Except it wasn’t actually a loss. Two minutes later, Jack texted me back.

I’m sorry. Gonna tell them now. Bbs.

Okay, so maybe my baby daddy wasn’t an asshat. Maybe he just needed a toe up the butt now and then to get him going in the right direction. I could do that. I could be that toe.

“Or not. He’s telling them now. I guess pointing out he was being a donkey was a quick way to get results. I should have been meaner, sooner.”

Leaf kissed the back of my shoulder. “I like you mean. At other people. Mean at me, probably not so much.”

“I don’t have any reason to be mean to you, though. You should screw up more.”

He stopped massaging my shoulders.

“Like that?”

“...never mind. Keep being awesome. I’ll save my mean for other people.”

He laughed and pulled me back into a hug. My back was to his front, his arms looped around my body, his hands resting on my belly. I went still, so my kid started kicking like crazy. Leaf followed the movement with his hands across my belly button area.

Most pregnant people will tell you in-utero children are offended by relaxation. The moment their fleshy incubator stopped moving, the kid got their tap shoes on. It made trying to fall asleep a fun and exciting game. Dr. Cardiff explained that the babies were lulled by their mom’s movements. My walking around equated to “Rock-a-bye Baby.” I stopped? Well, Mom just failed the team.

This roundhouse kick to the ribs will show you, Mom!

“She’s active.”

“She does this lately. Kid doesn’t like it when I chill out.”

“Are you chill now? More than you were, at least?”

I eyed my phone—the conduit between me and the proving-to-be-annoying father of my kid.

I eyed the Christmas tree, the stockings hung by the chimney with care and the reflection of me and Leaf cuddling on the couch in the black of the TV screen.

“Yeah,” I said, nestling in closer to Leaf’s warm body. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jack’s parents took the news poorly.

That is the understatement of the century.

I had a lot more sympathy for him when he called me that night, at eleven, two hours after I’d gone to bed, but I figured it had to be serious if he was willing to use actual conversation instead of text to communicate. I rolled over and picked up the phone, clearing my throat so I didn’t sound like I’d gargled with a porcupine.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey. Hi,” he said back. “Sorry to wake you. Did I?”

He sniffled.

He’d been crying.