My annoyance, simmering up until now, flares to full blown anger. Why am I the one apologizing for Grey’s fuck up? It’s not my fault he forgot. Or was too busy at work to make it.

Makes me wonder if he ever did that research or read any books yet. He’s on his laptop in bed pretty much every night. I’d hoped—maybe stupidly—he was doing the research and reading then.

I’m twenty-one weeks. While we still have time, we definitely need to start thinking about things like what car seat we’ll bring Charlie Brown home in, and where she’ll sleep as a newborn and beyond. I don’t want to be unprepared or feel rushed. I imagine having a new baby will be stressful enough. Adding disorganization to the mix feels like a recipe for disaster.

I’ve done my research. I’ve consulted half a dozen books on the stuff we’ll need, and I’ve copied a bunch of ideas from my fellow mamas-to-be’s registries. Case in point: I carry a literal folder of information with me into the store.

Gracie glances at her watch. “Well. Why don’t we get started? Greyson can give us his thoughts when he gets here.”

“Sounds good,” I say, and grab her hand. “Thanks, y’all. For being here. Clearly I’d be doing this alone without you.”

Olivia gives me a sympathetic smile and runs a hand across my back.

“He’ll show, Julia. It was probably just a mix up. And if it wasn’t, I will personally go kick his ass.”

“I’ll go too,” Gracie says. “Luke taught me how to properly swing a baseball bat. I keep one in my trunk, just in case.”

But Grey doesn’t show. The girls and I spend hours in the store. Scanner guns in hand, the three of us debating the merits of various bottle nipples and whether or not I’ll need a wipe warmer.

It’s not super fun picking everything out. Studying the various safety features of car seats is only so exciting. But it is fun being with my girlfriends for the morning. I always love their company. And it is exciting to think about using all this stuff when Charlie Brown arrives. Now that I can feel him or her moving, the whole thing is starting to feel thrillingly—terrifyingly—real.

Still. There’s a lump lodged in my throat the entire time as my anger and disappointment and frustration grow.

I feel like I’ve asked very, very little of Grey up to this point when it comes to the baby. Yes, he’s cooked. Yes, he’s been to a couple doctor appointments, and he’s taken me to Jeni’s when I’m craving Chardonnay but settle for ice cream instead.

But he hasn’t dedicated real time to really un-fun baby things like I have. The bottle nipples and car seats are case in point. I’d much rather read romance than books on breastfeeding, or spend the afternoon recruiting panel members and keynote speakers for next year’s summit.

Grey promised to be an equal partner in this. But the baby is barely the size of a spaghetti squash, and already I feel like I’m the one doing the heavy lifting.