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  “Let me know when they get regular,” Fox says.

  “Okay,” she agrees, far too chipper—thereby fake chipper. “Also, I think my water broke.”

  “Are you kidding?” I ask, knowing that’s a stupid question.

  “Either that or I pissed myself again.”

  Fifteen minutes and two separate contractions later, the four of us finally scramble out the door and into the car. The hospital is only five miles away, but if there’s traffic, it could be half an hour. Regardless, Zeke drives like a maniac, and Fox threatens to stick his head out the window to howl like a police siren. I laugh so hard at the suggestion, he actually follows through.

  2

  THE DRAWING BOARD

  NORA

  AS I SIT IN THE waiting room with the amassed group of family and friends, Sophie’s mom, Margaret, sits down next to me. This being her first grandchild, I’m not surprised to feel the excitement vibrating off of her.

  “I can’t pace anymore,” she says with a sigh. “So what’s dragging you down, honey?”

  I can’t help but smile. Margaret is practically a second mom to me—my own having fucked off back to Korea after my parents split. We were never particularly close anyway, and I rarely speak to her, let alone see her. I don’t think she ever truly wanted to be a mother, but she fell in love with my Irish father while he was working for the military and made a one-time exception. My dad wanted a rugby team, but she refused to have more—a point of contention that led to their divorce when I was thirteen. He and I then moved from our native Limerick to California. Five years ago, he relocated to New York to be close to his only remaining sister, who’s lived on Long Island for decades. I realize it’s been longer than that since I’ve heard from my mother.

  I rest my head on Margaret’s shoulder and sigh, wishing maternal affection could fix my problems. “Panic.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Money panic.”

  “Do you need some money?” she says, twisting away so she can look at me.

  “Pfft. I would never ask you for—”

  “I know that,” she says. “I’m asking if we can help you.”

  Margaret and Sophie’s stepdad, Ruben, are crazily generous people, but they’re not made of money. Not to mention, Sophie wouldn’t even accept their money to freeze her eggs when her “baby factory announced plans to shut down.” Her words.

  “That’s ridiculously kind, Margs,” I say. “But I couldn’t possibly accept. I got myself into this mess. I just need to figure out what to do in transition.”

  “Transition? Are you talking about me?” Cameron, Sophie’s transgender younger sister, arrives and sits down next to me, offering a cheeky wink. “Kidding. Sort of. So, is my niece here yet?”

  “You don’t know it’s a girl, Cam,” Margaret chides her. “I maintain that I think it’s a boy. She carried high and constantly craved pickles, which I did when I was pregnant with you.”

  “That could mean it’s a girl, actually,” Cam says, joking, but Margaret gasps in shame.

  “Shit!” Margaret covers her face with her hands. “You’re right, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m teasing you, mamaleh,” she says, jumping up to sit on her lap. “I’m still your baby boy, even if I’m a girl.”

  I hear Ruben mutter in his smooth Cuban accent, “I still don’t get it.”

  I have to chuckle. It’s been quite a ride since Cameron’s announcement a couple years ago. Ruben and Margaret have been super supportive, even though they sometimes have trouble wrapping their heads around it all. I can’t say the same for Cam’s father. Sophie says they haven’t spoken since Cam gave him the news, and Cam’s started referring to Ruben as Papá.

  “Nora, my appointment for the tit-sultation is next week. Are you still up for coming with me?”

  “Tit-sulation? What does that mean?” Margaret slaps Cam’s arm. “Are you making boob jokes? Stop making up words. This is serious. It’s surgery!”

  “It’s seriously easier if we make it funny, Mom,” she replies. “I’m a comedian, for Chrissakes. It’s what I do. And it’s practically outpatient.”

  I wrap an arm around Margaret’s shoulder. “Stop teasing her, Cam. It’s not that simple. Margaret, the tit-sultation is on for when, Cammy? Tits Tuesday?”

  Margaret breaks into laughter. “You girls. I thought Sophie was bad.”

  “Oh, she is.” Cam nods. “Tits Tuesday it is. Mom, feel free to come pick out my boobs with us.”

