He shifts on the lounger. “That’s not... You always say not to pay any mind to what people are saying, and they’re not seeing what I see, that this baby will have two parents who actually like each other. Y’all eat meals together and hold hands on the couch and smile more when the other’s around. I’m no expert, but it seems like the biggest battle is already won.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“A little.” He gives me a sheepish shrug. “But I kinda mean it, too. I don’t know. I’m as confused as you are.”

I laugh. If nothing else, Chet is honest.

The doorbell rings, and I’m out of the chair in an instant, breath tingling in my lungs. I’m praying it’s Paul, who left in such a hurry he forgot his keys. First I’m going to hug him and then I’m going to strangle him, or maybe the other way around. Or maybe both at the same time.

I sprint into the foyer, and it’s not Paul’s face pressed to the window. It’s Micah’s.

Micah, who I’ve lied to now, what—three times? Four? I’ve lost count, and I know enough about lying to know that forgetting can’t be a good thing. You have to keep track of all the lies you tell and to whom. You have to tie up all the threads and not let a single one dangle. One good tug on mine and the whole thing unravels.

He waves, then points to the wall. “Alarm,” he mouths through the glass.

Chet steps up behind me, breathing hard. “Uh-oh,” he mutters.

My joints feel locked up like superglue, but what other choice do I have?

“Just a sec,” I shout through the glass. I smile brightly, hold up a finger and whirl around to face Chet. “Not a word,” I whisper. “You promised.”

Chet gives me a who, me? look.

I step to the panel, tick in the code and let Micah inside.

19

I gesture for Micah to follow me into the kitchen, where Chet is already popping open two Heinekens. On the island before him is what has kept him busy all afternoon—a thick wooden cutting board covered in onion peels and vegetable skins, surrounded by bottles and boxes and mixing bowls. Dinner, by the looks of things, a salad of broccoli and carrot and sliced almonds, thin strips of cucumber swimming in sour cream, two giant T-bones resting on a platter. Behind him, lined up like soldiers, two potatoes wrapped in silver foil sit on a rack in the upper oven.

“Wow, this is some spread,” Micah says, taking in the food, doing the math. Two of each means none for Paul.