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“Better than expected. Yeah, November fourth. I took him home from the hospital the next day, and we’ve been baching it ever since. Haven’t we, Ranger?” Trace glides a gentle finger over his son’s cheek.

As the boy gurgles, the love on Trace’s face is so obvious and naked. I frown, trying to understand my reaction. I’m both envious of his son yet determined not to have one of my own? I can’t remember ever being this contradictory. I see things one way. It is or it isn’t. It’s light or dark. It’s black or white. It’s up or down. Nothing lies in the middle, and I never find myself of two minds about anything.

Except…I’m conflicted about having a child.

Keeley rises from her chair and elbows her husband, who gets to his feet, too. Soon, Trace has a place at the table, a cold beer, and a plate of food. He sits to eat while everyone passes his son around, bouncing him in their arms while making nonsensical sounds and comical faces for the infant’s entertainment.

I push away my plate, any semblance of appetite gone. Before I can make an excuse and leave the scene, Griff turns to me, bundle of boy in hand. “You want to hold him?”

A big “no” sits on my tongue, ready to snap out like the crack of a whip. But everyone is staring at me, most wearing expressions of pity. They know that, if not for that rainstorm and the slick streets that April day in Seattle, I would have been a father by now. And they’ve all pegged me as concealing emotional wreckage I don’t comprehend. If I refuse to hold Ranger, it will confirm their suspicions.

That bothers me. I’m not sure why. But it’s a feeling, so it isn’t real. I try to shake the annoying emotion away. But all the usual methods of focusing—mentally solving complex math problems, reciting the periodic table, or writing JavaScript in my head—aren’t working.

The silence in the room seems oppressive. I’m aware of every eye on me, especially Nia’s. I look at my brother holding the baby out to me, then the boy’s little face. I swallow. I sweat.

I can’t do it.

Scraping my chair against the floor, I stand. “No, thank you. Excuse me.”

It’s unreasonable and foolish to flee the table. Ranger is a human being, as is everyone else in the room, just a smaller version. What harm could come from holding him?

I don’t know. I simply know the thought of doing it is more than I can manage. I haven’t been blindsided by this kind of crushing tumult in months. Why is it back now, pressing down on my chest?

Once I’ve trekked out of the dining room and onto the patio, I drag in the scent of sunshine-filled salt, listen to the crashing waves, and head toward the beckoning ocean, desperately seeking my personal homeostasis.

What the hell happened just now? I really don’t know.

“Evan?” Nia wraps soft fingers around my shoulder.

I stiffen, wishing she wasn’t touching me while I feel so weak. Her gentle caress dissolves my composure even faster. This turmoil makes no sense, and the last thing I want to do is face her or try to explain why my mood is so foul. Why I didn’t want to hold the baby.

“Go finish your dinner,” I say finally, keeping my back to her. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And I’m not leaving you to grieve alone.”

“I’m not grieving.” Am I?

She sighs. “You don’t like to admit to having feelings, I know. They don’t make sense to you, but⁠—”

“The only feeling I’m having is regret that a different decision on my part might have meant Becca and my child would be here with me.”

“You don’t know that. If you’d gone with them, you might have died, too.”

I pause for long minutes. I don’t want to talk about this. But I know Nia. She won’t drop the subject simply because I want her to. My better bet is to reassure her that nothing is wrong. I’d much rather have her apply her mental energy toward deciding she should marry me.

“I’ve had similar thoughts. Maybe you’re right. Obviously, we’ll never know.”

“We won’t. I know you miss them, and I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry I can’t be the woman you want to celebrate Thanksgiving with, but I’ll do whatever I can to cheer you up.”

I cast her a frown over my shoulder. “You are the woman I want to be with.”

As soon as the words are out, I realize I’ve admitted—both to Nia and myself—that I would rather be sharing today with her than my late wife. It shocks me. So does the realization that I meant what I said.

I whip my stare back out to the foaming blue waves. Nia may not be able to see my face, but I can’t hide the truth. As time has marched on, Becca has faded from my memory. I can’t recall her scent anymore. I can no longer recollect the exact blue of her eyes. Weeks ago, I heard a woman in the office with a laugh much like hers…then second-guessed myself. Had Becca sounded like that at all?

“Evan, I want to be here with you, too. I want to be here for you.” Nia squeezes my shoulder, her voice so soft I barely feel it slicing me open. “I know you’re hurting.”

“I’m just in an odd mood. Join the others. I’ll be inside soon.”