From the kitchen, I can hear Jeff fumbling with his keys. It’s not the first time he’s tried to get in using the wrong key, but this sounds like he’s murdering our front door.

Death by keying. May the wood rest in peace.

Just as I’m making my way to the front of the house to open it for him, it flings open, and Jeff swings through the entryway, grasping onto the doorknob.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Door,” he sings as he props himself up against it and gives it a hearty slap.

What the…?

His eyes are half open, and his tie is unknotted and draped from his neck. His hair is beyond disheveled, and it looks like Beelzebub himself chewed him up and spit him back out. When he finally realizes I’m a few feet away, his expression turns somber.

“Jeff …?”

This is Jeff, right?

He finally releases the door and closes it behind him. “I thought you were going over to Tara’s tonight.” His words are laced with arsenic, and he narrows his eyes at me. And in some ways, it looks like he’s been run over by a steamroller. I don’t like the underlying accusation in his voice, but I brush it off and lay blame on the alcohol he cozied up with.

“That was the plan. But Miles ended up with some kind of stomach virus, and we both thought it would be best for me to stay home rather than rent a hazmat suit to hang out with her.”

He takes a long exhale and looks at me, pained. I swear I see tears prick the corners of his eyes. Dare I say he looks … guilty?

“Are you okay, Jeff?”

He presses the length of his body back against the door and exhales slowly. “Yes. No. I mean, I'm fine. I uh … I just went out after work. Had some drinks with the guys. You know. The usual.”

I want to say that no, I don't know. This moment is anything but usual for him. He rarely gets drinks with the guys from work, but calling him out on that now probably isn’t the best idea. And so I choose to focus on some of his other words.

“Some drinks? How many is some?”

I hate the tone in my voice right now, but I can't help it. I'm not the kind of woman who gets upset when her boyfriend goes drinking. But this is absolutely off the rails for him. I don’t remember the last time I saw Jeff drunk. At least not while being completely wasted alongside him. I have to admit, it kind of sucks being the sober one at the moment. And not because I miss alcohol — don’t get me wrong, I do, but ever since I got pregnant, he’s made a diligent effort to avoid any alcohol. Just another testament of how we’re in this together. But perhaps that effort has turned him into a cheap date as he is now a lightweight.

Jeff’s eyelids droop as he starts to slide his back down the door and his ass hits the ground.

“Oh my God! How shit-faced are you right now?”

“I’m not fit-shaced!” he slurs.

I stifle a laugh. “Suuuure you’re not. Come on — let’s get you into bed.” I walk toward him with my arms outstretched ready to pull him back up to his feet. I just hope that by the morning whatever he’s feeling can be cured with a little hair of the dog and a greasy hangover burrito from the shady Mexican joint down the road.

Once semi-standing, he trips over his feet before wrapping an arm around my shoulder and teetering himself upright.

“That’s it! Do you need to go to the bathroom before you lay down?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head wordlessly. We're halfway down the hall when he stops dead in his tracks, pausing me with him.

“YOU!” he bellows, stabbing his finger in the air at me. Then his expression melts into a sad smile. “I … I lo …” He’s on the cusp of tumbling over, and I grab him, keeping him upright. “I love you, Henley ...”

His tone is almost sad as he trails off on my name.

“I love you, too, babe.” And I’m unsure if I should be concerned or scared at this moment.

Jeff brings his face down to my stomach. “And I love you too, little dude.”

When we get to the bedroom, he plows face first into the pile of pillows, not even bothering to undress or get under the covers. I kneel on the edge and wrestle his dress shoes off of his feet before crawling up to the headboard to sit with him. I know I can’t leave him alone right now.

“Rough day at the office?”

“Uh huh,” he grunts.

“Wanna talk about it?” I run my fingertips through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. He’s always been a happy drunk. The kind of drunk that makes everyone laugh and forget all about the troubles in the world. This is definitely a side of Jeff I’ve never seen.

“Nope.” He’s short. Curt. And it makes my heart hurt as we can always talk about anything.

I sigh.

He sighs.

And it feels like the whole damn world sighs right along with us.

This is the moment that I’ve been waiting for. The moment when all of the stress and reality of becoming a dad hits him all at once, and he does a swan dive into the pool of regret. Jeff is finally having that inevitable moment of panic that Tara warned me about.

Cam had left for a fishing trip with the boys and somehow ended up on a three-day bender where upon day three he climbed up onto a highway billboard and fell asleep wearing nothing but a Mexican wrestling mask and a grass hula skirt. The thought of having not one but three sons was enough to send him sprinting leaping off the proverbial edge.

