“I’m great. The baby kicked for the first time,” I say, and I can’t help it—I burst into a grin.

Trey’s eyes light up. “Are you serious?”

Standing, I reach for his palm and lay it on my belly. He waits and waits, and soon he’s rewarded with the tiniest of kicks, too. He smiles so wide it’s like sunshine lighting up the world, and if we were alone I know he’d fall to his knees and kiss my belly.

Then there’s a broken sob, a wail cut short, and Trey’s mom bolts. She heads down the hall into her office and slams the door. I don’t even wait for Trey or his dad to react. I listen to my gut, and my gut says to go to her.

I rap once on the door. “Mrs. Westin? May I come in?”

I hear nothing, so I take the lack of a no as a yes. I turn the handle and open the door, and I find her sunk down in her leather chair, her face in her hands. I grab another chair, and pull up next to her. Her shoulders are shaking, and she’s trying so hard to be quiet, but her tears aren’t silent as she likely wants them to be.

I pat her knee tentatively, rubbing it once, twice. She doesn’t shirk or pull away. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“I imagine this must be hard for you. I know it was hard for Trey, at first.”

More shaking, more tears. I inch closer, and rub her shoulder. Seconds pass, and soon they pool into minutes. But her crying slows, her tears settle, and she manages to speak, even though her head still hangs low. “Are you eating right?”

“Yes. I’m a very healthy eater.”

“Are you taking folic acid?”

“I am.”

“And did you get an ultrasound?”

“I did. The baby looks great. I have a very good doctor, and he said everything is going well.”

“Just because it’s going well doesn’t guarantee anything,” she whispers.

“I know. But that’s okay. The only way to do this is one day at a time.”

“Are you sleeping enough? Getting rest?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do anything to put strain on your body,” she adds.

“I won’t.”

Then she looks up, and her eyes are red, and her cheeks are stained, but at least she’s meeting my eyes. “Do you know what you’re having?”

I shake my head. “We decided not to find out.”

“Have you picked out names?”

I shake my head again. “We can’t seem to agree,” I say, laughing. “I like Tom and Henry for a boy, but Trey says they are too traditional. He likes Walker and Travis.”

“What about for a girl?”

“We can’t seem to agree on that, either. What names do you like for girls?”

She presses her lips together tightly, and I can tell she’s trying to rein in another round of tears. She pushes through, speaking quickly. “Allison. That was the name we picked out for a girl.”

I smile. “I like that name.” Then my eyes widen because there he or she goes again. My baby is riding a rollercoaster in my tummy. “I think the baby is doing dives.”

Sadness and memories flood her green eyes. “That was my favorite part,” she says in a choppy whisper.

I reach for her hand, bring it to my belly and place her palm on her grandchild growing inside me.

Her voice breaks again, but she doesn’t move her hand. She keeps it firmly on my stomach, feeling the baby kick against her hand.

The tears are unleashed once more. But this time they aren’t only laced with pain; they are mixed with hope.

Harley

The plane touches down and the sky is bursting with blue, dripping the crystal color from above us.

I turn to Trey, and I can’t hide my excitement. I’m tapping my foot, and squeezing his hand, and smiling so wide.

“A little excited, are you?”

I nod. “Oh, god, I hope they like me.”

He rolls his eyes. “They already like you. They already love you.”

“They don’t know me. They can’t love me,” I say.

After the plane taxis to the jetway, I practically bolt out of my seat, but I’m not going anywhere since we’re all milling about in the aisle.

I motion for Trey to come closer. “Should I pull the pregnancy card?” I joke. “Pregnant lady. Let her through.”

He laughs. “We need to save that one. Milk it for when you’re basketball size.”

He gently runs his hand over my belly and plants a kiss on my cheek. This has become his new normal. Ever since we’ve been together, he’s had his hands all over me. He still touches me all the time, but now he also touches my stomach, runs his hand over the swell of my belly, and waits patiently for kicks. I love watching him change, seeing him start to embrace how our lives are transforming. And because I am an emotional beast, and the hormones swirling in my body make me more so, I lean into him as he scoots into the aisle, and I whisper in his ear, “You’re going to make a great dad.”

I am rewarded with a smile, and then he gestures in front of me as the line starts to move. He carries both our bags, and soon we’re off the plane and heading toward the terminal. My insides are a cocktail of nerves and hope, as they jostle with each other for space in me. I run through a million what if scenarios. What if we have nothing to say? What if it’s weird or awkward? What if they don’t like me?

The nerves intensify as we walk, and he holds my hand tighter, especially when a businessman in a suit nearly bumps into us as he flies by in a race to catch his plane. Announcements of departures and arrivals, of delays and last-minute gate changes, crackle overhead. We near the security checkpoint, and there are throngs of people on the other side, all waiting, craning their necks.

But then, soon enough, I see them. Debbie and Robert look just like the picture on the cafe website, smiling and happy and holding hands. There’s a moment when I wonder if I’m supposed to run to them like in the movies. We’ll embrace, tears will streak down our faces and it’ll be a Kodak moment, a family reunion. But instead, I simply walk up to them and say, “Hi, I’m Harley.”

And Debbie throws her arms around me. “Oh, sweetie. It is so good to see you again.”

She smells like oranges, and her blond hair is springy and streaked with the sun. Though I hardly remember when I was six, something about this just feels . . . familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

Especially when I see her T-shirt. It’s black with a neon blue cartoonish sketch of a chipmunk.

“I like your shirt. I have the same one.”

“You have excellent taste,” Debbie declares and wraps an arm around me. “And I hope you’ll forgive me for not dressing my age.”

“Forgiveness given,” I say, and I can’t stop smiling because this is so much easier than I’d thought it would be. It’s like we slid right into a natural rhythm.

Trey clears his throat.

“Oops!” I turn around, grab his arm, and introduce him.

“And this, obviously, is Trey,” I say. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“And as I understand, he’s also responsible for that,” Robert says, pointing at my belly. He smirks and laughs, and Trey joins in, too.

“Yes, sir,” Trey says. “I am indeed responsible for that.”

Trey extends a hand and the men shake, and I notice Robert has a tattoo on his bicep. Trey shakes his head, as if he’s seen a mirage. But nope, my grandfather sports ink on his arm.

“You have a tattoo of a typewriter,” Trey says, his voice all staccato with surprise.

“Observant fellow, too,” Robert quips, and I think I might be in love with my grandfather’s dry humor already.

Debbie rolls her eyes. “Watch out for this one, he’s a jokester.”

“Duly noted.”

Then Robert returns his attention to Trey. “Yes, I got this hideous thing many moons ago in a galaxy far, far away.”

“I gotta tell ya, I’ve seen a lot of tats, and done plenty, but I’ve never seen a typewriter tattoo. What made you get that?”

“Let me tell you the story,” Robert says, and we all start walking out of the airport. “I was a journalism student in college. Thought I was going to be a sports reporter. Travel with the team. Write about every single pitch. Devise fantastic analogies and compelling stories about baseball and how it breaks your heart. So, one night, feeling all bold and brash, I got a little drunk, and got myself a typewriter tattoo. Like it was some kind of emblem, a symbol of my future.”