Five o’clock that night, I sat on the bench on Mormor’s front porch, watching the road for cars in anticipation of Leaf’s arrival. It was not lost on me that the dog across the street, a black lab named Remy who they had to tie with a harness because he was completely unhinged, did the exact same thing, only he barked while vigilant. I just fidgeted and sighed and glanced back at the house, at Mom and Mormor who were co-knitting in the living room while watching the Game Show Network.

Five past five.

Ten past.

I was just about to text Leaf to find out where he was when his dad’s car appeared. I stood, my hands skimming over my shirt. I’d changed out of the Link T-shirt and into something that fit better, and by better, I mean more loosely. I didn’t like calling attention to the baby bump in Mr. Leon’s presence. Leaf assured me his father understood, that judging me meant judging Miri, too, and Mr. Leon wouldn’t do that, but I still fretted.

“Slut shaming,” Erin had told me once at lunch. “It’s a thing. It messes with us. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

I loved Erin and her feminism.

Leaf exited the car and waved at me. Wine-colored long-sleeved shirt over a black T-shirt. A black leather belt. Jeans. New sneakers. His hair was pulled back into its usual sleek ponytail. Mr. Leon waved at me from behind the steering wheel of the car. He was in his work uniform, his walkie-talkie thingie attached to his shoulder already.

I waved back and watched him pull out of the driveway. Leaf eyeballed Mormor’s house, smiling at the colorful potted mums still clinging to life on the front steps.

“This place is niiiice,” he said.

“Mormor’s kind of a fanatic about her house, yeah.”

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“Nope, that’s fine. You ready for this?”

“Sure am.”

I threaded my fingers with his. He lifted my left hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the backs of my knuckles. I pretty much melted into the porch. We’d been taking it slow, and I knew, logically, it was a smart move—for me, for the baby. That didn’t, however, mean that my rampaging pants parts weren’t a factor. A good portion of my second trimester had been me furiously quenching the fire raging in my preggo veins.

I led him into the house with the Swedish she-wolves I called family. Mom was frowning at a misshapen sock she’d been trying to assemble with circle hooks, her hair wound tight with a floral scarf. Mormor was sliding a stitch marker into what I was guessing was going to be a blanket of some kind. It was navy blue with a fancy yellow trim.

“Hello,” Leaf said in greeting.