I slipped out of bed before dawn the next morning, thanks to the red-eye I’d flown coming home. I had been avoiding admitting it for the last five years, but I was getting too old for this crazy schedule. Not that I had anyone to blame but myself. I could have bid on a different line—I had enough seniority that I was likely to get what I bid on most of the time. It had been somewhat of a challenge to myself, proving I could still run on fumes like I had in my twenties. Dusty had given me a look when he’d seen my schedule but hadn’t said anything about that particular flight. He had more issues with my schedule than just one flight.

I padded downstairs and filled the electric kettle and set it to boil while I ground my coffee beans. Which reminded me—I had a bag of Blue Mountain beans still packed in my luggage. I hadn’t picked it up in Jamaica, sadly. I tended to stay domestic these days, but Portland was one of my favorite layovers. There was a city that knew its coffee. Also its beer, but if I said that out loud to anyone in the Boston area, I’d probably be pilloried.

The kettle hit boiling, and I turned it off to give it a minute to cool before adding it to the French press. That done, I set a timer on my phone, placed my mug and press in front of yesterday’s newspaper on the table, and settled in. My morning routine always settled me, no matter where I was in the world. It was almost like a meditation, preparing my mind for whatever the day might bring, whether it was a restful day at home or a hectic day of flights.

The timer dinged, and I pressed the grounds to the bottom of the container and poured my first mug, taking a moment to relish the scent of the steam. There was something so much more satisfying about hot drinks in autumn and winter than in spring and summer.

I read through the front page meticulously, flipping back and forth between pages to finish the articles. Everything else in that section, I skimmed over. Next up was sports. As a born and bred Floridian from St. Pete, I was a Buccaneers fan. I just hadn’t been a heat fan, which is why we now lived outside Boston and my favorite layover was Portland, much to my parents’ dismay. The Bucs were having a slow start, two wins, two losses, but at least Sunday night’s loss to the Dolphins had been within a couple points. I’d heard about it from my flight crew, but it was painful seeing the numbers so close in black and white.

I discarded the lifestyle, opinions and arts section, skimming over politics and business and tech. Those were the topics that affected my line of business most of the time. Ah well, the world was falling apart as usual, but no faster than normal.

By the time I finished the newspaper and my coffee, the sun was beginning to break over the horizon. I tossed the paper in the garbage, dumped the coffee grounds, and gave the press a hand wash, then snuck into our bedroom to grab my workout bag. Dusty was still hours from waking. I kissed his cheek before heading out. “I’ll be back, Sleeping Beauty.”

The usual pre-work gym crowd was already filling in as I arrived. I stashed my street clothes in a locker and changed, nodding to familiar faces. As I closed my padlock, a large hand slapped my shoulder in greeting. “Richard! Haven’t seen you in ages!”

I turned to recognize Carter, a guy I’d formed a loose friendship with over the last couple of years. “Well, that’s not my fault. Where you been, man? You’ve been out for, what? A couple months?”

I shook his hand and he dropped his bag to the bench.

“Yeah, it’s been crazy. But I’m a dad now!”

I blinked in surprise. I hadn’t even realized Carter and his partner were expecting. The correct response came without prompting. “Congrats! How’s your partner?”

“Oh, other than sleep-deprived, we’re both great. He didn’t actually give birth, we adopted.”

“That’s great.” Was I supposed to say something different for an adoption versus a regular birth? I thought about how people would react to Dusty and I having a baby by surrogate—about how I wanted them to react. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“Leonard. I know, it’s super old-fashioned, but we’re calling him Leo. Want to see a picture?”

The last thing I wanted to do was lie about how good-looking someone’s kid was, but that was not the socially acceptable response. “Sure.”

Carter swiped at his phone screen and turned it to face me. The kid was tiny, his face wrinkly and squished, like a pug’s, and there was a slight cone shape to his head.

“That’s one handsome kid you got, Carter.”

The other man beamed as he set his phone in an open locker. “I know, right? I mean, clearly I’m biased, but he’s pretty damn cute.”

Eager to change the subject, I asked, “So we spotting each other today?”

“You better believe it. Try not to give me too much shit. I’ve got two months of catch up!”

* * *

I was home by eight, and watched the news for a couple hours until I heard Dusty start to stomp around upstairs. I turned the TV off and went to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for breakfast. I sighed. The fruit I had bought Dusty was mostly going bad, but I pulled it out anyway. I would salvage what I could. And eggs. I set the eggs on the counter and set some bread in the toaster without pushing it down, focusing on cutting the fruit. Dusty stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, slamming a pod into his Keurig before giving me a sloppy, stale good morning kiss and then flopping into a seat and laying his head down on the table.

