I like the sound of that. Us. Together. Maybe more than I have the right to. But I can be her friend and embrace wherever that takes me—even if it begins at a surprise sex party and ends with a simulated birth.

What’s even wilder than my already wild night? I wouldn’t change a damn thing about it, and if given the chance, I’d do it all over again.

*  *  *

After scoping out the hospital’s private waiting areas—each with its own television, refrigerator, dinette set, and couch—Solange and I claim an empty one. We wipe most of the surfaces clean (my idea), then stand just outside the door so Lina and Max will easily find us when they get here.

An elevator down the hall dings, and when it opens, a group of people rush out, none of them Lina or Max. A tall, striking middle-aged Black woman with streaks of gray at her temples leads the charge as though she’s poised for battle.

“That’s Tia Viviane,” Solange explains. “Natalia’s mom and the eldest of the three sisters.” As her aunt approaches, Solange shakes her head. “Nice lipstick. I’m sure the baby will love it.”

Tia Viviane waves her hand as if she’s flicking away an insect with the audacity to buzz around her, but there’s a lift to her lips, suggesting she secretly appreciates Solange’s perfectly timed wisecrack. “Onda ela está? Para onde eu vou?”

Solange points to the nurses’ station. “Lá.”

Clutching her purse, Tia Viviane strides to the nurses’ station, then disappears behind the set of double doors leading to the delivery rooms.

Everyone else barrels inside our designated waiting area.

Solange’s family doesn’t just shift the energy in the room. No, they are the energy in the room—amped up to ten—and there are only five of us here. It’s a tight space, yet everyone manages to pivot and sidestep in a perfectly boisterous and choreographed effort to make room for one another. Two middle-aged women stride to the counter by the fridge and pull out foil-wrapped containers from paper shopping bags while a burly dude with arms and thighs that put mine to shame sets two-liter soda bottles on the dinette table.

“That’s my mother, Izabel,” Solange says, leaning into me. “The other woman is Tia Mariana, Lina’s and Rey’s mom.”

I can’t help taking in a deep breath and savoring Solange’s vanilla scent again. I’m a fiend for sugar cookies, so her fragrance makes me want to press my mouth against her neck and nibble on it. Don’t think about the party. Don’t think about the party. Struggling to focus, I somehow manage to string together a decent question. “Rey’s the big guy, I take it?”

“Correct,” she says, nodding as she watches them unpack. “I’ll introduce you in a minute.”

“Should we offer to help?”