“What we’re all going to do—even you, Linda—Linda, eyes up here!” My mom, along with everyone else attending my baby shower, laughs at Whitney’s performance, the room filling with the happy sound. “We’re all going to guess how big Summer’s belly is.” Whitney looks over in my direction and raises one eyebrow. “I know. She’s in love with this idea.”

Seated behind Whit in the place of honor, my belly on prominent display in a pink maternity sundress, I roll my eyes at her announcement.

“I have already taken the measurement, so this won’t be embarrassing for Summer—” More laughter follows. “The guest with the closest guess wins a gift card to Sephora. If you’re a nice person, you’ll take this lovely pregnant woman with you.”

Whitney totally transformed the idea of my baby shower from a yellow celebration of gender-neutral everything to a pink explosion, and she did it inside of a week. I’d be impressed if I didn’t feel so pregnant, and I still have six weeks to go.

Six long weeks.

Another Braxton Hicks contraction squeezes at my belly, tightening down over baby girl. Baby Girl Sullivan, reads the name on her ultrasound pictures. Baby Girl Sullivan. That’s all fine and good, but I want her to have Dayton’s last name.

I want to have Dayton’s last name.

As for first names…

More and more these days, I feel my mind slipping into daydreams. It’s getting harder to sleep, what with the extra weight on my torso and the heartburn, so whenever my mind wanders during the day, the images come. Holding the baby in my arms. Whispering to her. Calling her… what? What am I calling her?

I didn’t have a name picked out when I first learned I was pregnant, and I still don’t have a short list.

What if it doesn’t turn out?

The doubt whispers the warning at the back of my mind and I shiver. The A/C is barely turned up high enough to keep me cool in my current state, but the sun on my back feels hot. I can’t win.

What if it doesn’t, though? The fight with Day earlier this week shook me to my core. Things seemed okay after the ultrasound, but when we were outside, back in the light of day, I saw a stiffness, a tension, that hasn’t gone away. He’s thinking about something, and he won’t tell me what it is.

It sets me on edge.

A cheer goes up, and I realize the game is over. One of my college friends, Mindy, has won the gift certificate, and she comes to the front of the room and throws her arms around my neck, promising to take me to Sephora anytime I’d like.

“No need,” I tell her. “Enjoy it for yourself.” The thought of standing in Sephora—or standing anywhere, for that matter—for long enough to make a purchase makes my entire soul feel fatigued.

After the games, there’s a round of picture-taking. Each of the shower guests swirl around me in different combinations, placing their hands on my pregnant belly. They’re tender about it, and despite the fact that I do not want to stand for any longer than necessary, it fills me with a kind of sisterly glow.

My mom is last in line.

“I don’t know if she’s excited,” I told Whitney on the phone last weekend. The two of them planned the shower together at a reception hall outside the city. “She never liked Dayton’s family.” She never seemed to dislike Dayton, but I was a kid. What the hell do I know?

“Sunny, stop. She’s thrilled. It’s her first grandbaby! She wouldn’t care if this baby was the product of a steamy one-night stand.”

“In a way…”

“Ha. If that was a one-night stand, then I’m in a lot of happy relationships right now.”

We’re happy. We’re happy. I repeat the words to myself over and over again. I can ignore that this current state of happiness is a temporary peace treaty. I can feel Day drawing part of himself away from me, even now. And he’s not here.

“Oh, baby girl,” my mom says softly, asking me permission with her eyes to touch my belly. I nod to her, and she puts both hands against the swell under my dress. “Oh! That was a kick!”

“She’s strong.” My mom beams, then turns me gently toward the photographer.

“A picture with my girl.”

The camera clicks. “Ugh. This angle is terrible, Mom. Take another one so I don’t look like a beached whale.”

“Only temporary, daughter mine. And you don’t look like a beached whale. You look beautiful.”

Whitney stands behind the photographer, inviting everyone to eat. My mom kisses me on the temple and moves to return to her role as co-hostess. I grab her hand at the last second.

