That would be one hell of a game of fetch.

“He didn’t! Joe did not sell my… our… what?” Her face fills with genuine horror and shock.

“You didn’t know?” I’m blown away. “Chloe, the auction was all over social media. One of those three-day phenomenons shared all over Facebook, Tumblr, Snapchat, Twitter – you name it. No one in modern America could have missed it.”

“Henry and Jemma said something about a porn star with a name like mine having an ex sell their sex toys online. It was right in the middle of Li giving birth and disappearing, so I put it out of my head and – oh, my god, Nick, how many people know about this?” She points at the strap-on.

“A few million?” I guess.

“I’m ruined.”

“Not really. Between buying Joe’s auction items and shutting down his account, and having Charlie get a hacker to—”

“Charlie knows about this?”

“Sure.”

“Who else? And how did you find out about it?”

“Elodie.”

“Your daughter found out my ex was selling our shared strap-on and sought you out to tell you?”

Progressive parenting at its finest.

“It didn’t quite go that way.” Although she’s damn close.

Chloe begins to pant slightly, the sound a little too close to hyperventilation for comfort. Holly sucks on her pacifier like it’s an Olympic sport. I feel like I made a terrible mistake, but I can’t take it back.

I glance at the strap-on.

Definitely can’t take that back.

Seizing the item by the dildo end, Chloe pulls her arm back with impressive form. She must have played softball from a young age, because the pitch has perfect arc and aim, flying rubber tip over belt as she releases the strap-on into the throw.

I resist the urge to hum the theme to Wonder Woman.

As the strap-on makes its third mid-air revolution, the bow of a racing shell filled with eight rowers shoots from under the bridge.

Chloe’s throw is perfect.

The strap-on beans the coxswain right in the head.

Then plunks into the water, like a very porny orca at a Sea World aquatics show.

“Hey!” The coxswain looks around wildly, focusing on us. We’re the only two people by the bridge.

And then Chloe kisses me, her mouth tight and fierce against mine, lips bruised as she bangs into me, teeth aching until one hand settles on my shirt, pressing into my ribs, and she softens, the kiss taking new form.

“What’s that for?” I mumble against her mouth, wanting more of it, my hands mimicking hers, one palm on the stroller handle, one on Chloe’s ass.

“For being so deeply depraved.”

“That deserves a kiss?”

“Here’s the problem,” she whispers. “You don’t look like a weirdo.”

“That’s a problem?”

“You look like one of those guys who has his shit together. A grownup. A real one. The kind I find intimidating.”

“Intimidating.”

“Yeah. The kind of guy who would never flash a nipple to a conference room because of a bustier malfunction.”

“That will never happen,” I agree, looking down at my chest.

“The kind of guy who doesn’t make mistakes. Who is guided by certainty.”

“I look like that guy?”

“You are that guy.”

In her eyes, I am.

“Chloe,” I say, kissing her ear. “I’m Nick. I’m a father and a man and a director and a guy. I’m imperfect and uncertain sometimes. I make mistakes and I can be gross and I yell and get upset.”

“You? Gross? Charlie, sure. But not you.”

“Spend enough time with me and you’ll see.”

She answers that with a kiss.

“I knew you were nuanced, though. Suspected it all along, when you wouldn’t smile.”

“Wouldn’t smile?”

“The day we met. I figured anyone who has that kind facial control has some deep layers.”

“I do.”

“And a warped side.” Chloe takes all the other items out of the box and dumps them, one by one, into the river.

She finds her lipstick vibrator last and holds it up, speechless.

“You kept this!”

“Your special O ‘lipstick.” I lean in to her ear and whisper “Bzz bzz.”

Laughing, she considers me. “Didn’t fool you from the start, did I?” She starts to drop it in the water, reconsiders, and tucks it in her bra.

I raise my eyebrows.

With a shrug, she says, “The Charles can have Joe’s strap-on.” She looks back at the water, the sex toy long gone, being nibbled by fishes in its watery grave.

“Never liked it anyway,” she sighs, one hand on the stroller’s handle, the other threading fingers through my own.

Chloe

I can’t believe he’s still here.

If that sounds snarky, it isn’t. I sincerely cannot believe he’s still here. With me. With us. What man would put up with my mother, a cancelled dinner date, a screaming infant, spit-up, his predecessor’s strap-on, possible arrest for assault on an innocent rower, my throwing trash in the Charles River, a long walk on a chilly late afternoon, and a woman who paid absolutely zero attention to him until her child was fed, bathed, and asleep? Not to mention the garbage needed to go out, and as Charlotte announced, there are three loads of unfolded laundry in the living room.

No one else would put up with it, that’s who. Joe would have been out the door two minutes after Charlotte left.

At least my hair is clean. And my underwear (thank god I did all that laundry this morning).

Holly’s deep, even breathing tells me she has finally fallen asleep. I rise from the rocking chair very slowly and move across the darkened room, where I carefully peel her from my chest and lower her into her crib. Wait to see if she stays asleep. Check the baby monitor. Check the thermostat. Tiptoe out. Exhale.

At least, I hope he’s still here?

Heading down the hall, I begin to smell something delicious and realize I am starving. I pass the living room and do a sort of walking double take, backing up a few steps to look.

The room is now lit by candles and the flicker of the fireplace. The cocktail table is set with plates, napkins, and chopsticks in paper sleeves. Champagne glasses are sparkling in the candlelight. There are two large brown paper bags on the floor next to the table. Sinatra is crooning “Just in Time.” There is no laundry in sight.