I sat at Station to Station the following afternoon, my laptop open on the counter. Quintin whistled along to an old ’90s tune, pouring a pint for himself. No one was in the bar, making our conversation echoey, strange, without the hum of other conversations behind us.

“I’m proud of you, Rem,” Quintin finally said, leaning heavily atop the bar and ticking his nail against the glass.

I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the film editor program. Before me were hours and hours of recordings, organized into dates and scenes. Each portion contained the bright faces of Sam, of Wesley, of Gwen in various states of acting—their mouths open, their arms outstretched. Each one represented a memory, a time when our set had hummed with excitement. When we’d been building something.

I still hadn’t answered Quintin.

“I’ve never seen you push him away so hard before,” Quintin continued. “Telling him exactly where you stand. That it’s not about your past anymore. It’s about the contract. Damn, Rem, it was inspiring. Made me want to clap my hands.”

“Quit it, Q,” I sighed. My eyes remained focused on the computer, burning into the screen. “You’ve said it for years. I was being a stupid girl, thinking he could ever change. But when it comes to this film, the baby…” I trailed off, hunting for the right words. “If he can’t respect the film, then he doesn’t respect me at all. Period.”

“Do you think he’ll ever know your son?” Quintin asked.

It was an abrupt question, forcing my eyes toward him. I blinked at my older brother—the black, shaggy hair curling down to his chin, his eyes hollow and deep. It was clear I was a part of his small world, a world he so wanted to cultivate and keep safe.

“All he really needs is an uncle, right?” I said, giving him a soft smile.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Quintin said, shrugging. “And I know you’re not, either.” He eased across the bar and busied himself with an approaching customer, an older man, with a crisp head of white hair.

I turned back to the computer, plugging my headphones into my ears so I could focus. The familiar script snuck through the speakers, coming to life. My mouth tugged up at the corners. It was real. Despite the horrible way Wesley and I had treated one another, despite the fact that, with each breath, I felt riddled with anger and resentment, this baby contract was the only reason I had been able to film my screenplay.

Editing would take the better part of two months, I was sure—especially given that I didn’t have the cash flow to pay a professional. I was learning, reading up on tips of the trade and giving myself space for do-overs. As I spun through the first hour, then the next, my mind trickled to thoughts of the “after.” When the movie was finished, it would be a complete edit that rolled seamlessly through all ninety minutes. How would I submit it?

Would I have to find an agent?

I paused for a moment, thinking back to Tyler, my ex-fiancé. Again, the previous evening, he’d texted me, burning to see me again. “I feel like we still have so much to say to one another,” he’d said. “So much to do together. You’re so talented. I’m ridiculous for ever saying you weren’t. Face it, Rem. We’re adults. We make mistakes. But I want you back.”

My heart jolted at the thought of the message. Wesley hadn’t sent me anything so romantic, so passionate—not in the months since his return, or ever. Sure, with Wes, our bodies buzzed with passion for one another. When we made love, it felt as though the world spun only for us. Our sweat stirred together, creating a sexual scent that was purely our own. Just the thought of it now made my eyes close tight.

I touched myself to the thought of Wesley far more often than I liked to admit to myself. My legs wide on my bed and the silky smooth wetness of myself between. I liked to imagine his face between my legs, his dark eyes peering up at me as he whispered, “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want it fast.”

Tyler offered several very different things, however. He offered stability. He offered a large home in Los Angeles, with easier reach to agents and the film industry. In general, as a PR rep, I felt sure he would have his finger on the pulse of where to go, who to speak with. Unlike Wes, he was a man of the world, a businessman, with a different tie for each type of meeting. This had irritated me about him.

Of course, I hadn’t loved him. Not even for a single day. I’d often looked at him, sleeping beside me—minutes before awakening and saying some sort of banal thing—and contrasted him to my burning memories of Wesley.

The bell jangled at the door, interrupting my reverie. Clacking heels marched across the floor, directly behind me. Shifting in my chair, I watched, side-eyed, as a blonde-haired woman wearing a cinched pink dress bobbed onto the stool beside me. With most of the entire bar empty, the chairs glossy and waiting to be filled, irritation made my throat clench. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? It was clear I was busy, my fingers ticking against the keyboard.

“Hi!” she said then, her voice bright. Initially, I assumed she was speaking to Quintin. But Quintin had charged across the bar to speak with Marshall, the old drunk, leaving this strange woman’s eyes to blink at me brightly.

Finally, I turned my head toward her, tilting my head. “I’m sorry. Hello?”

The woman was strangely pretty, with a kind of emptiness behind the eyes. She swirled her fingers through her hair, eyeing the bar taps. “What’s good here?”

“Oh, um. I guess the IPA? It’s brewed downtown. Although I haven’t had a drink in a few months now,” I said, lending her a small smile and pressing my hand against my stomach.

“Right. Of course,” the woman said. “He mentioned something about that.”

He? What the hell? My smile faltered slightly, forcing my eyebrows lower over my eyes. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”

The woman snaked her hand into the air between us, showing a bright, cheap-looking selection of rings sparkling on three fingers. I accepted her hand, shaking it with a soft tug.

“I’m so sorry. That’s so rude of me, isn’t it!” she tittered. “Honestly, it’s all been such a whirlwind. I told him—Wes, that is—that I’d just swing down here and try to find you, what with this being your brother’s bar and everything. He said you’re often over here. I have to say, this is quite the dive bar. Very Wes. Not as much you.” Her eyes scraped me up and down, analyzing my sundress, my sandals.