  “I’m getting coffee,” Margaret announces, forcing Cam off her lap as she stands.

  “You’re mean,” I tell Cam.

  “Comedians have to take risks,” she says.

  We chat for a bit, talking about a million things and nothing. Cam is like another sibling to me—much as Sophie is my sister, Cam follows right behind. After she mentions her roommate moved to Vancouver, I hit myself over the head (metaphorically) with a blinking light bulb.

  “Do you need a new roommate?” I ask, knowing I sound a little crazy and totally desperate. I’m okay with that.

  “I’m not sure, Single White Female.” She eyes me warily, but her expression cracks into amusement. “Or should I say Single Asian Female?”

  “You’re so racialist,” I tease. “And as I am half Korean, they’re both technically correct.”

  Cam giggles. “Noted. So why do you ask?”

  I suck in a breath and confess the quick version: broke, nearly homeless. “I’m out of my apartment in a week, with very little cash until I find something interim. That’s what I was referring to by ‘transition’ earlier.”

  “Honey, say no more. I’ll get you a key, and you can move your stuff in whenever.” She’s so blasé about it, as if I only asked for a cup of sugar.

  “Cam.”

  “What? Like you wouldn’t do the same for me if I needed it.” She glares, daring me to argue.

  I nod. “Of course I would.”

  “Settled. Anything else you need? Advice on hormones? Improv classes? Shaving techniques?”

  I snicker. “Don’t talk about my eyebrow.”

  “It is just one brow at present; that’s true.”

  “Bitch.”

  “I simply agreed with you,” she reminds me, and we laugh together.

  I feel a tiny bit less out of control.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I say, watching her eyes narrow. “Would you be okay if I brought Fitzwilliam?”

  She stares at me. “I’m assuming you’re talking about a sex robot you’ve named after the delicious Mr. Darcy of Jane Austen fame?”

  “What? No. He’s my hedgehog.”

  Cameron soon doubles over with laughter. “You have a hedgehog.” She’s asking for confirmation, but slathering the statement with buckets of “are you kidding me?”

  “Yes. I have a goddamn hedgehog. I rescued him last year.”

  “From what?”

  “I was volunteering at a shelter where I’d done some PR work, and he was one of the animals saved from a hoarding situation,” I explain. I’m kind of surprised she doesn’t know about this already. Though, I guess it’s not like she’s been to my apartment in ages.

  “I can’t believe you have an actual hedgehog.”

  I groan and fall backward into my chair. “So that’s a yes?”

  “I suppose. You’re keeping him in your room, though. I don’t clean cages,” she says with a slap to my knee. “I was just about to go adopt a cat, but I’m thinking that might be a bad idea with a live lunch elsewhere in the apartment.”

  “Nice, Cam,” I say. “Well, with temporary housing accommodations sorted, I’m on to the employment problem.”

  I’d been doing some freelance PR in the wake of my former boss Simon’s crisis of conscience—and by “conscience” I mean cocaine and friends—and subsequent shutdown of the firm I’d been working with for five years. After his rehab stint, newfound clarity showed him the way of Jesus. Or something. I stopped listening when it started to
sound cult-y and wished him well.

  For a time, he sent a lot of clients my way, so I was really busy up until about six months ago. That was when Simon showed up at my house, all spit-shined and ready to take on the world—via all his original clients, but not requiring my services. I could have argued, but at the time I didn’t realize what a shitstorm was brewing in my checkbook, so to speak. I had a few of my own clients, but it wasn’t enough to maintain the status quo. Cut to my accountant April’s office a couple days ago…

  “Have you sent your résumé to any other firms?” Cam asks.

  “I’ve reached out to some contacts, but nothing yet. That kind of thing can take weeks at the very least. I think I’m going to have to apply at Target. Maybe Costco—they pay a living wage, right?” I look up at her face and nearly choke at her wide-eyed, horrorstruck expression. “What? I’m joking.”

  She blinks rapidly for a second before slapping my knee. “Don’t hate. There’s no shame in it, but I know how much you hated retail back in college.”

