I sigh again and switch to tapping my right foot. That story sounds lame even to me, but I've got time to work on it. By the time this kid has questions a few years will have passed and the details won't matter as much. It'll be so far in the past that they won't need to know that "not a good fit" really means "one-night stand," because "Daddy's got a killer smile and abs for days."

By the time this kid cares enough to ask it'll be such old news that the facts can be fudged a little. And hopefully Kyle will have gained forty pounds and lost his hair.

Fine, that was petty. He'll probably only have gotten hotter as he ages in that way that men do and I'll be happy for him in the way that nice people are.

Unless I have to bring a lawyer into this. Any story involving a lawyer is hard to spin into something romantic. Besides which, I can't even imagine how much that would cost and what a production it would turn into. I'm not interested in a production. I'm not a big production kind of girl.

I wonder if he remembers my name? Did I even give him my last name? I don't think I did. I imagine his legal council covering this with him in a weekly meeting and want to die. "One last item on the agenda, Mr. Kingston. A Miss Daisy Hayden would like to notify you that you're going to be a father. She's requesting that you take a refresher course on condom usage and also that you return her camera." Would that ring a bell? Or does he steal from all his one-night stands? Weirdo.

Rich asshole weirdo. I've heard of rich people who shoplift as some kind of thrill. I've heard of perverts taking underwear as some kind of kink. But taking my camera was just mean. It cost me four hundred dollars to replace it—and I lost a week’s worth of photos I hadn't downloaded yet. I met Kyle at the end of a tour and I'd had photos on that camera for a blog post I'd wanted to write about eating in Philadelphia for under twenty dollars. The guy's an heir to a retail empire, so surely he could afford to buy his own camera, and with a discount likely.

The worst part was that it hadn't even fazed me that badly. I'd once caught a guy I was dating taking money out of my wallet to pay for a pizza he'd ordered—without even asking. And he'd ordered a pizza with olives. I hate olives. Boyfriends who drank my last LaCroix or didn’t have pizza money were sort of the norm, so the camera-stealing had felt like a natural evolution. I deserve better, I know. I'm working on it.

I sigh as I exit the airport through a set of automatic doors. I'm usually in a cab within twenty minutes of a flight landing because I travel with nothing but a carry-on. I'm an expert at packing light and efficiently.

You know who can't pack light?

People with kids.

People with kids travel with two checked bags, a gate-checked stroller and a stuffed kitten named Colechester that cannot be lost under any circumstances unless you're looking for all hell to break loose, David.

Fine, that example might be specific to the family that was sitting in the row behind me on the flight from Chicago. But still. You know it's true.

Kids come with a plethora of crap. And they leave a trail of cheese-flavored crackers shaped like fish everywhere they go. They kick the back of airplane seats. They scream. Sometimes they toss one of those crackers at your head while their parents aren't looking because they've closed their eyes in exhaustion before the plane has even taken off.

They also wave and say hi in the sweetest baby voice imaginable. And they smile at you like you're in on some great joke together. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, they even offer to let you hold a slightly damp kitten named Colechester, so they can't be all bad.

I say a silent prayer that my kid will not be a seat-kicker. And that I'll be able to purchase a backup of their favorite toy. And embed a tracking device inside of it so if it's ever lost I can track it down. The toy, not the kid. I'm not gonna lose the kid.

Speaking of backup, mine is calling.

"Did you chicken out already?" I ask as I answer the phone while joining the line for cabs, my carry-on gliding smoothly behind me. I launch into a lecture-slash-pep-talk about how easy impersonating me at work will be while I join the line for a cab.

About that.

Plan B started with getting my sister out of my house. That sounds worse than it is. I love my sister. I love her more than anyone in the world, which is why I needed to protect her by getting rid of her.

Violet is my identical twin, and she's in a bit of a panic because I've asked her to fill in for me this week. Fine, if we're being technical about it I've asked her to impersonate me for the week. Which sounds worse than it is. Or maybe it is exactly as bad as it sounds? Sure, it's insane but it's also a really great idea.

I'm a tour guide for Sutton Travel. Or I was. Technically I still am, but my days are numbered. Not because I'm not a great tour guide. I am. My customer reviews are excellent. My employment file is squeaky clean and I love the job. Love it.

But.

It's not a job I can do with a kid. So tick-tock.

Now imagine having another person in the world who looks exactly like you. It'd be very short-sighted of you not to enjoy the benefits of that, wouldn't it? I think it would. For the record, it's not as though I've ever used the twin switcheroo with ill intent or for personal gain, except for that one time when we were thirteen and I convinced Violet to take a science test for me. We never did it again because it wasn't worth it. Sure, I got an A on the test, but Violet nearly combusted from the guilt and then forced me to memorize the periodic table so she could live with the deception. Which was a complete buzzkill. If I'd wanted to learn about the structure of matter I'd have paid attention in class, not gone through the trouble of switching clothing and backpacks with my sister in the school bathroom and then sending her to take the test in my place.

Anyway, the point is I only use twin switching for good, like a superpower. And this twin switch is for Violet, not for me. She doesn't quite realize that though, or she'd never have agreed to it. Tough love, I silently remind myself while emitting a loud sigh into the phone. "I'm so tired of your bullshit, Violet. Pull on your big-girl panties and just do it."

"Thanks, Daisy. That's a very nice thing to say."

"You're welcome. Look, no one is forcing you to do this. If you want to go back to my place and sulk on the couch for another six months you're welcome to it. In fact, take my room. I'm not home anyway."

Don't go back to my place, I silently implore her. I need her to get her groove back before she finds out about this baby. It's killing me not telling her, but it's for her own good. If she knew, she'd put my needs ahead of her own and I can't let that happen. Besides, I'm only asking her to take my place this once, not for the rest of this pregnancy. I just want to push her out of her comfort zone a little. She can get me fired this week for all it matters. If she doesn't, I'm putting in my notice as soon as she's done with this trip.

It's probably unnecessary to mention it, but Violet is the good twin. The responsible one. I'm not implying I'm the evil twin, not at all. I'm a good person and it's ridiculous to think that just because you have two of something one must be good and one bad. Life isn't black and white, people aren't black and white, not really. People are like mason jars filled with Skittles. A variety of flavors and feelings and tastes and colors. We all have a little good and a little bad inside of us. A little light and a little dark. It's what makes human behavior so hard to predict but equally fascinating.