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Angie rolls her eyes. The motion is so exaggerated that I’m honestly surprised her eyelashes, which appear to be glued on and slightly crooked, stay in place. “People from high school, silly. A lot of us still keep in touch, but you don’t ever hang out with us!”

Willa’sunsureratchets up to adefinitely sureshe doesn’t want to be here. “Actually, I…”

Someone calls Angie’s name, and she spins away in a cloud of too-sweet perfume, leaving us standing on the patio under a turquoise and silver balloon arch, still holding boxes of cookies. Willa turns, her blue eyes wide and panicked.

Just like when we were in the grocery store, I find myself overcome with an urge to protect her that’s nearly impossible to ignore.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s someone specific Angie might have invited. Someone I definitely don’t want to see again.”

My grip on the box tightens, and I force myself to relax so I don’t crush the cookies. “Who? What did they do? Were you bullied?”

“Nothing like that. Simmer down. But we do need to go.”

“Where should we put the cookies?” I ask.

“Great question.” Willa’s head whips back and forth, looking for any available space.

“I’ll trade you.” The man with the beer and the baby steps up and somehow manages to hand Willa the child and take both boxes of cookies without spilling his beer. I’m impressed, and he’s pretty pleased with himself before he disappears with the cookies inside the house.

Leaving me and Willa … and a baby.

“Hello, you,” Willa says.

There’s an unexpected tug inside my chest as I watch Willa soften. She readjusts the baby against her chest until they’re almost nose to nose. I’m glad she knows how to hold him—or her?—because I certainly wouldn’t if someone thrust a baby at me.

“I don’t even know your name,” Willa says, and the child laughs, revealing a toothless grin. “Or how old you are. Three months? Four?”

The baby gurgles up at her, delighted, then flails tiny fists until he or she has snagged Willa’s hair.

She winces, leaning forward as the baby tugs. “Ouch! Oh my, that’s quite a grip. A little help, boss?”

“I, uh …” I don’t know the first thing about babies. I can’t recall the last time I was this close to one. Maybe never.

The baby yanks hard, and Willa cries out. Immediately, I step closer, gently prying tiny fingers one by one from Willa’s hair.

“Hair pulling isn’t polite,” I say in my softest, most reasonable tone. “You can have my fingers, though.”

It’s really a concession, considering the baby already has my fingers in a tight grip, which leaves me practically draped over Willa. I don’t mind. The baby clasping my fingersorbeing this close to Willa.

“Baby likes you,” Willa says.

“Does s…he?”

If I sound dubious, it’s because I am. The wide eyes focused on me appear to be about two seconds from tears. In fact, when the baby blinks, a wet sheen forms and its lip trembles. Panic clutches at my chest. “Hey, now. None of that,” I say in just above a whisper. “Crying isn’t allowed at birthday parties.”

Or, it shouldn’t be. I distinctly remember crying at one of my own after overhearing a conversation between two older ladies who were discussing my mother’s absence.

“So sad,” one of the women had said, sipping from the drink in her hand. I remember the blood-red mark of her lips left on the rim of the glass. “His mother must really have hated him to completely abandon them both.”

After years of the words slinking like shadows through my mind, I realized thehimmight have referred to my father, not me. That’s more likely.

Because as I stare down at this baby, I know this for certain: I couldneverdo the same.

Even when he or she crams one fist—still holding my finger, straight into its mouth.

“I hope you washed your hands today,” Willa says.