I didn’t know how he could drink that dishwater posing as coffee, but even when I made a fresh pot of fresh coffee, from freshly ground beans, he still chose a Keurig cup over the real stuff.

“Why are mornings so hard?” Dusty groaned into the wood of the table.

I put the bowl of fruit in front of him and started on the eggs and pushed the toast down.

“I’ve already been to the gym and back,” I said.

Dusty cracked one eye open at me. “You’re an alien. Or a robot. I still haven’t decided which.”

I nodded at the bowl of fruit. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Dusty grumbled.

I raised an eyebrow. “I know how you eat when I’m not here. Dimes to dollars we’re all out of Hot Pockets again.”

Dusty didn’t bother to deny it.

“You need to take care of yourself. You’re not leaving me because you have a heart attack at thirty-five. Especially if we’re going to have a kid.”

A smile twitched at the corners of Dusty’s mouth and he pushed himself up, pulling the bowl of fruit toward him and stabbing a strawberry. “Yes, Daddy.”

I raised my eyebrow. “That’s not going to get you laid when you have things to do.”

Dusty slid the fork out of his mouth. “Oh, believe me, I know. After ten years of marriage, I know.” His smile was soft and loving, and I stepped forward to tilt his chin up and kiss him, stanky morning breath and all. The strawberry had made it better.

The Keurig finished filling his cup, and Dusty pulled back to say, “I don’t suppose you could hand me my mug?”

“After ten years of marriage, that’s definitely one of the things you should know the answer to. I’m still holding out hope that you see the light some day, but I’m not enabling your addiction to subpar caffeine in any way, shape, or form.”

Dusty shrugged and went to grab his mug while I finished up the eggs and buttered the toast. I prepared another press of coffee for me, and listened patiently as he verbally processed his to-do list for the day. One of the things we had learned early on in our marriage is that for us to not want to kill each other in the morning, I had to have a good chunk of quiet time in the morning before Dusty woke up and started talking at me, because once he started, he didn’t stop until he locked himself in his study to work. Or back in our early days, left for the office. Working from home was a much better fit for him. And for me. He had never been a morning person.

Dusty prepped a second cup of coffee after finishing all of the food I had put in front of him. One of the things that I hated about being away for days on end was worrying about Dusty’s diet. If left to his own devices, he’d survive on Hot Pockets, cans of cold Chef Boyardee, and delivery pizza. It gave me a deep sense of satisfaction to be able to provide for him. I winced as he filled half of his cup with cream and then dumped spoonfuls of sugar in. Granted, it was less of a tragedy because he didn’t drink actual coffee, but he should at least put the sugar in first. That way it would all dissolve in the hot liquid before he cooled it down with the cream.

This was another one of those things I’d had to learn to let go over the last decade. My timer went off and I poured myself another mug, taking a sip to wipe the memory of Dusty’s atrocity from my mind.

“So what are you planning on today?” Dusty asked.

I pulled out my phone to check my calendar, ignoring Dusty’s snort of amusement. Yes, I was a slave to my calendars and schedules, but with the schedule I kept, if I didn’t have some way to keep track of it, I’d lose my mind completely. “It’s been two weeks since I cleaned the Keurig, so I’ll probably do that.”

“You realize—”

“That the manufacturer’s guidelines say it only needs to be done every three to six months, yes. You only bring it up every time. But I don’t trust them. Have you seen the reports on how dirty those things are? If you’re going to insist on using one, the least I can do is make sure you don’t die from e. coli or botulism.”

“Would you be interested in running away to a late lunch?”

“Sounds like a date.” I smiled.

Before getting caught up on my home chores, I sorted through my email to see if there was anything important that needed my attention, both somewhat relieved and disappointed there was no news from the surrogacy clinic. While Dusty had talked me into the idea, I was still apprehensive at bringing a child into our lives. We had a good thing going, and I was content. But Dusty wasn’t, and if Dusty wasn’t content, then we weren’t content. Dusty’s desire hadn’t waned or changed in the last five years, so any hope or thought I had of it being a passing whim had definitely faded. And I’d come around to the idea. Mostly. And there was a chance it wouldn’t work out, even though we were both prepared to chase the opportunity with everything we had should it finally appear.

I was up to my elbows in suds, washing the removable pieces of the Keurig before putting it through a vinegar wash, when my phone rang. I debated letting it go to voicemail, but there were very few people who had my number. Of that small group, even fewer called instead of sending a text: work, my parents, and Dusty. I wasn’t on reserve, so it was unlikely it was work, and Dusty was heads down in projects, which probably meant my parents. I let the pieces fall to the bottom of the sink and dried my hands off quickly.

To my surprise, it was a number I didn’t recognize. “Hello?” I answered cautiously.

“Mr. Harris?” It was an unfamiliar female voice. “I have wonderful news...”