The next three weeks are as close to perfect as life could be without me going to sleep every night with London in my arms and slipping inside her as soon as I wake up every morning. It’s like the standard cheesy “life is amazing” montage in every romcom ever, set to an inspirational tearjerker track. But then I’m learning that clichés exist for a reason. I’m fucking living one right now.

Sure, I wake up every day with the hard-on from hell and nobody to fuck, but weirdly, I’m kind of okay with that. Of course, I would prefer that things were totally right with London and I had her in my bed. In the absence of that, I love that I don’t have to wonder how she and Squirt are, or even where they are.

Today I head down to my kitchen to make myself a coffee, and to my surprise, I find London there already at the helm of the beast of a machine.

“Oh, hey, babe. What are you doing?” I can’t hide the note of surprise in my voice.

“I’m running a marathon. What does it look like? I’m making you coffee.”

Ha! Ask a stupid question…

“Sit.” She points to the seat nearest to the machine.

“Of course you are. What I guess I meant to ask was why?” I sit as instructed.

“Umm….” She chews on her bottom lip. “I kind of wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah?” I look up from the table, surprised by her statement. She sounds nervous, which is highly unlike her. “Shoot.”

“Well, I wondered if you wanted to maybe be involved in decorating Squirt’s nursery? I mean no pressure, either way. It’s no big deal if you don’t want to, I just thought….” She lets the words hang in the air, and so do I. For once I resist the urge to answer right away. I want to hear what she thought. I wait.

She takes a deep breath. “I just thought that the same way you didn’t want to go ahead and make decisions about how the room should look without me, nor should I without at least giving you the option. I mean this baby”—she rubs her belly, and in that moment, I’ve never wanted to touch someone as much as I want to place my hands on her stomach—“is as much yours as mine, and it’s your house. You should get a say too, if you want.”

“Let’s just get something straight, Tog. It’s not my house. I told you it’s your space to do with what you want, and you’re even paying me rent, for Christ’s sake. You don’t owe me any kind of access or input to anything. Having said that, I’m totally down for anything to do with Squirt. Anything at all. I told you, when it comes to that baby”—I nod toward her stomach—“I’m there. One hundred and ten percent. No matter what it is. No questions. We clear on that?”

She nods.

“So yes, I would love to be involved in putting together Squirt’s room.”

“Okay, great. So while we’re on the subject… there’s this scan….” She mumbles this so quietly, I’m not certain I hear correctly.

“I’m sorry, sweets, what was that?”

She clears her throat, careful not to make eye contact. “There’s this scan on Wednesday. For the baby, I mean. If you’re busy, it’s no biggie. It’s at midday. So…?”

“So you’re asking me if I want to come?”

“Yeah.”

“After what I just said? Yes, I want to come, Tog. Yes. Please.” I speak gently, suddenly aware of how fragile she is right now. Vulnerable, I guess is the right word. I just want to hold her and reassure her, but at the same time, I don’t want to overstep. I stay in my seat.

Later that day we settle down on her couch to pore over Pinterest boards and baby decor sites for inspiration. It couldn’t be further from anything I ever in my life imagined myself doing if I was having tea with POTUS. In fact, nibbling on cucumber sandwiches with the president seems slightly more plausible in my mind. Even weirder still, I enjoy it. I mean, I don’t truly enjoy looking at decor—there’s a reason I normally hire someone to do that shit on my behalf—but I love taking an active role in Squirt’s life alongside London. Even more, I appreciate the fact that London asked me to, wants me to be involved. Though of course, being the two of us, we very quickly run into trouble.

“I was thinking… shouldn’t we maybe wait until we know whether Squirt is a squirt or squirtette before we start decorating?”

“What?”

“Whether we’re having a boy or a girl,” I clarify.

“I understood what you’re asking. My question was really why you’re asking it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, then we’ll have a better idea of what colors—”

“Wait. Stop speaking.” She raises a hand in front of me as though stopping traffic.

Uh-oh.

“Are you for fucking real right now? You do what you like on any given day and give zero fucks about what anyone else thinks, or so you claim, and now you’re over here worrying about whether to paint the nursery blue or pink? Shit, Arlo, I’m disappointed in you. I thought that you of all people wouldn’t conform to that bullcrap. It’s the twenty-first century, not the 1950s.”

I feel a fight coming on. “I didn’t say anything about blue or pink.”

“You didn’t get a chance to because I interrupted you. I mean, apart from the fact that I hate pastel colors with a fiery passion, I definitely don’t subscribe to all that ‘blue is for boys, pink is for girls’ bullshit. I guess a lifetime spent in pink leotards and tutus will do that to you. I don’t even like the idea of ‘neutral’ colors. All colors are neutral in my eyes. If a guy wants to dress from head to toe in hot pink, more power to him. Or if a chick wants to spend her whole life in khakis, who the hell is anyone to tell her otherwise?”

