We also devour Monty’s homemade cupcakes and insane chocolate chip cookies dusted with sea salt. He made enough to feed a small army, but by the time we’re ready to open presents, everything is gone.

Gracie and Eliza herd Grey and I to the front of the room, where an embarrassingly huge pile of gifts waits for us. Olivia leads the room in a champagne toast to me, Grey, and Charlie Brown.

Grey grabs my hand. I look at him. Look out at all the smiling faces beaming at us. Colleagues. Friends from college. The women I’ve met through yoga, some of them with their babies in their arms.

“This is overwhelming,” I whisper. “The amount of love in this room.”

He grins. “We’re lucky, aren’t we? To have a support system this big and this awesome?”

“So damn lucky,” I say, shaking my head. “Makes me want to help women who aren’t so lucky. I’m new to this mom thing, but I can already tell support is everything.”

He tilts his head. “Let’s do it then. Let’s help those women.”

“You want in?” I ask, smiling. So much freaking smiling these days.

“Of course,” he replies. “Let’s talk about it when we get home.”

We sit in a pair of chairs and start to open gifts. Eliza records everything in a small pink notebook—we’re all still convinced it’s a girl—while Grey drapes onesies across his chest, and I hold up fuzzy blankets and stuffed animals for everyone to see.

Eliza wants me to open her gift. It’s an adorable grey gingham baby bubble romper. Smocked, just begging for a monogram. As southern and sweet as it gets.

Exactly the kind of thing my Southern mama would get her grand baby.

“Thank you,” I say, eyes welling with tears. “It’s beautiful.”

She pulls me into a tight hug. “We couldn’t be more excited to welcome you and this baby into our family.”

Grey looks on, tears in his eyes, too.

It takes an obscene amount of time to open our obscene amount of gifts. As soon as the last gift is opened and carefully packed back up, a stream of helpers already loading up Grey’s car, he is on his feet and heading for the back of the room.

I notice the tables have been cleared over there, and Ford is crouched beside a pair of speakers, cursing quietly as he tries to plug them into the floor.

Putting my hands on my low back—Lord does it ache—I pad over.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

Ford looks up at me. “If I can ever get these motherfucking speakers figured out, it’s going to be a dance floor. Mr. Boogie Nights over there”—he nods at Grey, who’s pouring himself another glass of champagne—“insisted on having one.”

I smile. Again. For the seven hundredth time today.

“I didn’t know there was dancing at baby showers,” I say.

“Why not? You love it. I love it. Pretty sure Charlie Brown’s going to love it, too,” Grey says breezily, sidling up to me. He clanks his champagne against my flute of OJ. “If there’s any excuse at all to dance, I’m going to take it. I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”