I love him dearly, but this is kind of an asshole move. A little warning would have been nice.

“Okay, well at least let me get you some water.”

I roll my big belly off the bed and grab a glass of water from the kitchen, then head to the bathroom for some Tylenol and a vitamin. Jeff will no doubt be in a world of hurt when he wakes up in the morning, so I want to do anything I can to help minimize the damage. Tomorrow’s a big day. We’re supposed to head to the store to finish building our baby registry since the shower is coming up soon.

By the time I return back to the bedroom less than thirty-seconds later, he’s snoring louder than an elephant stampede. I watch the slow rise and fall of his back for a moment before setting the glass of water down on the night stand.

“I love you, you crazy man of mine.” I lean down and kiss his temple, then turn to leave to finish cleaning the kitchen. Just as I’m pulling the door shut, Jeff mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

And confusion steamrolls over my heart, breaking it into tiny little pieces.

To say I didn’t sleep well last night is an understatement. Mostly because that assumes I was actually capable of sleeping. Which I wasn’t. And because this wretched baby shower is only a few weeks away, I still have to get my registry ironed out, with or without the help of Captain Hangover.

Thank God for Tara. When I texted her earlier asking if she’d come with me, she simply wrote back, “A day without wiping three asses? I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

Before I leave I place an orange Gatorade on the kitchen counter next to a note.

A little passive aggressive? Maybe. But when you’re sleeping for two you need as much rest as you can get. And whatever he's dealing with is seriously hindering my sanity.

“This. You definitely want this,” Tara says, pulling my focus from my hasty thoughts.

I grab the box and examine it closely, questioning the cartoon design on the packaging. “Nose Frida?”

“Yeah. You place that little plug thing into the nostril, then you put the tube in your mouth. It helps you suck the boogers right outta the kid’s nose.”

“That’s disgusting!” I turn my nose up at the thought of literally sucking a booger out of my child’s nostril.

Tara snatches the registry gun from my hands and scans the bar code on the back.

“No, it’s genius. And when this little monster of yours can’t sleep because he or she is unable to breathe, you’ll suck that snot right out and finally see the genius in it, too.”

If you say so.

Tara takes charge as she happily scans all the baby essentials and more toys and books than could possibly fit in the nursery. I let her because my mind is replaying last night’s words on loop, coming up with the most horrible scenarios imaginable.

“I’m sorry.” I can’t shake that stupid, pathetic, apologetic voice of his. Gah! What the hell are you sorry for, Jeff?

By the time we reach the rockers and nursery furniture, my mind is made up. Jeff is having an affair with some beautiful, leggy, very much not pregnant, blonde European woman. And he’s leaving me for her and her multi-million dollar inheritance to go live on a boat in the Mediterranean. She’s everything I’m not and never will be.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.” Tara puts her hand gently on my back and rubs it in small circles. “I know shopping for the baby can be a stressful reality check, but you’re doing great, Henley. Really.”

“No … that’s not it.” I walk over to a dark wooden glider with plush ivory cushions and sit down, leaning forward with my head in my hands. I choke back the threatening tears.

“Oh, sweetie!” Tara rushes next to me. “I got crazy emotional when I worked on the registry for the triplets. And the price of this immaculate glider would make me cry, too.” She’s right. This glider is immaculate. And way out of our price range.

I have to say something. Tara won’t judge me. I take a deep breath and look her in the eyes. Her face turns stony with concern and she takes my hands in hers.

“Last night Jeff came home completely annihilated. He could barely stand up straight.”

“Oh? Was he out partying with the guys?”

“I don’t think so. He was … I dunno. Just not himself.”

Tara looks at me and furrows her perfectly plucked brows.

“He was really short and seemed a little secretive. And as he was passing out he said, ‘I’m sorry.’”

“Did he do something stupid? Do I need to go over there and kick his ass for you?”

“No. Well … I don’t think so? He wouldn’t do anything dumb. But something was definitely wrong.”

“Well, that's ominously vague. What the hell does that even mean? I’m sorry?” She spits the words like they're razors on her tongue. “I’m sorry I forgot to take out the trash? I’m sorry I ate the last cupcake when I promised it for my very pregnant girlfriend? I'm sorry I got wasted and screwed my ex?”

I wince at her last comment. But the possibilities truly are endless. “I wish I had some idea on where this I'm sorry falls on the Scale of Shit,” I confess.

