W OULD THE BABY BE RAISED by the both of you?” Celia asked. We were lying in bed, naked. My back was lined with sweat, my hairline damp. I rolled over onto my stomach and put my hand on Celia’s chest. The movie she was doing next was making her a brunette. I found myself transfixed by the golden red of her hair, desperate to know that they would dye it back properly, that she would return to me looking exactly like herself. “Yes,” I said. “Of course. It would be ours. We'd raise it together.” “And where would I fit into all of this? Where would John?” “Wherever you want to.” “I don’t know what that means.” “It means that we would figure it out as we go.” Celia considered my words and stared at the ceiling. “This is something you want?” Celia asked finally. “Yes,” I told her. “Very badly.” “Is it a problem for you that I have never . . . wanted that?” she asked. “That you don’t want children?” “Yes.” “No, I suppose not.” “Is it a problem for you that I cannot... that I cannot give you that?” Her voice was starting to crack, and her lips were starting to quiver. When Celia was on-screen and needed to cry, she would squint her eyes and cover her face. But they were fake tears, generated out of nothing, for nothing. When she really cried, her face remained painfully still except for the corners of her lips and the water brimming in her eyes that stuck to her lashes. “Honey,” I said, pulling her toward me. “Of course not.” “T just... I want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted, and you want that, and I can’t give it to you.” “Celia, no,” I said. “It’s not like that at all.” “It’s not?”