He was forty-nine, too. He liked being forty-nine together. He liked that they moved through the world at the same pace. That they’d gotten here at the same time. Like they were meant to do this together.

“It’s more like I never stopped wanting it,” Beth said. “Like I never took the time to stop. To close the open window on my desktop. You know?”

He nodded.

“And now my period is late—and I realize that I’ve got all this old hope sitting around, and I’m not really sure what to do with it.”

He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, he held her closer still.

“I like your haircut,” she whispered.

“You won’t miss my ponytail?” The stylist had cut off even more than Lincoln was expecting. He hadn’t worn his hair this short since high school.

Beth shook her head against his chest. “I missed the back of your neck.”

“If you want,” he said, “I’ll let you pretend I’m a young, close-cropped stranger.”

She laughed. “I don’t want that. Lincoln?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you want . . . that?”

“To pretend to be a stranger? I think it might make me jealous.”

“No.” She shoved at his belly. “For my period to be late. For the usual reasons.”

“Oh . . .” Would he want that?

Lincoln had never really dreamt of becoming a father. He hadn’t grown up with one—maybe fathers were off his radar.

But Beth wanted kids, Beth had a plan, and Lincoln . . .

Well, Lincoln had wanted Beth.

More than he knew it was possible to want another person.

He felt so lucky to have her, he would have gone along with any plan.

He didn’t know how to be a good father, but he figured he’d cross that bridge when they came to it . . .

And then they just never came to it.

They tried a few things. Prescriptions. Injections. He’d wanted it then—because Beth wanted it so much.

It was her decision to stop trying.

And Lincoln mourned. But he couldn’t have told you, even in the moment, whether he was mourning his own loss or mourning hers.

“I’d be happy,” he said now, “if that happened . . . but I wouldn’t wish for it.”

She didn’t respond.

“Is that okay?” he whispered.

Beth nodded. Her shoulders were shaking.

He pulled away from her, putting some air between them, worried that he’d find her sobbing—but it wasn’t that bad. Just tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It is okay. That’s not why I’m crying.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know . . .” Her freckles disappeared into her cheeks when her face got red. “Because I’m old. Because it isn’t going to happen, and it’s been so long since I actually thought it might. I’m old, you know? I’m a crone.”