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“I don’t know when you started thinking I was so much more fragile than I am,” Mom says out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re obsessing about, maybe you should talk about it. You keep things inside and let them just spin and spin. It’s like watching a sad, obsessed little hamster on a wheel, thinking it’s getting somewhere.”

I scowl. “Really? I don’t do that.”

“Oh yes, you do. You’re so like your father that way.”

Am I?

Shit. It’s crazy how over two decades later, it still hurts to suddenly hear him mentioned when I’m not prepared for it.

To think of my own child, growing up without a chance to really know their father? Just because I couldn’t make a relationship with him work…

I mean, I’m just assuming that Harlan is the father. Because as hard as I know that road may be, I desperately don’t want the baby to be Justin’s. I’d honestly prefer a flat-broke Harlan to a Justin, any day. Because at least there’s a chance that I could fall madly in love with Harlan.

I already know that’s not happening with Justin.

But I can already feel it starting to happen with Harlan. And if we really gave it a chance…

I just don’t know if I have the ability to deal with his mood swings and the turmoil it’s going to cause me. I have too much on my plate already. I need a man who’s emotionally stable.

I’d even take that over financial stability.

I finish making my grocery list, and check my online banking for my checking account balance. Not great. But fuck it. I can do this.

Maybe I just need to start thinking of myself as a mom-in training. If I can take care of Mom, I can take care of this baby.

I’ve got this.

“By the way,” Mom says. “You’re doing it again.”

“Ugh. Stop watching me.”

“Well, you’re the most entertaining thing going on right now. Do you want me to put onThe Last of Usand leave you alone?”

“Yes. I’m heading out anyway. Do you want anything from the grocery store? I’ll pick up takeout on my way back.”

Before Mom can answer, someone knocks on the screen door. I look up to find Harlan standing outside.

He’s holding a large paper bag that looks a hell of a lot like takeout. And a tray holding three large smoothies.

“Good morning,” he says stiffly.

“Uh, good morning.”Calm down, heart flutters.I try to tell my body we don’t get excited about men who ghost us after impregnating us, but too late.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asks me.

“No,” I say warily.

He holds up the bag and the smoothies. “I brought breakfast. For your mom, too.”

I open the door for him. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” He steps inside, swiping off his sunglasses. And maybe that’s when he notices my mom at the breakfast bar.

She’s forgotten about her cupcakes, and stares openly at the man in her kitchen.