I made sure the door to Emme’s apartment locked behind me. As of yet she had not called me to save her from a masked intruder, but no sense inviting disaster. Emme did that well enough on her own.

Still smiling at the thought of her crawling frantically toward the door to “save” me, I let myself into my apartment across the hall. Like Emme’s, it was open and spacious, lots of dark wood and exposed brick, and nearly an entire wall of old-fashioned, multi-paned windows, arched at the top. Her apartment and mine were actually mirror images of each other, with the kitchen at one end, above which was a loft bedroom, and the rest of the living space open all the way up to the exposed ducts and pipes and beams reminiscent of the building’s industrial history. But other than the bones and layout, our lofts were completely different.

Mine was masculine but sophisticated—leather upholstery, chrome finishes, sturdy-legged tables and chairs with hard edges and straight lines. This was not a frat-boy man cave with fucking futons and bean bags and plastic cup rings on the coffee table. At thirty-five, I was over that shit. This was a classy-as-fuck bachelor pad. I had framed art on the walls, expensive rugs on the floor, and guests drank good booze out of real fucking glasses they could set on stone coasters while they relaxed on deep, comfortable couches.

Emme’s apartment was nice, too, but her style was much more girly and dramatic. A pink velvet sofa. Curvy tables and chairs. Fluffy cream-colored blankets and pillows and rugs. Gold accents. A crystal chandelier over her table. I’d never seen her bedroom, but I imagined it was much the same—a big bed covered by a puffy, ruffled down comforter and heaped with pink and ivory pillows she had to tunnel through to get in. She probably had a crystal chandelier up there, too. I once teased her that her apartment looked like it had been decorated by Marie Antoinette. She punched my shoulder, but secretly I think she took it as a compliment.

Inside my loft, I saw the leather bag containing my laptop and a few files sitting right where I’d dropped it on the floor. I’d just gotten in the door from work when I’d heard Emme’s screams and took off running. Given the girl’s propensity to overreact, I thought maybe she’d found a gray hair or broken a nail. One time I heard her shrieking and shouting obscenities at the top of her lungs, and went over there only to find her rolling around on the living room rug in agony trying to zip up her skinny jeans.

But I’ll admit to a fearful adrenaline rush tonight as I’d fumbled for my key to her apartment and raced across the hall. Those screams had sounded real, and I’d had this anxious feeling all day I hadn’t been able to shake, like something was going to go wrong. I’m not a superstitious person by any means, but I don’t believe in ignoring gut instincts. I might not talk about them, but I have them, and they’re usually spot on.

Emme had given me a key to her place because she locked herself out so frequently. She had one to mine as well, but the only time she’d used it was to water my plants when I traveled. I’d never locked myself out. How hard was it to check that you had your keys before you shut the door?

Loosening my tie with one hand, I headed up the stairs to my bedroom. While I changed out of my suit and into jeans and a light gray sweater, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t come home when I did. Would she really have pulled the fire alarm?

Probably.

I shook my head, laughing a little as I hung up my suit pants and jacket—trousers from the hem on a felt clamp hanger so the wrinkles would fall out (I fucking hate wrinkles).

After sniffing the white shirt I’d worn to work, I decided it could use a cleaning, so I tucked it into the bag destined for the dry cleaners. In the bathroom on the other side of my closet, I checked to see that my neatly-tended scruff wasn’t veering too close to mangy hipster territory and ran a hand through my dark hair, pleased to see I hadn’t grown any additional grays since this morning. Lately, it felt like they’d been cropping up overnight. Going gray didn’t worry me because I was getting older—I had no problem with aging. I had the job, the apartment, the car, the social life, the bank account. But I was vain as fuck and liked to look good. The minute I thought the gray was cramping my style, it’d be gone.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I filled a martini glass with crushed ice for Emme and let it chill on the counter, then poured myself a few fingers of bourbon. I was about to text Emme to ask what kind of takeout she felt like having when she messaged me.

Emme: Do you have enough vodka?

Me: Enough for what?

Emme: For my bitterness, my jealousy, my fat ass, my broken heart, and my vengeful soul.

Me: Maybe not for your vengeful soul. But for all the rest, yes.

Emme: Good. There in 20.

A minute later I got on Grubhub and decided to order Chinese from The Peterboro without asking her. She loved the crab rangoon at one of our favorite local places, but if I asked her, she’d probably squawk about having to watch her weight, which was ridiculous. I thought she looked better with a few more curves on her, anyway, but I couldn’t tell her that.

