The door opens.

Chloe’s there, hair in a messy topknot, wearing an Ed Sheeran concert t-shirt and brightly-patterned leggings. No make-up, and she’s holding Holly on one hip. The baby is playing with Chloe’s ear like it’s the best toy ever.

“Nick. Hi.” She looks down at herself. “As you can tell, I made a big effort.”

God, I’ve missed her.

I kiss her cheek, then Holly’s, trying to hide my disappointment that the baby’s awake. They both smell like lavender lotion.

“You look fabulous, as always.”

She ignores the compliment. “I’m about to put Miss Fussypants down for the night. Come in!” She shivers. I take her up on the offer, crossing into the warmth of her place.

Holly stares at me, bouncing slightly in Chloe’s arms.

Her eyes are so wide.

Wide awake, that is.

“Why the sudden visit?”

I haven’t been honest with Chloe. Didn’t say a word about Amelie’s concert and Simone being in town. I regret it. If I mention it now, my sudden appearance will rub her the wrong way.

If I say nothing, chances are good she’ll find out one day, assuming...

Assuming this isn’t just a short-term relationship.

“Just missed you. Missed talking.”

“Talking?” That seductive eyebrow arches, curling like a hand around the base of my shaft.

“Everything. I missed everything about you, Chloe.”

Holly yanks a piece of Chloe’s hair hard enough to make her yelp, tears filling her eyes.

Holly stares at her mother in wonder, then turns to me and grins.

“Sadist,” Chloe mutters, bopping Holly on the nose with great affection. “You infant sadist.” The casual way Chloe welcomes me into her place, how she chats with her baby, the way I’m just here, out of the blue, and that’s fine, makes my edginess that much worse.

It shouldn’t.

It does.

The dissonance between my hours with Simone and these two minutes with Chloe and Holly is so extreme, it’s like I’m living parallel lives in two different universes. Two different Nicks. Two different paths.

I want slow, languid time with Chloe. Explorative, contemplative time. I want hours at wine tastings and long walks on the beach, rented houses in Wellfleet and red-eye flights to Rome. We can have that.

We could have had that.

Holly nuzzles Chloe’s neck.

I could have that.

Chloe’s at the beginning of a life lived in quicktime, where every day feels like a race to get to the end, the finish line resetting itself every sleep-deprived morning. Her batteries will hold a charge less and less over time, and just when she thinks she can’t take it anymore – the baby will become a child. Sleep will re-enter her life, but a new set of challenges abound.

I’m at the end of the long tunnel of parenting, the arched doorway of light in the near distance.

Which Nick do I choose?

And where would I fit into Chloe and Holly’s life?

“Grab a beer,” Chloe tells me. “This could take a while. Have to read her Guess How Much I Love You before bed, then rub her back until she closes her eyes.”

“No Walter the Farting Dog?”

She pauses and turns around, giving me a mock angry look. “You’ve ruined my daughter with that story.”

“Then my work is done.”

“And she doesn’t even understand the words yet.”

Chuckling, she heads down the hallway while I make myself at home. Two bottles of my favorite beer are in the refrigerator.

I’ll take that as a sign.

Twenty minutes later, Chloe’s ass walks into her living room. Just her ass, as she tiptoes backwards in an exaggerated creeping motion.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, loosened by the beer, relieved to be away from Simone.

“Shhhh,” she answers, barely audible.

“Did you say the ritual prayer? Sacrifice a goat to the druid god of sleep?”

She smiles and turns to me, arms in the air like an Olympic gold medalist. “Ah! I did it! Baby asleep.” She does a silent victory dance. Hmmm.

No bra. Nice.

We both pause, because the sleep gods do not reward hubris.

No cry.

“C’mere,” I order, pulling her into my lap. She’s on me, straddling, more aggressive than I could have hoped, her tongue tangling with mine, hands everywhere, supercharged.

“I don’t know how long we have,” she moans against my mouth, hands pulling at the tails of my shirt, yanking the cloth up, palms on my skin in seconds as I strip her shirt off, one rosy nipple in my mouth.

Which means I can’t answer her.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Tell her about Simone.

The thought makes me startle, tensing. There’s a time and place for everything, and Chloe’s unzipping my pants right now, pulling me out and palming me.

Last person I want to mention is my ex-wife.

We stand, quickly undressing, and then she shoves me onto the sofa, rolls on a condom that comes out of thin air, climbs on board, and sweet god, I’m encased in warm, wet perfection.

This night has not gone as planned.

A moment ago, I was worried about where I fit into Chloe and Holly’s life.

I know where I fit in Chloe.

“Oh,” she gasps, the outbreath of pleasure tickling my ear, her heat maddening. I reach between us and touch her sweet spot, knowing she’ll tighten, familiar enough with her body to stroke her in ways that damn near guarantee she’ll come, and come hard, in my arms.

“There,” she moans, then urges me at her breast. I bite, a little harder than I should, my restraint so thin it’s about to snap. We’re slick with sweat and I’m wild-eyed with the speed of change, until my orgasm catches me before I can catch it, my body roaring up, hers matching my rhythm, Chloe biting my shoulder as she screams quietly, the pain enhancing our joining.

My thumb stays on her clit, knowing I can give her more, slow and steady as --

“Waaahhhhh!”

Holly shrieks from down the hallway.

Chloe falls backwards off me, like a spider blown by a gale-force wind onto its back, legs and arms flailing.

I catch her, but it takes precision I don’t possess to avoid falling completely. We tumble, my hands bracing the impact, our naked, awkward bodies sticky and inelegant.

“WAAAHHHHHHHHH!”