Oh my god, a chocolate cupcake. With a blue frosting Elsa on top.

And several bites out of it.

Nick takes the cupcake out of my hand. “I couldn’t resist,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. “I love cupcakes.”

Right.

“Did Holly eat this?” I ask. “Oh, Nick!”

I have lost control. I have failed to take care of my child.

“No,” he admits. “That was me.”

It’s too much. I can’t hold back the tears.

Nick pulls me into his arms. He kisses my tears and slowly, tenderly begins kissing my lips. The taste of him, the smell of his skin, make me respond in spite of my misery.

His hands move from my arms to my shoulders and slowly slide down my back. He presses closer, and I feel his growing hardness.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he says in my ear. “And that call last night...”

“Well,” says a deep male voice from behind me, “What’s cooking in here?”

Charlie.

Nick turns, but keeps one arm tight around me.

“Hey, little brother,” he says.

“Chloe,” Charlie says, and kisses me on both cheeks, European-style. “I hear you had a relaxing getaway in New York.”

For a moment, I am speechless.

“It was the worst weekend of my life,” I sputter.

“Worse than when we borrowed Caroline Pressman’s car and drove to Maine, but we only had sixty-five bucks between us, and her car broke down in Hampton Beach but we couldn’t call our parents because we told them we were going to a choir retreat?” Charlie asks. “Worse than that?”

“Yes, it was worse than that!” I hear my voice rising. “I have a baby to take care of!”

“So did I,” he chuckles.

He has always been able to get me going.

“And we had to stay in that thirty dollar no-tell motel, and you wouldn’t let your bare feet touch the carpet?”

“That’s enough, Charlie,” Nick warns.

“And there was a vending machine for rubbers, so I had to keep asking for change at the front desk?”

“That is enough!” Nick says loudly.

From the other room, I hear Holly start to fuss.

“Time for us to go home,” I say nervously, and reach for the half-packed tote bag.

“Stay for dinner,” Charlie offers. “I’m roasting a chicken.”

“Sounds great but I have to get Holly home to bed. Another time maybe.”

Charlie looks abashed. “Was it something I said?”

He looks from me to Nick, and back to me.

“Look. I apologize,” he says softly. “It’s a weird situation. You were really important in my life, Chloe. I mean, you’re both really important in my life. But we were just kids. And now we’re grown up...”

“Some of us are,” Nick mutters.

“...now we’re all grown up, and you two seem like a pretty good fit. I love you both,” he finishes. “But it’s still weird.”

This is so Charlie.

He opens his arms and hugs me tight, and I hug him back.

“Now how about that roast chicken?” he asks me.

“It’s always been my favorite dinner.”

“Wait till you taste mine. Better than Hamersley. Actually, it’s his recipe. Garlic and lemon.”

And thus we have dinner for six (mostly) adults, accompanied by one sleeping baby girl.

Family style.

Nick

“Why,” I ask Chloe, my finger tracing the outer edge of her nipple, the skin curling up like a sweet blossom, “did you decide to stay the night?”

Holly is asleep in her Pack ’n Play in my den. Charlie is on the pull-out sofa. The kids are in their respective bedrooms. Chloe and I are in that lazy afterglow time in my bed, when minutes have no meaning and the outside world is there, but sex puts everyone else at a distance. Being naked together, body heat transferring without effort, lips and tongues and fingers all working their magic, makes the crazy hustle-bustle and stress of everyday life seem quaint. Cute.

Over there.

A thousand miles away.

“Who could turn down Charlie’s roast chicken?”

I give her a pinch.

She squeaks.

She gives me a squeeze.

I fold in half.

“Hey!” I growl. “Precious cargo.”

“It is of high value.” Her hand shifts from violence to a stroke that makes me wonder what my refractory period is.

No one has tested it in a long time.

We can remedy that.

“Priceless,” I murmur, closing my eyes, enjoying the attention. We made love quickly, the baby monitor on, worried Holly could awaken at any moment. The furtive sex quenched a thirst, but it didn’t sate.

“What is this, Nick?”

I look under the covers. “That’s my—”

She doesn’t laugh when she interrupts. She lets go. “No. This. Us. What...what are we?”

We’re in love.

I don’t say it. The thought loops through my mind like a NASCAR race. Endless laps.

“What do you think we are?” I whisper, lobbing back the question.

“You first.”

I pull back, watching her. Without contacts or glasses, she’s blurry.

I need her to be clear.

Groping for my glasses on the nightstand, I fail to find them. Chloe hands them to me. The air between us is pregnant with questions.

I put the glasses on. Clarity achieved.

Visually, at least.

Her eyes search my face, sweet and loving, but there’s a hesitation. A wariness.

Freedom. Family. Chloe’s at the beginning of the race. I’m in my final laps.

Starting over seems foolish, on the surface.

But I was never a surface-level guy.

“I love you,” I say, the words soft, like the fine hair that dots her arms, the little lashes on her lower lids.

Her wariness dissipates.

“I love you, too.” She strokes my cheek, the back of her hand sliding down along my jaw. Stubble covers it, the sound of her movement like whispering sandpaper.

“Can love be enough?” I asked that question more than fifteen years ago, right before Simone left.

She told me no. Showed me, too.

“Of course,” Chloe answers, her expression bemused. “How could it not be?” She frowns. “But love means something different now. It has to include Holly.”