Page 51 of Blueline Baby

My kid.

“Chloe. Baby, listen to me. We’re getting on the plane soon. I’ll be home in two hours.”

“Okay,” she says. Then she asks, so quietly I almost miss it, “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” It’s out before she’s finished asking. “No. Never. Chloe—I’m so happy right now I can barely stand up. I love you. I’ll be home soon.”

There’s a long pause. I listen to her breathe and wish harder than I’ve ever wished for anything that the plane was already in the air.

“Okay,” she says, and the call ends.

I lower the phone. Dean’s still grinning like an idiot, which is when I notice my cheeks are wet.

“Holy shit.” I drag a hand down my face and let out a shaky laugh. “Chloe’s pregnant.”

“Congrats, Dad. Let’s get you on a plane.” He claps my shoulder and steers me back toward the noise.

The flight to Dallas is an hour and forty minutes. I ask the flight attendant for a pen before we’re off the ground and start a list on the back of a napkin.

We need a house. That’s first. My place is two bedrooms if you’re generous, and one of them has Jude in it. I’m not bringing a baby home to that. It needs to be close to campus, too, so Chloe isn’t losing an hour a day to the highway on top of everything else she’s about to be carrying.

I write HOUSE. Under it, I write CLOSE TO SCHOOL and underline it twice.

Then we need help. Because Chloe is finishing school—that part is not negotiable, I don’t care what it takes—and somebody has to be with the baby while she’s in class, especially on the long road swings when I’m gone. We need a nanny, and I have no idea how you find a nanny.

I write NANNY. Next to it, I write HOW.

Then there’s the truck. It has a bench seat, and you can’t put a car seat on a bench seat.

I write TRUCK and SELL and circle them both.

Then I stop, pen hovering.

“Dean.”

His eyes are closed in the next seat. “Mm.”

“I don’t know when the baby’s coming.”

“Nine months most likely.”

“I’m an idiot.” I drop the pen on the tray table. “She told me she’s pregnant and I never asked her due date.”

“You told her you loved her,” he says without opening his eyes. “You did fine.”

The lake was in July, and it takes nine months. I count it out on my fingers and land on April.

I write APRIL and a question mark, and then I just stare at it while something enormous and quiet moves through my chest.

There’s going to be a person in April, and that person is going to be half her.

Then the next problem hits and I sit straight up in my seat.

“Her ring’s not ready.”

“What?”

“The ring. It’s still at the jeweler’s.” I drag both hands through my hair. “What am I supposed to do, propose with nothing?”