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Stupid body.

Me: Do not Maggie me.

Dalton: I moved the appointment because I want your care under a team I trust.

Me: You want?

Dalton: Yes.

Me: Again, very much not the point.

Dalton: It is one point.

I stare at the phone. The car turns again, into an area I know only vaguely: private medical buildings, glass fronts, underground parking, the kind of landscaping that suggests donors.

Me: You don’t get to decide things just because you want them.

Dalton: I know.

I blink. That’s not what I expected.

Me: Do you?

Dalton: I’m learning.

I look away from the phone. Outside, the city is bright and indifferent. People walk dogs. A woman pushes a stroller. A cyclist cuts through traffic like he has a personal arrangement with death.

I look back down.

Me: You can’t just keep showing up in the parts of my life I’m trying to keep separate.

There’s no reply for a while. Long enough that I regret sending it.

Then: They’re not separate anymore.

My breath catches.

Me: You don’t know that.

Dalton: I know enough.

Me: You know one night of me. Suddenly that makes you an expert?

The car feels suddenly too small. I put the phone face down on my lap.

No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this in the back of a car on the way to a prenatal appointment he moved without telling me.

The phone buzzes.

I wait three seconds before looking.

Dalton: I won’t discuss that by text.

I type back immediately.

Me: How professional of you.

Dalton: Yes.