I pee on the stick. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Finishing up my business, I take the test to the counter and set it down on a paper towel while I scrub my hands, waiting impatiently. When I finish, I rest my head against the cool surface of the mirror, my eyes closed and my heart hammering in my chest.

  I don’t know what I want the answer to be.

  This was not a part of the plan, but a tiny version of Daniel would be adorable. We could get him little baby business suits and a tiny briefcase. Go all Boss Baby and such.

  But we haven’t talked about anything like that.

  Yes, you did. Daniel said he likes things the way they are.

  Adding a baby is definitely not ‘the way things are’. Does he even want more children?

  Also . . . do I want a baby?

  The thought echoes over and over with no definite answer. I picture me holding a slimy newborn, all red-faced and screaming from getting squeezed out of my body. I flash to feeding a sleepy cutie, or confused at a no-good-reason crying fit, scared I won’t know what to do.

  But I am who I am. I have to know the truth.

  I force my eyes open, looking at the window.

  Pregnant.

  As soon as I see the word, I know.

  I want a baby. I want Daniel’s baby. A tiny piece of him that will always be mine, no matter what. It might not have been planned, but it’s happening and I’m thrilled. I’ll figure out the rest of it as it happens.

  I want our baby.

  Happy tears pour from my eyes, mixed with tears of uncertainty about what Daniel’s reaction is going to be. I have to find a way to tell him that won’t freak him out.

  Something that’ll make him realize what a good thing this is. Because it is a good thing.

  I take a steadying breath and bury the pregnancy test deep in the trashcan because I’m not putting it back in my bra when it’s pee-covered. I walk back through the lobby, my feet feeling like lead and my head filled with helium.

  In my office, Ricky and Billy take one look at me and smile. Billy holds out his hand, and Ricky passes over a folded bill. “Told you so.”

  Ricky ignores that and focuses on me. “Are you okay, Tiff? Anything you want us to do?”

  My feet shuffle beneath me, continuing mindlessly to my chair, where I plop down, letting out a deep breath. “Honestly? I need a few minutes alone, guys. Thank you, but could you . . . go?”

  Ricky hops off my desk and comes closer to give me a gently weird little head-hug, like my belly is suddenly rotund and large, even though it’s still as flat as always. “You let me know if you need anything. I work for you now too, Tiff.”

  “Thanks, Ricky. But for now, just keep your mouths shut,” I order, although it comes out sounding a lot like I’m pleading. “I need to tell him. He needs to hear it from me. Can you do that?”

  Billy stands up. “Yeah, we can do that.”

  Ricky nods but also grins. “You want to make it a surprise? I can help you plan that if you want.”

  “Man, why go through all the trouble when all you gotta do is say ‘I’m pregnant’? That’s it. Ta-da.”

  He shakes his splayed hands like saying that is a magic trick but an easy one that’s no big deal in the slightest. Then again, for him it probably is.

  “No, I’ll figure out how to tell him. Just let me do it. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Whatever.”

  They leave, and suddenly, my office is silent. I sincerely hope I can trust them to keep their mouths shut.

  Alone, my mind whirls.

  Then I remember, I’m not alone. Not anymore. And never again.

  I place a palm on my stomach, rubbing my nonexistent bump. “Hi there,” I whisper. “We’ve got plenty of time, but I wanted to introduce myself. Hi . . . I’m Mommy. And I’m very excited to meet you when the time’s right.”

  Chapter 25

  Tiffany

  There are weddings, and there are quick weddings. They are not the same thing.

  A wedding has all the things you’d expect—an officiant, a marriage license, and the couple—plus approximately a million other details, like formal wear, flowers, food, drinks, cake, music, place cards, tablecloths, and décor. It’s a lot.

  For a quick wedding, you only need the basics—the officiant, license, and couple. Oh, and maybe a flight to Vegas or a shotgun, I think.

  Harper and Ace want somewhere in the middle. The accoutrements of a wedding with the speed of a quickie. So here we are, trying to pull off the impossible with zero time. Not to mention, I’m quite distracted by what I’ve got happening.

