I think she likes my mad hairstyling skills.

  I sent the message and the photo, hoping for a quick and friendly reply. It took less than 30 seconds.

  Emme: OMG! She is the cutest thing ever. Great job on the bath. Things going okay today?

  I had to text with one hand, so it took me a couple minutes to write back.

  Me: Yes. Grocery store was a bit hairy and smelly, but all is well. How are you?

  Emme: Oh dear. Hairy and smelly? I’m fine. Cleaning my apartment and making spaghetti sauce and meatballs.

  Homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs. Jesus Christ, that sounded good. My stomach groaned with envy. Since Paisley had arrived, I was surviving on shit like chocolate-covered potato chips, dry cereal (since I’d run out of milk), raisins, lunchmeat, and cocktail olives. I hadn’t even had the time or energy to make a proper sandwich. But I didn’t want her to know that.

  Me: Sounds good. Enjoy your dinner.

  She didn’t text back. I set my phone aside and exhaled. It sucked not being able to be honest with her. She and I had never had to bullshit each other, and I didn’t like it. What I really wanted to say was, How about you bring that spaghetti over here and hold the baby while I pour you a drink?

  But if she came over, I had a feeling I knew what would happen. I didn’t trust myself.

  While Paisley took her afternoon nap in the swing, I made a few work phone calls and did laundry. I was folding some of Paisley’s things—they were so tiny in my big hands, it was ridiculous—when I wondered if I would have to move to a bigger place.

  Fuck. I didn’t want to move. I loved this apartment. Everything about it said me. Except…I hardly even knew who that was at this point. Did the old me still exist? Did being a father supersede every other part of my identity? Did I have a right to live where I wanted to live without worrying if it was right for a kid? How often would she even visit? What was my life going to look like moving forward? Could I shift back and forth from old Nate to single dad Nate at will? Be one thing when she was with me and another when she wasn’t?

  The walls started to close in on me, and I sank onto the couch, eyes closed. My stomach hurt. My brain hurt. How was I ever going to get used to the fact that nothing in my life would ever be the same? I didn’t want these problems. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be a father.

  Then I thought of Emme. What had she said to me Friday night?

  If you were really the alpha male you pretend to be, you’d take responsibility for this like a grown-ass man and not fall apart like the ridiculous boy I see in front of me.

  Frowning, I got to my feet again. I wasn’t fucking pretending. And I wouldn’t fall apart.

  After I had stacked Paisley’s clothing beneath the changing table and put away my own laundry, I decided to make the call to my mother. Telling her would not be fun, but the longer I avoided it, the more cowardly I felt. I needed to do something that would make me feel strong. Show someone I was accepting responsibility like a man.

  Then I could tell Emme about it.

  I glanced at Paisley, who was sleeping peacefully in the swing, picked up my phone and made the call. My mother didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me back, which, of course, she did after Paisley woke up and was just getting started on her nightly crying jag.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, shifting the screaming baby to my left arm so I could hold the phone to my ear with the right.

  “Nate? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I rolled my eyes and spoke louder. “Hello, Mom. It’s me. Can you hear me?”

  “Sort of. Where on earth are you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Well, what’s all that noise? Is your television on? Can you turn it off? I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  “It’s not my television. It’s a baby, and I c
an’t turn it off. Sorry, I wish I could.”

  She was silent a moment. “Did you say a baby? What’s a baby doing at your apartment? Whose baby?”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s my baby, Mom.”

  More silence on my mother’s end. I imagined her taking the phone away from her ear to stare at it.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  I spoke loud and clear. “I said, it’s my baby.”

  “You have a baby?”

  “Yes. She’s eight weeks old, and her name is Paisley.”

  “Eight weeks old? I don’t understand. You’ve had a baby for eight weeks and you’re only telling me about it now? Oh my God. Oh my God, I have to sit down. I feel faint.”

  Stay calm. “No, Mom. She’s eight weeks old, but I just found out about her two days ago.” I waited for a reply, but didn’t hear anything for a minute, and then there was the telltale crackle of a brown paper bag as she breathed in and out of it. “Mom? Are you okay?” More crackling. “Look, I know this is a shock. It was for me, too. I promise, I had no idea she even existed.”

  The crackling paused. “How is that possible? You didn’t know you…got someone pregnant?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Was it your girlfriend or something? Why wouldn’t she tell you?”

  “It wasn’t my girlfriend. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Who on earth was it?”

  “Just someone I know.”

  “Well, what’s her name, for God’s sake?”

  “Rachel.”

  “Rachel what?”

  I winced. I really needed to find out her last name. “I don’t know.”

  “Merciful Jesus, Nate! Is she a prostitute?” More crackling.

  “No! Jesus, Mom. She was just a woman I knew, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

  “So where is this woman now?”

  “I don’t know that, either. She left the baby with me and said she needed some time away.”