Occasionally I wondered what the fuck the guys she dated were saying or not saying to her to make her anything less than one hundred percent confident in her skin when she was so confident about other parts of her life—her job, style, her family relationships, her opinions. But then I’d remember the kinds of guys she chose—nothing but douchebags and assholes, none of whom were worse than fucking Richard the Turd, and that’s saying a lot. The entire time she was with him, I wanted to tell her what a weasel he would turn out to be.

I’ve known a million guys like him, guys who lie and cheat and don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. (I swear to God, half of them are lawyers in this city. And their pants are always wrinkled.) But I never said a word because it wasn’t my place, and she wouldn’t have believed me, anyway. The last time I tried to give her dating advice, our conversation went something like this:

Me: What do you see in that guy?

Her: Potential. 

Me: Potential is not sexy.

Her: Relationships take time and effort. It’s not only about sex. You wouldn’t understand because you are not a relationship person; therefore, you are not qualified to give advice on them—not that I asked for it.

But I didn’t need to be a relationship person to smell Richard’s bullshit. It stunk to high heaven. It was amazing to me that someone as smart and sexy as Emme would fall for a guy like that.

But what could you expect from a woman who thought Daniel Craig made a good James Bond?

After ordering the food, I wandered over to the windows with my drink and looked out at the city while I waited for her knock. It was kind of surprising to me how much I liked spending an evening with her, given that our relationship was not now and had never been sexual, and sex was usually the way I preferred to connect with women. Our friendship was pretty unlikely on all levels, really. I didn’t generally gravitate toward needy women, preferring those who were independent, maybe even a little aloof or reserved, those looking for short-term pleasure rather than long-term connection—the total opposite of Emme. That woman was a no-holding-back, no-poker-face-whatsoever, here-have-some-feelings Seeker of The One. I always teased her that she wore her heart on her sleeve and a sign on her heart that said HOMELESS—PLEASE HELP.

Not that she was needy in a clingy sort of way, because she wasn’t. There was something kind of nice about the way she needed me, actually—I think it was that she didn’t want to need me, and she would have argued until her dying breath that she didn’t need me, not really. It made it kind of fun in an antagonistic way to be the one she turned to all the time. Mostly I liked to make fun of her for it, sort of like the way you’d poke at your best friend’s younger sister.

But no matter how cute that sister was in her own hot-tempered-girl-next-door way (and probably a firecracker in bed), you couldn’t sleep with her.

Even if you sometimes thought about it.

Even if you sometimes sneaked a peek at her legs in that short black skirt. Or her ass in her tight jeans. Or that little, accidental glimpse of a bra strap when a sleeve slipped from her shoulder.

Even if you sometimes had to work really, really hard not to fantasize about her while you were in the shower. Or alone in bed on a Saturday morning. Or not alone in bed on a Saturday night with a woman who turned out to be a little too reserved and aloof and you needed a little fiery inspiration to get the job done.

Fiery inspiration. Fuck, that was funny.

And hot.

Grimacing, I adjusted the crotch of my pants as they threatened to grow too tight for comfort. I didn’t want to have to hide an erection from Emme when she arrived. I’d never live it down.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, something not sexy. This morning’s contentious arbitration. This afternoon’s tense phone call with my mother. That ridiculous blackened rabbit. Those things distracted me for maybe five seconds, but then my mind took an unauthorized detour to Emme crawling toward me on her hands and knees, slowly this time, her eyes hooded and hungry instead of wide and panicked.

Oh, fuck.

Heat rushed my chest, making my sweater feel tight and itchy. I couldn’t breathe for a second. My stomach muscles were clenched tight as blood rushed between my legs. I imagined her looking up at me. Her hands sliding up my thighs. Her fingers unbuckling my belt. Her tongue wetting her lips. The sound of a zipper being lowered.

My cock jumped.

“Not gonna happen, pal,” I muttered to my dick, focusing on a church spire in the big arched window. “Not in a million years. That girl is off limits. She falls in love way too easily. And it’s not like you don’t get enough attention.” Although lately, all the attention had been from me. I was in one of my rare dry spells. Maybe that was my problem. Tomorrow night, I’d do something about that. 

Tonight, it was out of the question.