  Like not telling Daniel yet. I haven’t figured out the right way to do it yet, and Billy’s recent suggestion that I send it in a text message is definitely not helping.

  Do I make a whole celebratory production of ‘woohoo, guess what?’ or a quiet moment that acknowledges this isn’t what either of us planned? Or like this wedding, somewhere in between?

  The stress of indecision and weight of this secret are making me a bit grumpy. “Whose great idea was it to get married so soon?” I ask as we put together centerpieces. “Don’t people usually have like a year to do all this stuff?”

  Harper takes the hot glue gun from me, adding a dab to the green foam half-dome we’re using as a base, then wrapping it with a pre-cut length of lace. “Ouch, ouch, ouch . . .” she says, getting burned for the zillionth time. Neither of us is going to have finger prints by the time we finish these, but she’s totally in the zone and happy with life at the moment. “Yes, but we’re impatient. I’m ready to be Mrs. Young.” She glues down another bit of lace and squeals. At first, I think she must’ve really burned herself good this time, but then she explains, “Oh, my God, I’m going to need all new classroom things! New name tag, new door sign, new bulletin board, ah!”

  Okay, that got through the clouds fogging up my brain. Her enthusiasm and pure joy at marrying my brother, Ace Young, of all people, makes me smile, and soon I’m laughing with her. “Well let’s get you married first, and then you can worry about the apple nameplate on your classroom door.”

  Harper finishes her current dome and starts on the next. “You’re right, just got distracted. I’m claiming a brain fart!”

  “You’re forgiven for a few,” I assure her. “Are you really ready? Only a few days away now.”

  Harper takes a moment to answer, laser focused on getting these centerpieces done. It’s actually impressive, the sort of skill that I’m sure she tries to get all her students to mimic.

  “Absolutely!” Harper says finally. “We’ve got Ace’s tux ready to go. He had his fitting, and it’s hanging in the closet next to my dress, which is also perfect. Oh, and you’re going to love how cute Kevin’s going to be as the flower dog. Ace has been working with him so much, and he’s doing great. He holds the little basket in his mouth, walks a few steps and shakes it, walks a few more steps and shakes it. Like, I almost want to film him doing it as an ad for Ace’s dog training skills.”

  “If Kevin were cute-cute and not ugly-cute, maybe,” I retort, and Harper swats my leg for the insult. But I’m only speaking the truth! “Besides, I’ve seen that demon when he shakes his head. There’s going to be drool mixed in with your rose petals. And splash zone areas for the aisle seats.”

  Harper laughs, gluing another length of lace. “He’ll be fine. And adorable.”

  I finish up the piece I’m working on and set it aside with the growing pile. “If you say so.”

  Harper stops her steady work, looking at me with wide, kind eyes. “I have to thank you, Tiffany. You’ve been such a big help with all the wedding stuff. I really appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” I tell her, and I do mean it even if I am tired and a little hormonally bitchy. “But fair warning, once you marry Ace, he’s your problem. No giving him back. Even if he starts insisting that a jar of peanut butter is a perfectly normal thing to store in the nightstand. For easy-access late-night snacks.”

  Harper gasps, blushing. “He wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, he would. He lived on my couch for days on end without showering, eating old pizza out of the box, and only communicating in bro speak with people on his video game team,” I remind her, recalling Ace’s bad days. “It was nearly the death of him by my hand.”

  “Well, if he does start to push my buttons too much, I’ll definitely give you a call to help whip him into shape.”

  I scoff and pick up another foam dome. “You did that once already, Harper. All I did was kick his ass and keep him afloat. He got better for you, before he even met you, just because he hoped that someone like you existed.”

  Tears well up in Harper’s eyes. And oddly, I find answering ones in my own. It has to be the stress and the hormones. I’m not normally this emotive. But I seem to be going all over the place from one second to the next, from worry to excitement to fear to happiness. And for some reason, they all make my eyes leak.

  This morning, I even cried at a story on the radio about tacos. Not because it was sad but because I didn’t have one in my hand right that moment. I’d even found a drive-thru, only to remember that it was seven in the morning and they were closed.

