“I was new in town,” I begin. “Completely freaking out—West Coast born and bred—and he was a breath of fresh air, took me under his wing like a helpless baby bird. Pure luck that I should meet the kindest, most patient, most generous guy right off the bat like that. And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Miles’s expression go from shocked to a knowing grin.

“That’s . . . nice,” Jordan demurs.

“So very nice,” I agree. “You haven’t heard the wildest part, though.”

Miles shifts nervously. Not to worry, Miles, I got you.

“What’s the wildest part?” Yoga Doug asks.

“Well”—I lower my voice and glance around the café like I’m sharing a scandalous secret—“I was single, and he was single. No one was dating anyone, or in a relationship, or living with someone, or, like, planning a wedding. Can you imagine?” I giggle uproariously. “Both people free like that?”

Jordan and Yoga Doug blanch slightly and look away from each other. The floor must be fascinating. Maybe they’re studying the tile pattern for nursery inspo. The great thing is, they can’t quite tell if I know-know or if I’m Looney Tunes.

Miles bites his lip and a moment later his hand settles on my thigh in a light squeeze. Hint received; I’ll switch topics.

“Anyway! When’s your due date?” Before she can answer, I cut her off. “Of course, those are meaningless because nobody really knows. It could be any moment! I used to know an ultrasound tech—he says they just guess. They literally guess! Boy or girl? Or are you keeping it a surprise?”

Jordan pats her stomach. “One of each, actually.”

My gaze instantly shoots to Miles, who looks as surprised as I feel. Poor guy. I wish I’d kissed him double now.

“Nooooo,” I gasp. “Twins? That’s so much work! But hey, you must be excited for Halloween.”

Jordan looks perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, like doing themed costumes?” Yoga Doug chimes in. “We could be the Incredibles or something.”

“What? Oh, no, I meant you won’t need a costume! Super jealous over here. So jelly.”

“I’m—sorry?” Jordan says.

“You get to be Tired Mom. It’s a thing! Look.”

I pull up a Google Images search and shove it in their faces. Sure enough, image after image of Tired Mom costumes flood the screen. The outfits consist of messy bun-hair with Cheerios stuck in it, dark under-eye bags, a stained T-shirt and burp cloth over yoga pants, a reusable Starbucks cup, a BabyBjörn with a plastic doll baby inside, a second plastic baby doll taped around a leg like it’s clinging there, a Target bag overflowing with diapers and wipes, and a comically large bottle of wine.