  My face feels like it curdles at the memory, and I make a gagging noise. “Fair play. It was horrible.”

  “What about bartending? You did that for a stretch after the mall had its wicked, horrible, food court kind of way with you.”

  “Do you just want free drinks?”

  “Obviously.”

  The idea rolls around in my head for a minute, dinging as it speeds up and gains points. “You know, I could make some serious bank if I hustle for a while.”

  Just at that moment, Fox comes barreling into the room, beaming as he tears off his scrub gown. “It’s a boy!”

  ***

  I can’t stop crying. It’s ridiculous, and I should not be so emotional. My best friend has a baby. A boy. But seeing Sophie exhausted and blissfully cozy with Fox and their son—who they refuse to name Nora or Bennett—makes parts of me ache like I want that. Past mistakes wiped that idea out, and I don’t care to think about that right now. Maybe ever. I’m relieved it’s not me. Mostly. I don’t even know that I want children. Especially after… Ahem. There may be a reason or seven that I don’t want to get into some sort of committed relationship. I may be some therapist’s wet dream in that department, but I’m fine. I’m taking care of me. That’s all I need. Well, my family of misfits, too, obviously. And Fitzwilliam.

  So why am I hiding out and sobbing in the bathroom?

  “Girl.” Cameron bangs a fist on the outer door, interrupting my train of thought. Thank God. “I’m going for some dinner with Mom and Papá. Join us or what?”

  “Yeah, bitch!” I call. “Calm yourself. Out in a sec.”

  I take a deep breath, dab my face with a wad of that generically horrifying tissue the hospital thinks passes for toilet paper, and exit my hiding stall. In the mirror, the puffiness around my eyes looks like I got stung by wasps in the face.

  “Gorgeous,” I flatly tell my reflection.

  My black hair is a mess from fiddling with it while we waited, and then pushing it out of my face as I sobbed like… well, like I imagine my brand-new godson did upon birth.

  Suck it up, Bennett.

  I splash some cold water on my face in an attempt to tamp down the redness. Then I dig into my bag for a bobby pin or two and finger-brush my long tangles into submission enough to twist them into a knot on top of my head. Examining the updated look, I exhale, satisfied.

  “It’ll do, Donkey,” I say, affecting a Shrek accent. “It’ll do.”

  3

  THE THING ABOUT THE FUTURE

  NORA

  AFTER A COUPLE weeks at Cameron’s, I’m able to relax enough to set some goals and finally land a bartending gig. I didn’t want to work at any of the places Sophie and most of our friends frequent. Not that I’m ashamed—far from it. I think I’d just feel too guilty getting tips from them. And potentially get irritated if any of them stiffed me. Not to mention, I want to keep some places safe from workplace ruin. That way The Post and such bars will remain my own personal oases.

  A bar named The Fly Trap, where I am now employed, sounds kind of dive-y. I don’t mind dive bars, but working them is another story. Thankfully it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. And though they serve some pretty good food, the waitresses handle all the kitchen flow. I get to keep my station at the bar and direct the bar backs. Lord knows I can stand to boss some newbs around. I’ve already got one puppy sweet on me. Haven’t decided if I’ll play with him yet.

  After my first week of shifts, the owner moves me to a weekend-centric schedule. I’m stoked because that means more tips. And I must have impressed him to bump me up so quickly. Like I said, I can hustle when I need to.

  A month later, I’m pulling down some decent cash, but I’m also exhausted. I forgot how much energy it takes to deal with people on that level. When I wake up Monday afternoon to three missed texts and a voicemail from Sophie, I realize I’ve turned into a shitty friend. We were supposed to do lunch at one. It’s three.

  “I’m so sorry!” I say in greeting when she answers.

  “It’s okay,” she replies with a sigh.

  It’s not a good sigh. She’s upset.

  “It’s not like we were going anywhere fancy.”

  Fuck. “This was going to be your first outing with Henry,” I say, as if she doesn’t know. “I messed that up. I… Fuck, I’ve just been so exhausted. Who knew turning thirty meant you lose so much steam?”