  This town so needs a 24-hour taco stand.

  I wipe my eyes, and Harper gives me a hug. “That is so sweet! Thank you.” She sniffles a bit, wiping at her eyes. “Oh, I don’t want to get the centerpieces wet.”

  “Well then, no more mushiness!” I declare in a watery voice, and she laughs softly. We work for a few minutes in sniffle-filled silence until there’s a knock at the door. “Who’s that? You expecting some teacher friends to help with centerpiece assembly?”

  Harper gets up to answer the door. “No, that’s what I was trying to tell you before you made me all mushy. I wanted to thank you for everything, and I searched my brain for how to do that. I wanted to get you something meaningful, something you’d appreciate, something to really thank you.”

  “Did you get me a stripper?” I ask, surprised. “I mean, I know you said no for the bachelorette party, but I could be in for that. What’d you get? Fireman? Police officer? Big purple dinosaur?”

  Harper frowns. “Is that a thing? Dinosaur strippers? Why?”

  I shrug. “Everyone’s got their kinks. I don’t judge.”

  “Well, no,” Harper says, giving me a suspicious look. “Not a dinosaur stripper.”

  “That’s okay. A human one will do,” I assure her, grinning foolishly. “Harper, did you get me a cowboy? Ooh, yes, yee my haw!”

  “We really, really have to have a chat sometimes,” Harper says worriedly, but laughing still. “I mean it’s not a stripper at all. It’s . . .”

  She pulls open the door and shouts, “SURPRISE!”

  It’s . . . Elle!

  “Oh, my God! Tiffany!”

  I’m out of my seat, practically flying across the room, squealing like a whole basket of baby hamsters. “OMG! Elle!”

  We half-tackle, half-hug, half-dance with each other, crying and choking each other with her arms around my neck and mine around her waist. Harper is crying as she watches us, and we pull her into our hug too.

  When I can speak again, I step back, sniffling. “What are you doing here?” I lean back, holding her arms in my hands to scan her face. “Are you real?”

  When she doesn’t immediately reply, I pinch her arm and she squeaks in minor pain. “Ow! I’m real, I’m here!” Her smile is huge and feels like home. “Harper and Ace invited us for the wedding. So . . . surprise!”

  I tap-dance stomp my feet, yanking her into another hug, still not believing that she’s really here in the flesh. Over Elle’s shoulder, I ask Harper, “How did you keep this a secret? Elle, I believe. She’s sneaky like that when she needs to be, but you? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a scheming bone in your body!”

  “I don’t,” she says with a giggle. “But Ace happens to take after his sister. And he only came up with the idea a few days ago.”

  “Luckily for you, Colton has the right means and connections to get us a last-minute flight across the pond.”

  “Well, don’t you sound posh and bougie as hell, bitch?” I tease, pushing her back playfully, thankful that not only does she have resources like that at her disposal now, but she’s not afraid to use them. “You better have flown first-class!”

  “Of course.” Once upon a time, insistent that she only enjoy what she earned herself, she would’ve flown coach on a commercial flight that she paid for herself, cramming into the tiny seat for eight hours and not bitching at all despite the fucked up neck she’d inevitably get.

  But Colton’s family is richer than God, and both Colton and Elle have fought to stand successfully on their own in London. And if they can fly in comfortable seats, then I hope they drank the good stuff on the way over.

  “Are Colton and Neve here too?” I look into the hallway, but Elle is alone. “I could use hugs and kisses and all that from my girl.”

  Elle knows exactly what I mean. I got to cuddle Neve once when she was a little baby, and since then I’ve pretty much been hooked on the little girl. Now, as a ‘big kid’, I adore the girl and love hanging out with her, even if it’s via FaceTime cartoon watching and monologue presentations. That’s Neve, not me. The girl can talk, though half the time I don’t fully understand her blend of toddlerese and a British accent.

  “They’re at the hotel. Neve is passed out with jetlag, and Colton was already on the phone with folks back home, continuing work like nothing changed. You know how it is.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know.”