Because Emme was one of those girls who could not separate love from sex—I saw that the first night we hung out together (she was locked out of her apartment, and I’d invited her to hang out in mine until the building manager could bring her another key). For her, the emotional and the physical were inextricably linked. For me, that was like a neon sign screaming “RUN! RUN AWAY!” I’d made the mistake of sleeping with one or two of those girls in college…never again. Sex was a great way to feel good and make someone else feel good. But it wasn’t emotional. Not for me. I made sure of it.

I went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and stuck my head in as far as it would go. A couple minutes later, I pulled out the bottle of vodka I kept in there and began to make Emme’s martini—three olives, extra dry, and extra dirty. I concentrated on mixing the cocktail exactly right, and by the time she knocked, her drink was ready, my breathing had slowed, my body temperature had returned to normal, and my pants fit just fine.

See? All it took to control your feelings was a little discipline.

“So was it any better the second time?” From her end of the couch, Emme looked at me hopefully before eating the last olive from her martini off the stainless steel cocktail pick. Her shoes were off, her denim-clad legs were tucked underneath her, and she’d taken her hair down. It spilled down over her shoulders, long and blond and wavy.

“You mean the third time?” As the credits rolled, I tossed back a little more bourbon, hoping it would take the edge off that uneasy feeling I’d had all day. I’d hoped putting out the fire in Emme’s kitchen would make it go away, but it had lingered. “I’ve watched this for you before. And no, it wasn’t.”

She stretched out one leg and nudged me with her bare foot. Her toes were painted pink, of course. Not a soft pink like her velvet sofa, but a deep vibrant hue, more like a raspberry. “You just don’t like Craig because he shows more vulnerability than Connery. He’s more human. And you know he’s a better actor.”

“I don’t know any such thing. And I don’t need to see vulnerability in Bond because he’s not a real person. Not that I think exhibiting vulnerability is an asset to real people, anyway, at least not usually. And definitely not men.”

She made a disgusted noise at the back of her throat and poked me with her toes again. “Real men can be vulnerable, Nate.”

“But they shouldn’t show it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a weakness, and weakness undermines power and authority and control.” But I couldn’t stop looking at her toes. What the fuck?

A sigh escaped her as she swirled the last few sips of her martini. “Well, I prefer men who aren’t afraid to show weakness sometimes. That’s what makes them real to me.”

“But Bond is a fantasy, Emme. A fantasy.” I got up off the couch, taking my empty glass with me. Partly it was to get a short refill, and partly it was to put a little distance between my thigh and her foot. It was disturbing how close to my dick it was. And why was I thinking about putting her toes in my mouth? I wasn’t even a foot man. Must be the dry spell.

I went into the kitchen and reached for the bourbon bottle, pouring myself only a couple more swallows since I wanted to be at the gym first thing in the morning, and working out with a hangover was never a good time.

Emme followed me into the kitchen and kept arguing. “He’s not a fantasy. A fantasy is a thing, a dream. Bond is a character—a human character.”

“Fine, he’s a character—the ultimate alpha male. No wife and kids, no honey-I’m-home. He eats and drinks what he wants when he wants, drives a cool car, sleeps with beautiful women, and kills bad people. No feelings involved.”

Emme rolled her eyes before she finished her drink and placed her empty glass in the sink. Our dinner dishes were already in the dishwasher, the leftovers put away in the fridge. “And this is what you aspire to?”

“Why not?”

She gestured dramatically. “Because it’s a cold and lonely life! You’re going to die alone!”

I laughed. We had some variation of this argument all the time. I have no idea why she was so hell-bent on my having feelings, but she was. “I’m never cold, and I enjoy my alone time. As for dying, why not die alone? I’m going to spare a bunch of people a lot of grief and regret.”

“That’s sad. I’m sad for you.”

“Of course you are.”

“You know, even an alpha male can have feelings occasionally.”

“Oh?”

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter, giving me the evil eye. “Yes. He doesn’t have to be hard as granite all the way through, all the time.”

Don’t think about being hard. Don’t think about being hard. Don’t think about being hard. I leaned back against the opposite counter and sort of held my glass in front of my crotch. “Why are you even concerned with alpha males? You’re never attracted to them.”

“What? Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” I knew her type well. “You’re always saying how you don’t want to be rescued, you want someone willing to show affection and talk about feelings, you don’t like arrogant or competitive guys or guys who always have to win, you like guys who get along with everyone—”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. But that’s not an alpha male.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “But look at Bond. Who is he so worried about protecting? Why is he so driven to kill the bad guys? There must be people he cares about more than himself to put himself in harm’s way so often.”

