Which is how and when I decided that my baby was not going to hold my name—the name of a man I barely remembered—but my mother’s maiden name.

Cassiopeia Larssen.

The conversation about Saturday night with Leaf had to wait until the next school day because I laid down for a “little nap” post-dinner and woke up when my morning alarm went off. I slogged into school, gray backpack attached to me like a weighted wood tick. Black leggings, a long hoodie sweatshirt and one of my more forgiving T-shirts went along with slip-on sneakers. The boots weren’t as feasible anymore because bending was getting more ungainly. I could do it, but it just felt weird and would only get worse.

My homework was done-ish—enough that I’d get credit for doing it, not enough that I could say it was my best work. I spent each of my classes furiously finishing what work I could because the early nights were a danger to any and all productivity.

Leaf kissed my cheek as we went into Weller’s class. The other kids didn’t notice. In fact, after the incident with Mamacita and detention boy—whose name was Shane Michaels I found out later—everyone backed off. No one exactly warmed up to me, either, but that was okay. I’d found my friends and they were enough for me. I hadn’t been interested in the social-climbing aspect of school before, I certainly wasn’t sweating it in Stonington, either, particularly not with a bun in ye olde oven.

Class was a blur. I was having trouble focusing lately, which was less the shiny new boyfriend—he was nice to have around, but I wasn’t ridiculous over him, either—and more pregnancy brain. I’d asked Dr. Cardiff about it at my last check-in. She assured me that, though there’s not a lot of medical science that delved into the subject, preggo brain was widely recognized as a thing that settles in between the second and third trimesters, and sometimes continues on after the baby is born. The brain is overloaded with hormones that makes it work differently.

I sincerely hoped my brain righted itself after the kid was born. I was already tired of what I’d titled The Dumbs.

I threw my backpack into my locker and trudged to lunch. I didn’t bother bringing my own food anymore; Leaf insisted he’d take care of me so I let him. The argument wasn’t worth it. When I pointed out he did way more for me than I did for him in return, he simply shrugged and said, “It’s not about receipts. It’s about happiness. Feeding you makes me happy.”

How do you argue with that?

You don’t, is the answer. You let your boyfriend spoil you to death with good food and snuggles.