My smile was a twitching line across my face. I waited, my heart burning with memory of what Wes had said the previous night. That he just needed to speak with me. That he had something to say.

“Where did he drag you out of?” I asked, my voice gritty, low.

Again, Connie tittered, quaking slightly atop the stool. “Oh, darling. That isn’t how we speak to one another in Florida. We’ve got some manners that you California folk don’t have, I’d say. I’m trying to instill those manners in my daughter. Our daughter, I mean. Maria. God, she’s six years old now, and I’m painfully aware of the fact that she’s picking up almost every one of my habits as we go along. Ha, ha! You’ll have to think about that, too. What with your baby coming and all.”

I gaped at her, my head swirling. “I’m sorry. You said, our daughter?”

“Right!” Connie said, flashing her teeth. “Wes didn’t say you were a clever girl. But here you are. Wes knocked me up about six and a half years ago. I can’t believe he never told you about Maria. You should see the way she looks at him. And now that she’s got this inheritance coming from Wes’s new partnership, I’m going to have her in the top schools in all of the Bay Area. We’ve talked, of course, about getting back together for her. I mean, she loves him so much. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little family together? But you know Wes. I thought at first he’d say no way. But would you believe it was his idea?”

I shuffled to my feet, and the stool rocked back and forth. My hands, my elbows, my thighs—they shook. I felt as if I were onboard a ship, cresting a large, dominant wave. Still, Connie beamed at me with the expression of someone who’d just bested me. In her, I saw the smile of every woman who’d ever taken a part from me, when I’d been acting back in Los Angeles. I saw every woman I’d ever imagined Wes with, when he’d been far away. I spun with resentment, with sadness. But most of all, I felt the dark, hollowness of truth.

Why would she come here and lie to me about this?

“Oh, would you like to see her? Might be good to see what your baby might look like,” Connie continued. She slid her hand into her large, bulbous purse and drew out a wallet. Inside was a photo of a little, blonde girl missing a front tooth. The girl grinned at me behind the plastic, showing these large blue eyes—so much like Hank’s. It was no mistaking that this girl was Wes’s daughter. I could feel him in her.

“Wow,” I said, my heart bursting in my rib cage. “So. A family. You’re going to try it.”

“He seems really ready,” Connie said, her eyelashes flicking up and down. “And his father, Maria’s grandfather. He seems so happy to have an heir, you know? I think he was really worried about that, what with Wes’s brother passing away.”

I slammed my laptop closed, stuttering. I couldn’t get my thoughts to wrap around this new reality. I slipped the laptop into my bag and tilted my head toward the door. Quintin still hadn’t noticed my conversation and was leaning against the bar, speaking conspiratorially with one of the regulars. The world spun, smeared. My eyes couldn’t take any one image in fast enough.

“Well, I’m certainly very happy for you,” I said, my voice taut, like a string.

I had no reason to scream at this woman. To tell her she was taking my place. Rather, Wes had made his position in my life incredibly clear. I was to be the birth mother, the woman to push a son into the world. And now, it seemed that he didn’t even need that son. This daughter had arrived, safely back into his arms. A complete and total family, with a bright-toothed and leggy blonde.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I whispered, drawing my hands through my brown hair—so smooth, so curled, something to hold onto as the world rocked forward. “I actually have to be on my way.”

Without waiting for her answer, I sped toward the door, nearly tripping on the welcome mat. My toes smashed against the plastic tip of it, making it whirl to the side. Out on the street, I inhaled deeply, questions rushing to the surface. What was going to happen to my son? To this baby that Wes had wanted so deeply? Was he still owed his money? Or were Wes and his father perfectly content with this heir to the tech company—this gorgeous little girl named Maria?

Something within me broke. I felt certain I didn’t want my baby to grow up into this world of money, of contractual obligations, of Wes’s laissez-faire mentality about love and friendship and memories. I folded myself into the front seat of my car and typed a message into my phone—burning with zealous energy, wanting to craft a new world.

“Tyler. I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring your messages,” I typed. Tears swarmed down my cheeks, racing past my lips. “I actually have brilliant news! I was finally able to make my movie. I’m in the editing process now. I’m making my way back to Los Angeles this afternoon, and would love to meet up with you tomorrow to discuss my next steps. I heard you’re the PR guy to know in the industry.” I typed out a smiley face, my fingers still shaking, and sent the message into the ether.

But before driving back to Los Angeles, I found my hands guiding the car toward Wesley’s cabin—the same one in which we’d created our baby. Our son. Parking the car a bit away from the shadow of the cabin, I peeked through tree limbs to find Wesley out back, a little blonde girl scampering around him. His face broke open wildly, offering a large, goofy smile. I could hear her squeals, echoing through the trees. “Papa, too fast!” she cried, when Wes lifted her into the air, tossing her. “Papa, no!”

In response, Wes held onto her, placing his large hand on her head. Within me, I felt the baby stir. My heart pattered with a single, pure emotion, one of total love. Of total acceptance. This man, this person I’d spent fifteen years loving, upholding, had chosen a different path. I couldn’t drag him away from his daughter. And perhaps I could craft something better for my son, elsewhere.

I hopped back into the car, cranked the engine, and blared the indie radio station, hammering my fists against the steering wheel. I sped away from Wes’s cabin, darting south, toward Los Angeles. I never should have returned to San Francisco. But it had been a lesson, a path. Within me, a world had opened up. And I would make each and every decision for my son now. He deserved nothing less.