“Maybe he just likes the thrill of the chase.”

“Maybe he’s more selfless than you think.”

“In this case, I think we’re going to have to disagree.”

She sighed heavily, and I knew I had disappointed her by ending the argument in a draw instead of winning or losing it. Any other night, I might have kept it going, but there was something odd going on with me, something that had me wanting to close the distance between us, set her up on the counter, slip my hands beneath that fuzzy white sweater she had on, see what her legs felt like wrapped around my hips. But I knew better.

Get her out of here before you do something stupid.

“Hey, you got fortune cookies? I didn’t see those.” She reached for the little cellophane bag.

“I forgot about them.”

“Can I have one?”

“You can have them both.”

She took one out and cracked it open. “A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.”

“Very deep.”

She ignored me and went on to the next one. “You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.” Her lips pursed. “Hm. I don’t want a dangerous ship or a broken heart.”

I laughed at the anguish in her tone and expression.

“It’s not funny,” she said, shoving pieces of cookie in her mouth. “It means I’m doomed to be unhappy. And then I’m going to die in a shipwreck.”

“It means you take things way too seriously.” I tipped back the last of the bourbon in my glass, and set it in the sink. “Well, I’ve got an early morning at the gym tomorrow.”

She popped the rest of one cookie in her mouth and brushed off her hands. “I’m going. What time is it anyway?”

I checked the digital clock on the microwave. “It’s 11:11.”

Her face lit up. “Ooh! Make a wish!”

“What?”

“It’s 11:11, you have to make a wish.” She closed her eyes for a couple seconds, her lips moving as if saying a silent prayer. Then she opened them. “Did you do it?”

I laughed. “No.”

“Nate! Hurry up! Make a wish.” She glanced at the clock and flapped her hands agitatedly.

“I don’t have a wish to make.”

“So make one for me, then. And do it fast, before it’s 11:12.”

This time it was my turn to roll my eyes, but secretly I wished that the next guy she fell in love with would love her back the way she deserved, and she’d be happy. But I didn’t close my eyes, and I didn’t move my lips, so she had no idea whether I’d made a wish or not.

“Did you do it?” She looked concerned.

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth fell open for a second. “What was it? What did you wish for me?”

I started to laugh as I left the kitchen. “Nice try, Calamity. Even I know you don’t tell a wish if you want it to come true.” The credits were still rolling on the television, and I picked up the remote to turn everything off.

“Oh, now you believe in wishes?” She sat down on the couch and tugged on her fluffy boots.

No, I wanted to tell her. I don’t, because I learned a long time ago that wishes and prayers and hopes don’t mean anything. No one is listening. But I didn’t tell her that, not only because she was looking up at me with my favorite expression of hers, the one daring me to fight back, but because at that very moment, I heard a noise in the hall.

A strange and oddly terrifying noise.

I looked over my shoulder toward the door, thinking I must have imagined the sound.

Then I heard it again—the unmistakable, ball-shrinking, cringe-inducing sound of a baby’s wail.

I looked at Emme, who had paused mid-task, one foot off the ground. “Did you hear that?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she said, pulling the boot on and dropping her foot. “Was that a baby?”

“It couldn’t be. Who’s baby would it be?” Emme and I had the only two apartments at the end of this hall.

“Maybe someone’s watching a movie really loud,” she suggested.

But then we heard it again, and this time it wasn’t an isolated cry but a plaintive howling that didn’t stop.

Emme stood up. “We better go look.”

I knew she was right, but I had a horrible, sick feeling in my stomach. That unease from earlier had grown into a bowling ball-sized bucket of dread.

Emme went to the door and opened it. Then she gasped. “Oh my God.”

Paralyzed with fear, I didn’t move. “What is it?”

“Come here.”

Reluctantly, I walked to the door and peered over her shoulder at the screaming baby that had apparently been abandoned at my doorstep. “Oh my God. What the fuck?”

“Shh. It can hear you.” Emme moved into the hall and stared down at the baby, which was red-faced and furious, its tiny fists waving in the air, a pink fleece hat slipping down over its eyes. It was covered with blankets and lying in some sort of contraption with a plastic base, a reclining seat, and a handlebar across the top. Next to it was a bag overflowing with items I didn’t recognize. White things and pink things and fluffy things and plastic things.

