Page 82 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

“Three weeks,” Liam says, crossing his arms. “Twenty-three days. I counted.”

Andrew turns to look at me with an expression that says you can see what I'm dealing with here.

I'm laughing too hard to help him.

Ethan comes back in around one, sets a folder on the counter without ceremony.

“What's that?” I say.

“Questions for the OB.” He opens it. Typed, organized by category, with space in the margins for notes. “I left room in the back for anything you want to add.”

Liam leans over to look. “Is it alphabetized?”

“It's by trimester and then by category.”

“That's close to the same thing.”

“It's not remotely the same thing.”

I pick the folder up and flip through it. The questions are thorough—detailed things about nutrition timing and genetic screening and second trimester changes I hadn't thought to ask. Three full pages.

Then I get to the bottom of the last page.

The font is slightly smaller, like he added it after. A single question, set apart from the others.

What can partners do to best support a healthy pregnancy?

Partners. Plural.

Not temporary visitors.

Permanent.

I close the folder slowly, the word still burning behind my eyes.

“Ethan.”

“Mm.”

“You wrote partners. Plural.”

He doesn't look up from his coffee. “That's what we are.”

The simplicity of it hits me square in the chest. No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just Ethan stating a fact like it's already been decided and filed away. My throat tightens, but this time I don't look away.

I put the folder down. “Okay,” I say quietly.

“Okay?” Liam echoes from his stool.

“Okay,” I repeat, steadier this time. “It counts.”

Liam nods. Satisfied. Like that was all he needed.

Andrew, from behind me, quiet, “Good.”

After dinner, the four of us end up on the sectional.

Liam at one end, legs stretched out. Andrew beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat without us touching. Ethan in the armchair angled toward the couch, book open, one ankle crossed over his knee.