Joe has also added a tube of warming gel, a non-fiction historical monograph on sodomy and pirates (signed by the author), a mood ring made for a man’s ring size, a small polished Zen rock with the word Patience etched into it, some t-shirts, and a set of Buckyballs.

He’s random, if nothing else.

“You paid over a grand for this shit,” Charlie says with a low whistle, palming the Rush album as I leave the room, marching down the hall into my bedroom, furiously changing into a t-shirt and running shorts.

I ignore him and come out into the living room, finding my running shoes by the door, throwing them on.

“What are you doing?”

“Going for a run.”

“Nick, you haven’t gone for a run since the kids were toddlers.”

“Maybe that’s what freedom’s all about. Discovering new things.”

“The only new thing you want to discover is Chloe, man.”

I nearly hit him. I do. I come so close when our eyes meet and he leans away. I walk past him, slam the door, and go for my first run in years.

The only problem is that I’m not sure what I’m running away from.

Or to.

Chapter 14

Chloe

Day Three with Charlotte.

“You girls have fun!” Charlotte chirped, as we struggled out the door this morning. “Get some of the almond biscotti, and some of the chocolate dipped. And some anise flavored.”

“While we’re gone, Mom, do you think you could maybe unload the dishwasher?”

“Well, I would, of course,” she said, “but I don’t know where you keep things. It would just make more work for you. I’m going to call Howard. I forgot my email password. He’ll know what it is.”

Everyone should have a Howard. I need a Howard.

“Then this afternoon, you can take me to O. I need one of those stress-reduction treatments—the two-hour full-body massage with herb-infused lotions and ambient sound from a dolphin’s womb. And the rosemary mint martini in the sippy cup.” Her eyes glazed over. “I need a break from all this stress.”

“Right. Maybe,” I answered.

That was half an hour ago.

And here I am, in the middle of Boston Summer Soup, wearing a baby who is not much more than a tiny octopus tucked into a diaper.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” I instruct Holly, who is tucked into a Baby Bjorn on my chest, tuft of straight jet-black hair tickling my chin. “Be aware of what’s going on around you. Mind the gap.”

The T train is pulling up. Please god let the air conditioning be working.

The doors slide open, and yes! The temperature inside is at least five degrees below unbearable.

I hoist the folded stroller and hitch the diaper bag up on my shoulder. I stagger onto the train.

On the T now, I spot two empty seats and sink down gratefully, the stroller propped up on the railing next to me. Holly is quiet. I pull out my phone.

Hi Howard, I type. Hope all is well. I know you must be missing Charlotte.

Three dots, wiggling.

Hi honey, Howard responds. Is she getting to you already?

Oh no, I type back. It’s great. I just think we’re stressing her out. Not good for her.

I’m on it.

That’s all he says. I love Howard.

My phone pings. It’s Charlotte this time: Chloe, just so you know, the cat box needs changing.

I look at Holly, who catches my eye, eyebrows raising as if she’s taken aback as well.

Solidarity. My daughter and I are one.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper, grabbing the stroller.

Holly replies with a fist punch into thin air, followed by a spectacular belch that I feel.

I feel it because that’s not just a burp. The space between the Baby Bjorn and my only clean T-shirt is now a war zone.

We are home by noon, sweaty and exhausted, with two white paper bags containing three dozen Italian biscotti. Tucked into the diaper bag is a can of ground espresso, a pound of fresh handmade linguine, and a small plastic Madonna that the shopkeeper pressed on me when he saw Holly.

When you work in an office, you have no idea how long a weekday really is. It should be dinner time by now.

My mother sweeps into the kitchen, beaming.

“Wonderful news!” she trills. “Howard is on his way. He said he couldn’t be without me one day longer.”

I smile. “That is wonderful news. I’ll make up the other bed.”

She smiles back. “Oh, no, dear. We’ll need to use your bed. After all, there are two of us and only one of you.”

Right.

Although technically, there are now two of me.

Nick

Congratulations, I type. It doesn’t convey what I feel, but it will have to do. I’m done with ambiguity.

Screw indecision.

I know what I want.

I hit Send. I start to turn off my phone, but the finality is too much. I set it down, face up.

I stare at the pile of papers on my home office desk. It is noon, and I have a massive proposal due tomorrow, complete with a contract that needs to be pounded out for final negotiations. Legal already went over the portions they need to review. My turn to figure out the rest.

If I bury myself in work, I can give myself hours of hope. Not hope, exactly, but something more than this grinding ambiguity that turns my gut into a barbed wire fence. At best, Chloe will reply sometime today.

Or never.

A black plastic bag with a slim tome in it taunts me. Yesterday, I went to the Harvard Book Store and bought Chloe’s baby the best children’s book ever.

Walter the Farting Dog.

Simone hated that book.

I smile at the memory.

Movement on my fading phone screen catches my eye. Three dots.

Three beautiful, sophisticated, exceptionally delicious Chloe-flavored dots.

Thank you, she texts back. Sorry for not replying sooner.

The phone is a football in my hands, and I’m fumbling at the goal line. It lands on the carpet. I pounce.

How is the baby? What’s its name? I reply.

Her name is Holly. She’s perfect.

You’re perfect, I almost type back. Sheer force of will stops me.

I’m sure she is, I answer, smiling as I tap out the words. I remember babymoons. Welcome to the wonderful world of daughters. Start saving now. Justin Bieber obsessions aren’t cheap.