I thought I might vomit.

“My God.” Emme knelt down next to it and made shushing noises, removing the hat and smoothing its crazy tufts of dark hair back from its face. “It’s a baby.”

“I can see that.” I braced myself in the doorway with a hand on either side of the frame. “But what’s it doing here?”

“I don’t know.” On her knees, Emme looked up and down the hallway, but there was no one around. Getting to her feet again, she picked up the contraption by the handle, groaning as if it were heavy, although the baby didn’t look as if it could weigh more than a bottle of whiskey. She set it down again, frowning as she studied the handle. Then she clicked some sort of lever or button, and the seat detached from the base. “Aha. Okay, grab the bag and the base to the car seat and bring it in.”

“Why?” I stayed exactly where I was, with my hands bracketed on either side of the doorjamb, as if I wanted to block her entrance. Which, of course, I did. This baby was a harbinger of evil. I could feel it.

Emme gaped at me, struggling to get a better grip on the car seat using two hands. The baby continued to yowl, a shrill, ear-piercing sound. “What do you mean why? Because there is a baby in the hallway outside your apartment that appears to have been left on purpose. We can’t just leave it here.”

“Maybe it was left outside of your apartment. Why can’t we take it there?”

Emme rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Nate. It’s not going to bite you or give you cooties or whatever it is you’re afraid of.”

“How do we even know it’s a real baby? It could be a bomb. Is it ticking?”

Emme stared at me. “Are you insane? It’s not a bomb; it’s a baby. Now get out of my way so I can come in. This thing is heavy.”

She came at me and I had no choice but to step aside. Once she was in, I stepped out into the hall and walked all the way to one end. Opening the stairwell door, I went into it and looked up and down. “Hello?” I called, my voice echoing into the dark. I saw no one and heard nothing. I came out of the stairwell and walked toward the elevators, again seeing no one and hearing nothing. Scratching my head, I went back to my door and stared down at the overstuffed canvas bag and plastic car seat base. My heart was hammering in my chest, and not in a good way.

Stop being ridiculous, Pearson. It’s just a baby. And it’s probably a complete coincidence that it was left at your door. Maybe even a mistake. But I still felt nervous as I picked up the bag and the base and brought them inside.

Emme had taken the baby from the seat and was cradling it in her arms as she paced back and forth in front of the couch, bouncing it gently and shushing it with soft, soothing sounds.

“We should call the police,” I said, trying to sound authoritative as I set the bag and base on the floor. “We need to find out who this baby belongs to.”

Emme stopped moving and looked up at me. “Brace yourself, Nate. I think she might belong to you.”

“Me? That’s impossible!”

Emme started the pace-and-bounce routine again, focusing her attention on the baby’s face. “There’s a letter in the car seat with your name on it.”

I didn’t want to see it. God help me, I didn’t want to. If it were any other day, maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared. But all day long, my gut had been trying to warn me about something.

Swallowing hard, I went over to the car seat and saw the white envelope at the bottom of it. My name was written on the front in black ink. Cursive letters. A feminine slant. I reached down, picked it up, and pulled out the handwritten letter inside.

Dear Nate,

I’m sorry. I should have told you about her. Trust me when I say she was just as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure she is to you. I thought I would give her up, but found I couldn’t. I thought I could do it on my own, but find I can’t. I just need a break, okay? Some air. I’ll come back for her, I promise. She is healthy, has had all her shots, and eats well, about four ounces every three hours. Her formula and a couple bottles are in the diaper bag, along with some diapers, wipes, some clothes, and a couple toys. She can sleep in her car seat, although she is not a good sleeper.

She is eight weeks old.

Her name is Paisley.

Sincerely,

Rachel

I read the letter once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty. I wanted it to be lies. I wanted to deny I’d ever known a Rachel. I wanted to pretend I didn’t remember the boozy weekend we’d spent in her downtown hotel room after blowing off the boring tax law seminar we were supposed to attend.

But I couldn’t.

My vision clouded.

I have a daughter.

She’s eight weeks old.

Her name is Paisley.

I swayed forward.

Is Paisley even a name?

I thought it was a tie pattern.

I prefer stripes.

Something was wrong with my legs.

“Well?”

I looked up from the letter to find Emme staring at me intently. “Is it true? Is the baby yours?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking, my world cracking. “I think she is.”

And then I fucking fainted.