  “So, we’re going out,” Elle declares. “I rarely get a night out on the town with the girls, and I’m taking full advantage.”

  “But I’m helping Harper with—”

  “Go!” Harper says with a laugh. “Seriously, you are a superwoman, but you don’t have to do everything. You two go ahead and catch up. I’ll stay here and work.”

  “Oh, no,” I protest, grabbing her hand. “You’re coming with us.”

  Elle gives me a wink that I haven’t seen in too long and turns the full throttle of her charm to Harper. “I dare you.”

  “I don’t know if it works on her,” I warn Elle, but Harper bites her lip.

  “I’ve heard about these dares. It sounds . . . fun?” she says, and I nod encouragingly. “So . . . I’m in!”

  We don’t dust the glitter off our asses from sitting on the floor as we spray shimmer dust on the centerpieces. We don’t worry about our hair or makeup or who might see us.

  We just go out.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re at the Eagle Karaoke Club, a place that Elle and I would come to when we needed to kick back, drink something, and sing our cares away at the top of our lungs. Because Girl Power and all that.

  Harper and Elle order a glass of wine, and I try to be nonchalant when I order a soda with cranberry juice and lime. Elle gives me a questioning look, and I have to think on my feet so I don’t blurt out the real reason I’m not drinking tonight.

  Because it’s right on the tip of my tongue, and I’m fighting the instinct to blurt it out. Over the years, we’ve shared everything with each other. Even some things we probably shouldn’t have, like that time I dared Elle to get a tattoo, and she did . . . a ‘white line’ script of ‘Eat Me’ right above her happy trail.

  I held her hand through the whole laser removal procedure and made sure to never tell Daniel about it. I won’t even tell him now. But on the flip side of that coin, I’m trying not to tell Elle about Mini-Me.

  If my baby daddy were anyone other than Daniel, she would’ve been my first call to help me figure out what to say and do. But their relationship adds a whole different level of complexity and means I have to figure this out on my own.

  Step one? Alleviating the shrewd look Elle is currently assessing me with.

  “I’m still having flashbacks of that donut drink.” The shudder of nausea that works its way through me is real and strong. “Seriously, I haven’t had anything stronger than mouthwash in weeks.”

  Luckily, Elle misreads the reaction as residual hangover memories and not morning sickness, which is woefully misnamed because it’s hitting me at all hours of the day. “I think I’d like to sample that stuff sometime . . . with proper supervision,” she quickly adds. “That must’ve really done a number on you.”

  “You have no idea,” I reply. We turn our attention to the stage, where people are coming up to do their thing. Like most karaoke clubs, it’s a mixed bag. You’ve got the legit singers, folks who might be church soloists or maybe in a local theater group who are out to sing their hearts out in a direction they normally can’t.

  Some are performers, like the guy in his thirties on stage right now doing Garth Brooks’s Low Places. He’s not a great singer by any stretch of the imagination, but he puts so much into his performance, it’s still a great time even if I’m wincing at a few of the notes. It helps that people are singing along with him, helping out with the vibe and the notes.

  “This is fun!” Harper exclaims. “Is it always like this?”

  “Except on Wednesdays,” Elle says with a shudder that I echo. “Remember Heartbreak Trevor?”

  “Oh, God, Trevor!” I exclaim, laughing. “I haven’t thought about him in years. I wonder if he ever found a woman with some stickiness.” At Harper’s raised eyebrow, I explain. “We would only see this guy on Wednesdays, and he had exactly one genre in his repertoire. Girly heartbreak songs. And he wailed on them.”

  “Un-break my hearrrt,” Elle mimics softly before cracking up. “He was this huge guy, maybe six foot three, 300-plus pounds, looked like a linebacker, but all he ever sang were these falsetto, emotional type songs. Not laughing was risking a hernia. He was awesome and had fun with it afterward, though.”

  “Well, what about you guys?” Harper asks, and Elle whips her head over to me.

  “Tiffany, I dare you to get up there and sing.”

  I wince. I was slow on the trigger that time. Dammit, I’m out of practice.