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Me: Easy for you to say. You probably have an actual closet full of options. I have jeans and approximately eleven pairs of yoga pants.

Jagger: Now hold on. You can't just drop that on a man and expect him to move past it.

Me: Drop what?

Jagger: The yoga pants information. I need a minute.

A laugh escapes me.

Me: You're ridiculous.

Jagger: I'm serious, Lainey. A man needs time to properly appreciate that mental image. What's your favorite position? I'm a big fan of downward dog.

Me: I'm hanging up.

Jagger: This is a text conversation. You can't hang up on a text.

Me: Watch me.

I open the front door and go inside.

Mama's pacing the house with Charlie, moving her from side to side.

"Is she okay?" I ask, rushing over to them.

"Of course she is," Mama answers.

Relief hits me. I take her and hold her close. "Hey, sweetie."

Charlie curls into my neck. The warm feeling I always get whenever she does that reappears.

I spend the next hour with Charlie and Mama, then leave the room to get ready. I shower, dry my hair, put on makeup, and stare at the clothes in my closet. I pick up my phone again.

Me: Okay, but seriously. Jeans? Something else? I need actual guidance here.

Jagger: Anything.

Me: Do you enjoy the mother of your child stressing out?

Jagger: Jeans are perfect. Wear the ones you like. I promise you this isn't the kind of place where anybody's going to be measuring your outfit against a dress code.

Me: You sure?

Jagger: Lainey. I could not care less what you wear. I just want to hang out with you without a diaper bag, your mama, or my family between us. That's the whole plan. Stop worrying. It's low-key where we're going.

Me: Fine. But if I show up underdressed, I'm blaming you.

Jagger: You won't be. Pick you up at six.

I set the phone down, exhale, and immediately start rifling through the closet like Jagger's reassurance never happened at all.

By five thirty, I've tried on and discarded four different combinations. I finally settle on my dark jeans, a purple top I bought before I got pregnant and never had an occasion to wear, and my nice black boots. I curl my hair, swipe on lip gloss, and stand in front of the mirror second-guessing every choice I've made in the last hour.

My reflection looks steadier than the nerves twisting under my ribs. I run my fingers through the curls, turning them into loose waves. Then I twist to the side and assess the top, which fits my curves perfectly.

"You look beautiful," Mama says from the doorway with Charlie balanced on her hip.

I lock eyes with her through the glass.