I can tell I’ve hit a raw nerve with this topic. Not that I’m surprised. If it’s one thing I’ve learned about life with London, it’s that I’m only ever half a sentence away from pissing her off. Now that she’s pregnant, it’s sitting at about a quarter of a sentence on a good day, with unexploded verbal land mines at every step. Sometimes I’m surprised I still have all my limbs intact. Just.

“Besides all that, I have no intention of finding out the baby’s gender.”

“Wait. What? Why not?” What the actual fuck with this woman?

“Because I don’t need to know what color to paint the nursery based on gender. And because at the end of the day, I really just want to know my baby is healthy. Everything else I’m happy to wait for.”

“Really? You know I’m an impatient asshole, and I hate surprises. I can’t wait months and months to know something so important.” The suspense will kill me.

“Well in that case, we have a problem, because at this appointment on Wednesday we could find out, but I have no intention of doing so. If that’s going to be a problem for you, maybe you shouldn’t come after all.”

Of course. Because it would be too simple for us just to want the same fucking thing for once. God, give me strength.

“Isn’t this the kind of thing we should discuss together as parents? Sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind.” As this baby’s father, I technically have as much right to have a say in these things as she does, after all. I do not say this to London. Though they haven’t been getting much action lately, I still value my dick and balls nestled safely in their rightful spot. It’s a status quo I’d like to maintain, for sure.

“Well up until a little while ago, I didn’t know you would be at this scan, so I guess it wasn’t even an issue in my mind.”

“But it is an issue now.” Understatement of the century.

“Yeah, looks that way. I’m sorry for the oversight in not mentioning this to you sooner. That was my bad. But regardless, I really don’t know where we go from here, as I’m pretty firm in my viewpoint.” No shit, Sherlock.

“Yeah, I got that loud and clear, so I guess we need to come to an agreement in one direction or the other. It’s not something you can half do.” The words “rock” and “hard place” come to mind.

Her face lights up. “You might have something with that thought. Maybe there is a way we can compromise.”

Say what?

“I just can’t see how we can do that.” Compromise is not a concept I normally encounter. Generally it’s my way or the highway, but the dynamic with London throws everything in my life out of whack. Whatever I thought I knew, she’s always flipping it on its head, or pulling the rug out from under me in some way.

“Well, maybe you can find out and keep it a secret so that it can be a surprise to me at birth. I’ve heard of people doing this.”

“Umm… that sounds possible, I guess, but is it practical? I mean, for it to work, it basically relies on me knowing but keeping my mouth shut.” This seems like it might be doomed to fail from the get-go. I give her a quick sideways glance.

“I didn’t say it was a perfect plan, but when are compromises ever perfect?”

I have no clue. I’m pretty much a compromise virgin.

“I’m willing to try if you are.” Her voice is soft and calm.

“I am.” In truth, I’d attempt to fly to the moon without a rocket for her and our baby if she told me I needed to.

“Good. I appreciate you coming to the party on this. I think we just had our first zero-drama coparenting conversation. Well done us.”

Coparenting? I resist showing my total ignorance by asking her what the fuck she’s talking about and instead make a note to google the fuck out of it as soon as I have a chance.

“So, while we’re adulting like pros, how about monochrome and metallic for the nursery? Mainly black, white, and gray marl, with subtle accents of gold and silver, and natural wood throughout? A kind of luxe Scandi vibe? A bit like this.” She angles the laptop my way to show me a styled nursery in the colors she mentioned.

“I like it. I could absolutely get behind that. For the record, again, I was never advocating blue or pink, but this combination works either way.”

“Wait!” She jumps up from the couch, brandishing the laptop aloft. “Does this mean we agree? Again? That’s like twice in two minutes. What’s going on?” She laughs, and I join in. She has a point. This is a rare win and definitely something to celebrate.

She sits back down on the sofa next to me, beaming from ear to ear, before turning to me and continuing.

“Thank you. I know acting like a grown-up doesn’t come easy to you.”

Smartass!

“But I really appreciate the effort you’ve been making for Squirt.”

I’m not just doing it for Squirt.

She leans toward me and takes me completely by surprise when she presses her lips to mine. I’m in limbo, not knowing how to react. While I’m still thinking about my next move, London makes the decision for me. Leaning in farther, she takes it from a peck to a real kiss. The gesture kicks me back into action. I return the gesture and then some. Holy shit, she feels good. So fucking good. Then as suddenly as she started it, she pulls back, bringing the contact to an abrupt end. What?

“Shit. I’m sorry. I got a little carried away….”

I guess I spooked her, but for a moment, there was nothing else in my mind but how good it felt to kiss her.

“Don’t be sorry, Tog.”

“I am. It wasn’t fair to you. It won’t happen again.”

I want it to. Really fucking bad.