She turns, worry creasing her forehead. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I mean, my feet hurt, but—” I laugh nervously, then turn her away from the guests, our backs making a protective shield, the baby wedged between us. “Mom.” I’m suddenly desperate for her approval. It’s stupid. It’s too late to change anything now, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. “Are you okay with this?”

She glances over our shoulders. “The party’s beautiful, Sunny. Everyone’s having a great time. Why? Did someone say something?”

“No, not—not the party. This.” I put my hand on my belly. “With Dayton.”

I’ve been afraid to say his name, to invoke any judgment. I don’t want that. Not today.

“Summer.”

I look up into my mom’s eyes. Blue, just like mine.

Her expression has never been more serious.

“If you’re not happy,” she says slowly. “If he’s done anything to—”

I clutch her arm. “No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. I—” I shake my head, the words disappearing even as I try to say them. “I’m in love with him.” My heart beats hard against my rib cage. “But I don’t want to spend my life in a shadow.”

“What shadow?”

“If you—” I’m struggling for breath now, I’m so nervous. “If you hate him. If you hate that kind of person. I don’t want to ruin everything for you if that’s what—”

My mom faces me, taking my hands in hers. “Sunny, take a breath.”

I do.

“I’ve known Dayton almost as long as I’ve known Wes.” Her mouth curves upward into a fond smile. “He hasn’t always been on the straight and narrow, but what teenage boy doesn’t make mistakes?”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

Her eyes stay on mine, searching. “You’re an adult. If Dayton makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.” She shakes her head a little. “Those tattoos, though—” She saw them for the first time last night, when my parents took us out to dinner. It’s the first time they’ve been to the city since we moved in together. Both of them still work, so it’s not as if they’ve been avoiding it, but— “Those tattoos are something else.”

“I like them,” I tell her, and I honestly do. Tracing my fingers down the lines of them after sex is one of my favorite things.

“That’s all that matters.” She lets go of my hands and pulls me in for a hug. “Seriously, Summer, are you getting cold feet about moving in with him?”

I laugh out loud. “The last thing I have is cold feet. I just want—” I try to find the words to describe this feeling.

“You want peace before the baby comes,” my mom says sagely, and I’m more relieved than I’ve ever been. “He’s a good man, Summer. Let him be good to you.”

* * *

“I should have brought a bigger truck.” Dayton surveys the pile of gifts in the reception hall with a grin on his face. “These people must like you.”

It’s all lovely. All of it. But the size and shape of all these things makes anxiety rise into my throat. “They like me a little too much, I think.”

Dayton puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry about all of it,” he says softly. “We’ll go through it together.”

“He’s here!” My mom calls a greeting from the other end of the hall. All the other guests are gone. It’s just me, Whit, my mom, and Dayton. “Summer, sit down. You look like you’re about to have heat stroke. The rest of us will get this truck loaded.”

I watch out the window as they carry boxes and bags of every size out to the bed of the pickup truck Dayton rented just for this occasion. My mom says something to him and he laughs. My heart aches. It’s love and worry, all at once. I know we made up from our fight, but it still seems unresolved. Probably because that guy is still out there. And Dayton is still worried about it, even if he won’t tell me.

He carries another bag out, and halfway to the truck the handles break, spilling tiny onesies on the sidewalk. Dayton is alone, his dark hair shining in the sun, and he bends carefully to the ground, maneuvering around his prosthetic, picking each one up like it’s precious, irreplaceable.

Oh, my heart.

Those tiny clothes in his big hands.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I should quit. I’ll be taking maternity leave once our daughter is born. What’s the difference?

He stuffs the colorful onesies back into the bag and lifts it. Pain crosses his face as he stands up. Did he go to his appointment last week? Or did he reschedule it again?

I don’t know that Whitney is beside me until she speaks. “Look at that,” she says, and we both watch as Dayton crosses to the truck, opens the door, and tucks the bag carefully inside the cab. “He’s going to be a great dad.”

“Because he’s being careful with the onesies?” It’s a half-hearted joke.

She pats my shoulder and leans down to whisper into my ear. “Because he’s even careful with the onesies.”