The Scale of Shit was something Tara and I came up with our junior year of college. We’d score exceptionally tough exams, multi-day hangovers and even tragically bad dates against the scale of shit. Forget about Professor Krueger’s psych midterm? Congratulations! You’ve achieved SHITCON level three. Spent the evening listening to your blind date pine over his ex-girlfriend? Easily SHITCON level four any day of the week. But the moment said blind date sheds tears as he details how his ex is transitioning into a man? That shit is SHITCON level two, and worthy of tracking down the ex-in-transition and giving him a high-five for being fearless.

But SHITCON level one is reserved for the gravest of life’s infractions. And fortunately for us, it has only been reached one time when Tara got high and went streaking through campus only to be caught and taken in by the campus police. She’d pitched a fit about her bare ass sticking to the seat and chewed out the officer. She nearly didn’t graduate.

“I’m pretty sure this has the potential to hit a SHITCON level of one if he’s really fucked up here. In fact, it may require us to reconfigure our entire SHITCON scale.” Tara’s trying to be funny, but failing miserably. This is my life we’re talking about here, and not just mine but this baby’s, too. A fuck up of epic proportions is exactly what I fear.

I bite my tongue to avoid turning into that hormonal pregnant woman incapable of being in public without crying. Some things are simply unforgivable. But we are so deeply intertwined that I know the only way I’d cut Jeff off is if he handed me the scissors.

Tara props a hand on her side and juts her hip out ever so slightly. “Why don't you just talk to him about it?”

Because I don't think I want to know the truth just yet? “I don't know. I just can’t!”

“So let me get this straight. You can have his baby, and you can put his dick in your mouth, but you can't call him out on his crap to ask just what the hell is going on?”

Well, when she puts it like that I can't exactly argue.

“I know I need to talk to him about it. I just … It’s delicate. I don’t know how to even broach the subject without causing him to go immediately on the defense.”

“Well, the way I see it is, you both love each other to the point it’s almost sickening. You’ll figure it out. Just please don’t wait too long because I know you, and you and I both know this is going to keep you awake at night and eat you up inside.”

I hate that she’s right, but love her for knowing me as well as I know myself.

She takes the registry gun and scans the chair I’m sitting in with a sly smile. I open my mouth to protest.

“Stop. We both know this rocker kicks some serious ass. And bottom line, you’re worth it. Just like you’re worth the truth of what’s going on in your relationship.”

“Thanks again for coming with me today,” I say on the drive back home.

“It’s no big deal. Really.”

“I know, but you have triplets. And I know I’ve been bogarting a lot of your time lately.”

“Shut it! You’re my best friend. And we finally have proof that you put out. Besides, The Three Musketeers are busy raising hell at their Nana’s house right now. Cam says it’s payback for all the times his folks grounded him growing up. His mom always threatened that she hoped one day he’d have a son as ornery and rambunctious as him. She got her wish — three fold. And she has to pay her dues for bringing that mayhem into our lives.”

I smile weakly. “Well, it took us long enough, but I think we’ve got it all covered.” At least I hope we do. In spite of all the wisdom imparted by my best friend, useless advice from my family, and all of the What You Need lists in the pregnancy books I own, I still feel ill-prepared.

“It was a productive four hours.”

I still can’t believe it took that long. When I wasn’t busy having a pity party in the middle of the store, Tara was busy detailing the best diaper rash creams and looking up reviews on car seats, rectal thermometers, and breast pumps. She went so far as to demonstrate the difference between an electric pump and a hand pump (over the clothes, of course) and garnered the attention of the few dads-to-be in the store.

“Hopefully we’ve put enough stuff on here for your baby shower. Your mom had me invite a stupid amount of people.”

Of course she did. Because only my mother would find a way to make this day about her. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, people tend to buy you stuff they think they want anyway. The registry is merely a suggestion.”

Tara laughs. “Spoken like a true passive aggressive woman. If I recall, you bought me a bottle of wine and a wine glass with a spill-proof lid that said, ‘Mommy’s Sippy Cup’ for my shower.”

“Hey now! I bought a truckload of diapers, too. Besides, you love that cup.”

Tara looks away from the road to me and smiles. “That’s true. The glass does kick some serious ass. Jack once knocked it off the coffee table, and it saved the beige carpet underneath from a bottle of cabernet I had been saving for a special occasion. That special occasion just so happened to be a random Tuesday afternoon.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes longer.

“Thanks again for planning a baby shower for me, T. It really means a lot.”

“Anything for you, my friend. Anything for you.”