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A baby who needs diapers and bottles and a car seat and somewhere to sleep.

A custody schedule. Child support.

A whole tiny person who could connect us to Veronica for the rest of our lives.

We could be talking about whether Simon gets the baby every other weekend before the school year is even over.

Would Simon go over there?

Would she bring the baby here?

Would we have a nursery? Would we need a crib? Would the baby sleep in our room when Simon had custody?

Would I be expected to help?

Of course I'd help.

How could I not?

There's no version of this where I would look at a baby related to two people I love and treat it like some unwanted intruder. I don't know how to be a stepmother to the baby my fiancé might have accidentally conceived with the woman he slept with right before coming back to me.

Pretty sure there isn't a parenting book for that one.

“Blaire.”

I blink.

Simon is watching me.

“What?”

“You disappeared.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You've been holding your toothbrush in the air for like thirty seconds.”

I look at it. “Oh.” I put it back in my mouth.

He waits until I finish brushing.

When I rinse and straighten again, he's still there.

“There’s more,” he says.

“Of course there is.”

“She wants to do a gender reveal.”

I pause. “Okay.”

“And she wants me there.”

Ah.

“What did you say?”

“I told her we're not doing a party.”