It’s the family I’m going to have with Julia, too.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Julia I want her and our baby to have the best of everything. It’s what I’m good at—providing. It’s what I take pride in. I may not be great at this intimacy thing yet. It’s still new, and still scary sometimes. But I am good at making the people I love feel safe and secure.

Julia made it clear she doesn’t want or need my money. And that’s fine. But I still need to pull my weight. Still need to feel like I’m contributing something.

And it’s not like I can phone it in at work. I own the company, for Christ’s sake. I call the shots. Our success or failure rests entirely on my shoulders.

The nicotine patches I’ve been wearing have curbed most of my appetite for cigarettes. But I still sneak one every so often when I’m especially zonked or the stress gets to me.

For the most part, though, things are good.

Really good. Charlie Brown looked perfect at our twelve week ultrasound. She was more baby than blob this time, and even had her little legs crossed and moved around for us.

Julia laughed. I cried.

She’s feeling better, too, which is a big relief for us both.

“Fourteen weeks today,” Julia says one night at dinner. “I’m officially in my second trimester.”

We’re at Julia’s favorite fried seafood place. It’s a teeny tiny spot on a corner in Elliotborough, a cute neighborhood in the Upper King Street area. The restaurant has been owned by the same family for two generations now. The space and menu are straightforward—no frills—but they serve up some of the best fried seafood platters on the peninsula.

Julia’s sitting across from me in a vinyl booth. Going to town on her locally caught fried shrimp basket, complete with sides of lima beans and Carolina gold rice and a deviled crab, just because.

“Fourteen weeks.” I wipe my hands on my napkin, then get back to work on my fish. “That went fast.”

“No it didn’t,” Julia replies cheerfully, dipping a shrimp into a small plastic container of tartar sauce. “I’ve been pregnant for a fucking year. How did you not know?”

“Must feel that way when you’re sober, huh?”

“Whole new appreciation for those in recovery, I’ll say that much.” She swallows. Eats another shrimp and reaches for her tea, looking up at me. “Have you thought about our registry at all?”

“Shit.” I blink. Feel a wave of exhaustion move through me. “I completely forgot. Between the Moore Foods storefront opening and that champagne bar we’re trying to get the permits for—just. Shit. I have no excuse. I’m really sorry, Jules.”

“Did you do any research? You know, have you looked into what we’re going to need when this tiny human comes? How we’re going to survive The Battle of The Newborn Baby?”

“No,” I reply, sheepish. I take a long pull from my own tea. “But nice Game of Thrones reference. Have you? Given it any thought, I mean?”