Page 1 of The Write Choice

Prologue

Katie

Seven Years Ago

No one really talks about the routine you fall into when you have a baby. Maybe no one falls into a routine with a baby. I can certainly see how that could be the case, but I don’t have many mom-friends to compare notes with. I don’t have many friends left at all, actually, but that’s something everyone does tell you. Anyone who has ever delivered, adopted, or interacted with a baby will tell you that your friendships are about to change. And by “change,” they mean disappear. That’s been the case for me, at least. I haven’t seen my work friends since my maternity leave from the art gallery started. I haven’t seen my out-of-work friends since I got pregnant and stopped drinking.

When I think about it, I know that should probably bother me. I’m almost thirty years old, and the only friends I had were ones I worked or drank with. But I’m so damn happy. Happy doesn’t even seem like a big enough word to describe what I’m feeling. I have this perfect baby, right here in my arms. He coos at me in little baby noises I thought only existed in sound effects on television shows. He sleeps on my chest, his tiny weight calming my heart.

He doesn’t care that his dad knocked me up after a hot-and-heavy week where we did very little except drink wine and fuck. He doesn’t care that, a few months before that, I had taken to stocking my purse with airplane bottles of vodka just in case life got too stressful. He doesn’t care that it took a positive pregnancy test for me to realize that my relationship with alcohol was problematic. He doesn’t care that I have no idea how I’m going to support him and me and keep this New York City apartment on gallery commissions alone.

He just wants to eat, sleep, and make precious baby noises. And I just want to be here for all of it.

Baby Mason’s eyes started gray but have been slowly shifting closer to hazel. They’re his father’s eyes, and it’s jarring every time I see them. I don’t have a lot of formative memories of my parents—they were either working or exhausted for most of my childhood—but I do remember my mom telling me I have my dad’s eyes. I wonder if she felt a connection with my father every time she saw my eyes, too. But I can’t ask either of them, since they both passed away when I was in college.

Mason opens his mouth for a big yawn, stretching his little arms and scrunching up his tiny face as he wakes up. I know without a doubt that he’ll be hungry now because that’s the routine. Sleep, wake, feed, be adorable, rinse, and repeat. Sure enough, he starts rooting around with his little mouth, looking for my nipple. I unclip my bra and oblige, settling into the surprisingly strong pull of his baby lips and the sound of him gulping milk.

Then, like clockwork, my apartment buzzer sounds. I open the lobby door with the keypad on my phone, then text Brandon that the door is unlocked. Every day after work, he brings us dinner and sits with the baby so I can shower or fold laundry or take a minute to myself. But recently, he’s been staying longer. Last night, he watched a movie with me even though I fell asleep halfway through. Twice last week, he and I stayed up late to talk—mostly about nothing important. We just lost track of time.

“You’re not in the safest part of the city. I don’t love you keeping this door unlocked if I’m not around,” Brandon’s voice comes from behind me as soon as he’s inside. He sets plastic bags on the table. The smell of the food makes my stomach rumble.

He can’t see my face, but I roll my eyes anyway. “What does you being around have anything to do with it?”

“I could defend my son if I were here,” he insists, coming to sit next to me on the couch. “And you, of course.”

“Of course.” I raise an eyebrow. Mason, apparently satisfied or maybe recognizing Brandon’s voice, pops off my breast and looks up at us. I clip my bra back where it belongs and pull my shirt down quickly. Brandon has seen it all, obviously, but it still feels a little weird. I hand him the baby and a burp cloth. He tosses the cloth over his shoulder and rests the baby on top of it, patting his back. Mason is growing quickly, but Brandon’s huge hands still cover more than his entire back. It’s a sweet sight, this gentle giant and his teeny baby. I settle back into the couch with a little sigh.

“You can go do whatever you need,” he says.

I lean the back of my head against the couch cushion as I watch him burp the baby. They look so good together. So peaceful. Brandon looks happy, too, but he always looks happy. Even before Mason came along, he was a jolly guy. But, at five years younger than me, he still has a lot of youthful exuberance. I have to hand it to him, though; unexpectedly becoming a young father hasn’t done anything to dampen his natural joy. Maybe having more money than he knows what to do with helps. I wouldn’t know what that’s like.

“I think I want to stay on the couch for a while with you two,” I say without thinking. Then, I quickly add, “If that’s okay?”

Impossibly, Brandon’s expression turns even more joyful. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s made it very clear he’s not coming here every day just for the baby. In fact, every day he asks me to marry him, and every day I tell him I have no interest in a marriage borne of an accidental pregnancy. I assure him he can be in our lives as much or as little as he wants, but I’m not marrying someone just because I got knocked up, and that’s that.

“Yeah, that’s okay.” His voice is eager. Mason lets out a loud burp. “Good one, buddy!”

I laugh, and Brandon’s eyes light up. We hold each other’s gaze for longer than usual, and I start to get warm and tingly. I thought that was something that happens only in books and movies, but apparently it’s real, and it has been happening more and more. Maybe it’s me coming down from the pregnancy hormones.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

I clear my throat, grasping at anything other than the feeling between my thighs. “Can you watch Mason next Thursday at five? For an hour or so.”

“Sure. Are you going out or something?” He tries to hide the jealousy in his voice, but the edge of it is clear enough.

I fight a smile at his envy. “Um, I thought it would be a good idea to see a therapist? I wasn’t sure about…” I trail off, not sure how much I want to tell him. He turns to me, as if he’s soaking up everything I’m saying, and that expression helps me continue. “Well, about the drinking. I want to stay sober. For Mason, I think. So, I guess I wanted to talk to someone about it?” My voice kicks up at the end like a question. It’s the first time I’ve told anyone about this, and it feels awkward to say out loud.

Brandon doesn’t take his eyes off Mason as he asks, “You really think you need to? You said you’ve been fine without it so far.”

My mind wanders to the half-empty whiskey bottle stored in the back of a cabinet above the fridge. I haven’t touched it since I found out I was pregnant, but I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away either. And, lately, I’ve been thinking about it more and more.

“Yes,” I say with a firmness I’m not quite certain of. Fake it till you make it, I guess.

His gaze meets mine. “I think that’s great, Cat.” He’s so sincere. It immediately soothes me. My shoulders relax, and I let out a slow breath, nodding.

Brandon gently rests the baby on top of his thighs, then holds his fingers out. Mason grabs them, squeezing and relaxing his little fists over and over again. Brandon moves one hand to wiggle his fingers, and the baby is completely enthralled. His eyes are wide, taking in the pads of Brandon’s fingertips dancing just above him.

The corners of Mason’s mouth turn up, and I straighten to lean closer. I’ve seen him smile before, of course, but it’s still so new. I don’t want to miss a second of it. My cheek brushes lightly against Brandon’s upper arm, and I don’t move it away.