“Your mom is the bomb,” Mickey said. “She really helped me last year when I was pregnant. My own mom died a few years ago.”

“Shit, Mickey. I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.”

“No worries. But it was hard. Pancreatic fucking cancer. She and Barb were friends, and we got close. Plus, Noah here has always had a soft spot for your family.”

“Is this true?” I asked.

He shrugged amiably. “Sure.”

Marcus was babbling cheerfully and fascinated with my dad’s ear. I would need to trim some ear hair soon. Such was the life of a loving daughter. Maybe he’d like to go to the real barber in town, like he used to, every four weeks.

“You guys want something to drink?” I asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” Mickey said. “Half a beer. It’s good for nursing mothers. Don’t stink-eye me, Noah Pelletier. Split a brewski with me.”

“Okay.” He smiled at her, and my heart pulled a little.

They were a couple. A family. Not a romantic couple, but families came in all shapes and sizes, didn’t they? The ease between them, the affection, the way they were both so natural with their son . . . it was really lovely.

I was jealous. The certainty between Mickey and Noah was not something I’d ever had. Not with Noah, because we’d been too young, of course, and later because we’d wanted different things. And not with anyone else. The past few weeks since dumping Alexander, I’d come to realize that I’d filled in a lot of his blanks with answers I’d wanted, always making the best assumptions about him, never once wondering if he was lying to me.

Stupid.

I got the beer, and one for myself, poured them in glasses, because we were civilized and all that, and went back into the living room, doling out the sad little half beers to Noah and Mickey and feeling very grown-up with my full glass. Mickey took the baby, who was starting to fuss, and clucked at him, making him utterly delighted.

“Do you want kids, Sadie?” Mickey asked.

“I see we’re going straight for the deeply personal questions,” Noah said, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t have to answer,” Mickey said. “Sorry. Too personal? Is he right?”

“No! No. Um . . . you know, maybe?” I answered, trying not to look at the man who’d once told me he wanted me to bear five children. “I love kids. I’m a teacher. An auntie. I just never was . . . I don’t know. In the position of really having one.”

“Squatting, you mean? Or feet in stirrups?” Mickey grinned.

“Please tell me your birthing story,” I said, smiling back (and relieved not to have to dissect my thoughts on being a mother). “You know you want to.”

“I do!” she said. “Because I was fucking heroic, right, Noah?”

“You were. Are. Every day.”