“You all may know that Chloe is a special friend of Jemma’s and mine,” he begins. “We go way back. And Chloe did us an enormous honor in giving our name to her beautiful daughter.”

Tissues are being discreetly pulled out.

“It’s an honor that can never be repaid, but can only be lived up to, lived into,” he continues. Sniffles are audible. “As a sign of our commitment to our extended family, this artwork has been created. It’s forever.”

He turns his back to the room and drops his tuxedo jacket. On his shoulder, the light catches a brand new tattoo: the leaves and berries of a holly branch.

There are a few seconds of silence, and then an explosion of applause, cheers, laughter, and joy. Over the PA, the playlist switches to Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” and Zeke begins dancing with Diane, who looks like an uncomfortable robot.

As I am hugging Henry, he whispers in my ear, “Don’t touch it, okay? It still hurts.” At that moment, I see Jemma in the doorway, holding Holly.

And right now I understand that everything is going to be just fine, forever.

Nick

The texts are amusing.

And hot.

Sorry I fell asleep the other night, she texts. Can I make it up to you?

Attached is a picture of Chloe, wearing her power underwear, the bustier open and—

“Damn.” Charlie draws out the word. “What’s that porn site? I’d love to—”

My elbow “accidentally” connects with his jaw as I move the phone out of sight.

“Go away,” I growl, feeling like a seventeen-year-old with an annoying little brother.

“Sexting?” His voice is filled with admiration. “Nice. I guess you can teach an old lap dog new tricks.” He rubs his jaw and steps out of my reach. “Just don’t send dick pics. Take my word for it. They end up on the internet, no matter what.”

Something in his tone tells me not to ask.

Come over tonight? I text quickly, trying not to make typos.

Can’t. Holly has a late pediatrician appointment, and I’m behind on work, she replies, adding a frowny face.

I’m frowning too, but it isn’t with my mouth.

Tomorrow? she types.

I’m gone all the rest of the week, I reply. LA for a design meeting. I’m back late Friday.

When did life become so complicated? she answers.

Saturday? I ask.

Jemma and Henry are away for the weekend, so you’ll have to date both of us, Chloe replies.

I look at the picture of Chloe.

I think about a “date” with Holly along for the ride. Expectations change when there’s a teething baby in attendance. Can’t assume sex. Or drinking to the point of lost inhibitions. Or a foreign film, or a good comedy set at Improv Boston.

But I get Chloe.

And Holly’s not bad company, either.

Saturday, I reply back.

“Hot date?” Charlie asks, coming into the kitchen for a beer.

“Something like that.”

“Now that the kids are all in college, isn’t it great to do what you want, when you want?”

I stare at my phone screen.

“Yeah. It is.”

Chapter 20

Chloe

There is a saying: space exists so everything doesn’t happen in the same location.

Time exists so everything doesn’t happen all at once.

Sometimes, though, time isn’t enough.

Two important events coincide, and one has to yield.

This is what parenthood has done to me: forced the moment where I have to choose my job over my baby, even for a few hours. I knew this day would come, and here it is, two months into being back from maternity leave, and I am stuck.

It’s not quite that stark, I remind myself as I fight tears, waking before sunrise and busying myself with showering and dressing, praying Holly stays asleep so I can pull on thigh highs with two hands like a civilized person. Last time she woke up while I was getting ready, I learned new yoga positions.

One-handed snake stuffer. Nylon rip asana. Skirt button warrior pose.

In the quiet, creepy dawn, I mainline coffee and hope I won’t pass out at the last meeting of the day at two o’clock.

Three o’clock is a fine time to snooze on the plane, though. Eyes on the prize.

6:00 am. I need to be at the airport by 7:30. I hate to go so far away from Holly, even though I’ll be home at the exact same time tonight as if I’d just been at the office. What if there’s an emergency? But I have to meet with the O NY staff, and we can’t fly them all here to meet with me.

You know what would be great right now? One of those tanks from the Oxygen bar at O.

There may be no scientific evidence to support the claim, but a hit of pure oxygen, scented like gin and tonic, would really take the edge off my separation anxiety. Breakfast of champions, zero calories and no prescription required. Pricey, though.

Isn’t the baby supposed to be the one with separation anxiety? Because she looks perfectly calm and composed. Enfamil is her drug of choice.

“Good morning!” Jemma calls, coming in the back door, bringing in a sprinkle of snow. It’s the week before Christmas, and Thanksgiving was a blur of a feverish baby and a sleep-deprived mama Baby’s First Christmas is coming and so is my mother, Charlotte. Add in a last-minute business meeting to New York and call me Job.

I can’t do pleasantries right now. I hand Jemma a document. Six pages, single-spaced.

The cover page is phone numbers: Holly’s pediatrician, Children’s Hospital emergency room, poison control center, Cambridge police, Boston Cab, O Boston, O NY, American Airlines, the car service in New York, the manager of my apartment building, Charlotte’s cell, Howard’s cell, Nick’s cell, Carrie’s cell, the electrician, the plumber, my cousin who lives in Newton, and the vet. Also health insurance info for Holly, and all my credit card numbers with PINs.

One page of infant CPR instructions, with diagrams.

Two pages of legal information, including Henry and Jemma’s guardianship of Holly and my last will and testament.

Operating instructions and warranties for all the major appliances. And the coffee maker, which I certainly consider to be a major appliance.

Jemma flips through the pages.

“Poison control? Seriously? She can’t even crawl yet, Chloe, how is she going to get poison? Roll to it?”