Zachary and Violet move toward the cake together, and I watch his hand settle over hers on the knife handle.
The photographer circles them, capturing angles and moments that neither of them seems ready to acknowledge. There's something in the way they stand—too close and not close enough—that makes the entire room feel like it's holding its breath.
"Are you ready, Zachary?" Violet's voice carries across the space.
"Ready," Zachary confirms, and they press down together.
The knife slides through white fondant, and when they lift the first slice free, blue spills out like revelation.
The room erupts.
But I stop hearing anything except the roar of my own blood because I'm looking at Jake and he's looking at me and for one perfect moment nothing else exists.
A son.
We're having a son.
The reality hits me—this tiny person growing inside me will be half cowboy, half Manhattan legacy, and I have no idea how to reconcile those two worlds inside one child's body, inside one child's life.
"A boy!" Maria's voice breaks through my shock, pulling me back. "Jake, you're having a son!"
Jake's hand finds mine, squeezes hard enough that I feel his terror matching my own.
"Congratulations," Zachary says, moving toward us with that careful smile he wears when he's being professionally appropriate. "This is wonderful news."
"We need to start thinking about names," Tommy announces, grinning like he's already made executive decisions. "Something strong. Western. None of that trendy Manhattan nonsense."
"Trendy Manhattan nonsense?" I raise an eyebrow, finding my voice again. "You mean like culture and sophistication?"
"I mean like naming a kid after a compass direction or a fruit," Tommy counters. "This boy needs a name with weight. Something that means something."
"Family tradition matters too," Maria adds gently, looking at me. "Your grandfather's name was Samuel. That's strong and classic."
Jake's jaw tightens, and I recognize the expression—fear wearing consideration's mask.
"He could be anything," Paige says, her tone light but loaded. "Maybe he'll be a rodeo champion like his dad. Following in those famous footsteps."
Jake's face does something complicated, and the photographer's shutter clicks rapid-fire, catching whatever truth he's not ready to speak.
"Or he could be whatever he wants to be," I hear myself say, and my voice carries an edge I didn't plan. "Without everyone deciding his entire future before he's even born."
The room goes quiet for half a second, then Tommy laughs like I've made a joke.
"Fair point," he concedes. "Kid deserves options."
Jake squeezes my hand tighter, and I know he's feeling what I'm feeling—that these competing visions of our son's future feel more like a battleground than celebration.
"Baby shower time!" Violet claps her hands together, breaking the tension with determined enthusiasm. "Everyone grab a gift and pass it to Adison."
Suddenly there are packages everywhere—wrapped in blue and silver, tied with ribbons that catch the light. The physical proof that this child is already loved by more than just his parents lands in my lap like evidence I'm not sure how to process.
I open the first box and tiny clothes spill out. A onesie that says "Mama's Baby" in script so small I have to squint to read it. A miniature flannel shirt that looks like something Jake would wear. Soft cotton pajamas covered in horses.
I hold them up, trying to picture my son wearing them, trying to imagine where he'll be wearing them.
Manhattan apartment or Texas ranch?
The question lodges in my throat like broken glass.
"These are perfect," I manage, and my voice sounds almost normal. "Thank you all so much."
More gifts follow—books and blankets and a stuffed horse from Tommy that's probably twice the size of what our son will be for his first year. Maria gives us a handmade quilt with both our initials stitched into corners, and I have to blink hard against tears that won't stop coming.
"Hormones," I explain, laughing through the crying. "I'm a disaster."
"You're perfect," Jake says quietly, and his certainty makes everything worse and better simultaneously.
The gifts keep coming, and I keep unwrapping, and the whole time I'm trying not to think about logistics. About where we'll keep all this. About whose home becomes our son's home.
"I'm starving," I announce suddenly, looking at the revelation cake still sitting on the table. "I need that cake. Now."
Everyone laughs, and the tension breaks enough that we can breathe again.
"Pregnant women get whatever they want," Violet declares, cutting generous slices. "It's the law."
We gather around the table, plates filling with blue-layered cake that tastes like sugar and celebration, and for a few minutes it feels easy. Normal. Like we're just people enjoying dessert together.
Then Paige asks the question that detonates everything.
"So where will you raise the baby?" She means it innocently, conversationally. "Manhattan or Texas?"
The words fall like bombs into peaceful territory.
Jake's fork stops halfway to his mouth.
Violet's eyes dart between us with sudden understanding.
Zachary goes very still, a professional mask sliding into place.
"We're still discussing it," I say, and the steadiness in my voice costs me everything. Every ounce of control I've been hoarding since we cut that cake. "There are factors to consider on both sides."
My hand finds Jake's under the table, and he doesn't squeeze back.
Just sits there, silent, holding his fork like it's evidence he's supposed to know how to interpret.
"Both places have advantages," Tommy offers carefully, reading the room. "Good schools in Manhattan. Fresh air in Texas."
"Family in both locations," Maria adds. "Support systems."
But Jake says nothing at all.
His silence is an answer and a weapon and a confession, and I feel something crack in my chest that I didn't know could break.
The photographer's shutter clicks once, twice, capturing the moment joy turned to fracture. The evidence that love doesn't solve logistics. The proof that sometimes wanting each other isn't enough.
"The cake is delicious," I say into the quiet, forcing brightness into my tone. "Violet, you outdid yourself."
"Thanks," she manages, but her voice carries the weight of witnessing something she wishes she hadn't seen.
We eat in careful silence, and I taste nothing except the metallic edge of fear.
Because we're having a son. And we still don't know where he'll call home.