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My kid.

“Chloe. Baby, listen to me. We’re getting on the plane soon. I’ll be home in two hours.”

“Okay,” she says. Then she asks, so quietly I almost miss it, “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” It’s out before she’s finished asking. “No. Never. Chloe—I’m so happy right now I can barely stand up. I love you. I’ll be home soon.”

There’s a long pause. I listen to her breathe and wish harder than I’ve ever wished for anything that the plane was already in the air.

“Okay,” she says, and the call ends.

I lower the phone. Dean’s still grinning like an idiot, which is when I notice my cheeks are wet.

“Holy shit.” I drag a hand down my face and let out a shaky laugh. “Chloe’s pregnant.”

“Congrats, Dad. Let’s get you on a plane.” He claps my shoulder and steers me back toward the noise.

The flight to Dallas is an hour and forty minutes. I ask the flight attendant for a pen before we’re off the ground and start a list on the back of a napkin.

We need a house. That’s first. My place is two bedrooms if you’re generous, and one of them has Jude in it. I’m not bringing a baby home to that. It needs to be close to campus, too, so Chloe isn’t losing an hour a day to the highway on top of everything else she’s about to be carrying.

I write HOUSE. Under it, I write CLOSE TO SCHOOL and underline it twice.

Then we need help. Because Chloe is finishing school—that part is not negotiable, I don’t care what it takes—and somebody has to be with the baby while she’s in class, especially on the long road swings when I’m gone. We need a nanny, and I have no idea how you find a nanny.

I write NANNY. Next to it, I write HOW.

Then there’s the truck. It has a bench seat, and you can’t put a car seat on a bench seat.

I write TRUCK and SELL and circle them both.

Then I stop, pen hovering.

“Dean.”

His eyes are closed in the next seat. “Mm.”

“I don’t know when the baby’s coming.”

“Nine months most likely.”

“I’m an idiot.” I drop the pen on the tray table. “She told me she’s pregnant and I never asked her due date.”

“You told her you loved her,” he says without opening his eyes. “You did fine.”

The lake was in July, and it takes nine months. I count it out on my fingers and land on April.

I write APRIL and a question mark, and then I just stare at it while something enormous and quiet moves through my chest.

There’s going to be a person in April, and that person is going to be half her.

Then the next problem hits and I sit straight up in my seat.

“Her ring’s not ready.”

“What?”

“The ring. It’s still at the jeweler’s.” I drag both hands through my hair. “What am I supposed to do, propose with nothing?”