Cal rested his head on my shoulder. “We’re gonna make great dads.”
I looked around at the madness, the wine, the vaguely mystical compass.
“I mean, if we survive,” I said.
CHAPTER 7
The apartment was quiet.Finally.
Everyone had gone home. For the first time all day, nobody was yelling about embryos or glitter glue or goat babies. The dishwasher hummed gently. The lights were low. A single empty wine glass sat forgotten on the coffee table, next to the compass, which still pointed stubbornly toward the fridge.
I sank onto the couch with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in my bones. Cal followed me a moment later, setting two mugs of chai tea on the side table like the world’s sexiest barista -slash -emotional support husband. He dropped down beside me, thigh pressed to mine, and stretched out his arm.
I leaned into it without hesitation. My head found the crook of his shoulder.
We sat like that for a minute.
Maybe two.
Maybe forever.
Cal’s fingers idly brushed the curve of my knee. “You okay?”
“I think so,” I said. “I mean, we made it through a fertility consultation without anyone being escorted out by security, so that feels like a win.”
He smiled. “Setting the tone early, I see.”
“I’m just tired,” I added quietly. “And maybe… scared. Just a little.”
“Me too,” he said. No hesitation. No bravado. Just truth.
That got me. I turned to look at him, and the steadiness in his eyes anchored me all over again. Calvin Croft—emotionally literate, humble yet rich, dorky when it counted yet annoyingly handsome. There were times I didn’t understand how I’d ended up with him. And then there were times—like this—when I did.
“I keep thinking,” I murmured. “What if we’re doing all this work… and then we get there and I’m a terrible dad? What if I mess it up? What if I spend the whole first year googling ‘how to tell if your baby hates you’ while you’re out there being perfect?”
Cal laughed under his breath, then took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead like I was both adorable and slightly insane.
“You’re totally right, you’re going to be a terrible dad,” he said. “You’re going to feed the baby beer and leftover chili, burp it from the wrong end, and probably throw up on the poor kid whenever you have to change poopy. I’ve already asked Rashida to make a spreadsheet so we can keep count of how many times you drop the baby on its head.”
“Oh, God, is all that true?”
“Stop! Of course it’s not. You’re going to be great and we both know it.”
“I used to get panic attacks filling out shopping lists.”
“True,” he said gently. “But you’re also the person who delivered roses to a grieving grandmother on your day off because you couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone. You’ll be a great dad.”
We fell into silence again, warm and easy. My fingers curled around his.
“I keep thinking about what they’ll be like,” I said. “You know? Our kid. What kind of person they’ll be. If they’ll lovebooks or cooking or… building tiny architectural models out of cereal boxes.”
“I hope they’re smarter than us,” Cal murmured.
“I hope they’re weird,” I said.
Cal grinned. “Then they’ve got a shot.”
I tilted my head toward him. “Do you think it’s strange that I want them to have your eyes?”
