“The goldfish net,” our instructor explains, “is for those of you who indicated you’re having a water birth. It’s the most effective tool for fishing human excrement from the pool.”
Luke winces. “Did not see that one coming.”
“Ew,” I whisper. “I guess it makes sense, though. I read babies sometimes poop when they’re being born.”
“Seriously?” Luke looks visibly horrified. “You mean you could give birth to a human who’s actively pinching a loaf?”
The instructor strides past us. “Not the babies,” she says. “Birthing mothers often experience unplanned evacuation of the bowels. Anatomically speaking, it’s like sitting on a tube of toothpaste.”
Luke blanches as we all begin gathering our things. “Remind me to switch to those solid toothpaste tablets. I’ve suddenly lost interest in Colgate.”
I snicker and follow him toward the classroom door. “Can I get a ride?”
“Did you waddle here by yourself?”
“Very funny.” I whack him in the chest and walk—okay, waddle—down the hall next to him. “Lucy dropped me off. My car’s still in the shop.”
“Kaleb’s sure taking his sweet ass time installing those baby seats.”
“It’s not his fault.” Wincing, I shift my powder pink Dior Toujours tote to the opposite shoulder. It’s getting tougher to balance with all this extra weight.
Without saying a word, Luke takes my bag and keeps walking. “Isn’t Kaleb supposed to have some kind of special certification in child seat installation?”
“Yes, but the ones I bought are special. They have sensors that send alerts to your phone if there’s a temperature spike, or the child unbuckles their harness.”
“Christ,” Luke mutters. “When Amy and I were little, our mom threw us in the back of the truck and let us sit on the spare tire all the way to the county fair. I couldn’t have been more than five.”
“Is that even legal?”
“Beats me.” He keys open his car, then hustles ahead of me. “But it was fun.”
I wait while he opens the passenger door of the Subaru hatchback he bought as a fixer. In a matter of weeks, he’s transformed it from a rusted-out bucket of bolts into a respectable family automobile.
“Watch your head,” he says. “Those sunshades are new.”
“Thanks.” Easing my considerable bulk into the passenger seat, I tug down the one on my window. There’s a cartoon cat with a huge Cheshire grin stenciled on this side of it. “This looks like Squash.”
“That’s the idea.” He fires up the engine, which purrs just like Squash when she naps in a sunbeam. “I read it’s important to shade all the windows, not just the ones in back.”
“I didn’t know that.” Maybe it’s not too late to have Kaleb install extra sunshades in my car.
“Babies can’t tell you if the sun’s in their eyes, and I figure I won’t always know which window it’s streaming through.” He glances over and grins. “Don’t worry. I know babies can only ride in the backseat. And I might not have super-fancy car seats with sensors, but I promise I’ll make sure they’re safe.”
“I trust you,” I say, watching him look both ways before pulling into traffic. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” He looks over and grins. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop busting my ass to make sure it stays that way.”
We chat all the way to the grocery store, where I insist on paying for all the supplies to make dinner together. This is the night Luke’s finally teaching me to make his world-famous pulled pork.
It’s also the first time I’ll set foot in his house. Up until now, he’s been self-conscious about the scale of it, compared to my place. But he’s spent the past few months doing renovations, and tonight I’m officially allowed to see it. I can’t wait.
We’re next in line at Safeway as our cashier rings up a harried-looking woman with a drooly toddler buckled into the front of her cart. There’s another child latched onto the mother’s leg, a pigtailed young girl who looks about five.
“That’ll be one-eighty-four-sixty-nine,” says the cashier. “Cash or card?”
“Oh, um—cash.” The woman looks nervous as she counts out her bills. “How much did you say?”
The cashier is patient as she repeats the amount, but I can see from the contents of the young mother’s wallet she doesn’t have nearly enough. Nibbling my lip, I scan what she’s buying. Diapers, wipes, dried beans, and some rice. There’s a large bag of apples, along with a box of rainbow chip cake mix and a package of birthday candles.