  “Who you talkin’ to?” she quips. “I haven’t slept in months.” Her voice changes to a coo, and I know she’s talking to Henry. “Yes, I’m talking about you, coconut. You need to sleep more than an hour at a time.”

  “I can pick up some tacos from Old Mex and be there in twenty,” I suggest. It’s a tiny place, nothing fancy, but their food is heavenly. “What do you think?”

  “Deal.”

  Forty minutes and a bag of free tacos later (Old Mexico is amazingly generous to regulars when they screw up), Sophie and I set up on the back deck under the shade. Their dog Flowerkraut—a German Shepherd rescue—lays guard next to Sophie’s chair, so she’s half on the deck, half in the sand. Henry is in his sling, sound asleep.

  “He sleeps on me for amazing stretches of time,” Sophie laments. “Then if I try to put him in the bassinet, it’s a max of an hour. If Fox is home, though, he curls up with him and sleeps a little longer.” She grins, all dopey in love. “It’s so fucking cute.”

  She whips out her phone and proceeds to show me an entire album of pictures of Fox and Henry asleep.

  “He’s a drooler,” I say, straightfaced.

  “He’s not even three months old.”

  “I meant Fox.”

  Sophie lets out a laugh like a donkey’s bray. Henry startles and screams until she whips out a nipple. Baby boy is on it.

  “I guess he’s a tit man,” I joke.

  “Funny.” Sophie grabs a taco with her free hand. “So, we’re looking at doing the baptism next month. They have a group scheduled at my mom’s church, so we can kind of piggyback into that.”

  “I thought you had to be members.”

  “My mom is, so we’re good. And we’re not Catholic like your freak ass,” she says throwing me a teasing side-eye, “so they’re a little more lenient. Plus, they take mercy on the little babies.”

  I shake my head. “Okay, so give me a date so I can ask for the time off, as I’m assuming it will not, in fact, be during the week.”

  “Six weeks from tomorrow,” she says. “And it’ll be the late service, so you’ll have time if you need to work that night. Or take the night off and get drunk with most of us at the after after party.”

  “After after?” I ask.

  “Yeah. There’s the actual ceremony, then Grandma Margs and Abuelo Ruben are popping for the brunch at Canyon Green. Then whoever’s left is following us back to our house for a typical fiesta de Monkhouse gig.”

  “Except that you still can’t drink,” I remind her.

  “I did say ‘most of us.’
” She glares.

  I pull up the calendar on my phone and tap away, logging the date and making a note to take the day off. I’ve been so MIA lately, I figure spending some celebratory time with my sister-from-another-mister and her spawn—I mean, kid—warrants sacrificing a shift or two.

  “You never did tell me who you guys chose as the godfather,” I tell her as I save all my entries and set my phone down.

  She fidgets. “Um...”

  Oh, no. “You’re kidding me.”

  “What?” She’s defensive enough that I don’t even have to ask.

  “You chose Doc?!”

  Sophie puts a hand over Henry’s head to block his ears from my shouting. I inhale quickly and try to relax into my deck chair. I’m sure my position reflects how uncomfortable I am, given that every muscle in my body has gone tense. Why do I let the mere mention of him get to me?

  “For crying out loud, are you ever going to tell me the full story? What was so horrible that putting you two in a room together is now a travesty?”

  I sigh, forcing my shoulders back and down. “It… Nothing. It was just… I…” I swallow to cut myself off. My stomach jumps around and punches my heart in the process. “Another time.”

  I see Sophie’s minute headshake out of the corner of my eye. I’ve skirted her on the details of this situation for far too long. Ultimately, it’s bigger than Doc. That said, there’s only so much I can bring myself to talk about. So I’ll go the easy route.

  “Okay, okay, I thought I was pregnant,” I admit, and it feels horrible all over again. It feels worse because I was considering an abortion before I realized it was a false alarm. “We were casual, and I freaked out because I knew he was seeing other people, and so, uh, I was the one who called it off.”

  I look up from the spot where I’ve been focused to see Sophie staring at me. “What?”

  “You broke it off?” she asks. “You’ve led me to believe for the past couple of years that he was the asshole. How does that make him the asshole?”