Chelsea laughs. Then walks over when Regan calls her to look at puppy-covered notebooks.
“I’m booored,” Ronan whines from his seat in my cart.
“We’re almost done.”
“This sucks.” He frowns.
“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” I tell him in my best “parental” voice. “It’s not a nice word.”
His devil-cute blue eyes meet mine. “But it does suck.”
I hold back a grin. Because I have a weakness for the pure honesty kids have at his age—before they learn to weigh their words or shadow their opinions.
I rub his head, messing up his thick blond hair. “Yeah, it does.”
****
That afternoon, I bite the bullet and stick my head through Riley’s bedroom door—she’s lying on her bed, phone in hand.
“Hey.”
She plucks an earbud from her ear. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Got a second?”
Her long-lashed eyes narrow. “I didn’t do it.”
Preemptive denial—always suspicious.
“Do what?”
“Whatever you want to talk to me about. It wasn’t me.”
“Noted.” I jerk my head toward the spare bedroom. “Come on.”
She gets up and follows, throwing her brown curly hair up into a messy bun. We walk into the yellow-walled spare bedroom a few doors down the hall, and I close the door behind us. Riley sits on the bed with a half-annoyed sigh—like I’m wasting her precious time. As if there weren’t a hundred other things I’d rather be doing—like getting a root canal without Novocain.
I cross my arms, look at her, and imagine I’m in court, talking to a witness. Calm, cool, and steady—that’s my job. And I’m fucking good at it.
“So . . . you and Peter . . . how’s that going?”
Her brow wrinkles. “Uh, fine?”
“Six months is a long time in high school years.”
“I guess.”
“Is that like a candy anniversary?”
And now she looks even more weirded out. “What are you talking about, Jake?”
“Okay, here’s the deal—your aunt and I have noticed that you and Peter seem . . . pretty serious. And . . . we want to make sure you’re being safe.”
The last word hangs heavy in the air. Like one of Cousin It’s rancid dog farts.
Riley’s face turns a startling shade of fire-engine red. “Oh my God. Is this really happening?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know, I know, it’s fucking awful.” Then I open my eyes and tell her the bare honest truth. “But this is important, Riley.”
Her eyes hit the floor and she breathes out a quiet, “Okay. But I’ve already had the sex talk. Like, years ago, with my mom. I know about being safe.”
And there goes the eye roll—it was only a matter of time.
I nod. “Knowing isn’t the same as doing. Especially when you’re in high school.” I open the nightstand drawer and pull out the box of condoms inside it. “So, this is always going to be in here. For you to use. No questions asked. Me or your aunt will replace the box as needed—again, no questions asked, Riley.”
Trust me—those are answers I do not want to hear.
“Just to be clear, this isn’t us saying we’re okay with you having sex. This is us being realistic and wanting you to protect yourself . . . if and when you do.”
I put the condoms back in the drawer and lean against the wall, crossing my arms again, as Riley watches me.
“Some guys may try and give you a hard time about using condoms. And as a guy, I’m telling you straight up—screw them.”
The echo of my own words penetrates.
“I mean, don’t! Don’t screw them. Ever.”
Shit, I’m bad at this.
A quick, awkward chuckle pops out of Riley’s mouth.
I rub the scruff on my chin, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite and tell you to wait until you’re married . . .”
Though it’s very tempting.
“I just want you to remember . . . people can get hurt when they have sex before they’re ready. No one’s ever been hurt by waiting.”
She doesn’t say anything and I don’t really expect her to—but the contemplative look she’s wearing tells me everything she doesn’t say. She’s hearing me.
“And if anyone ever pressures you or hurts you . . .”
I will tie them to a tree and burn them alive.
“. . . if you ever have any questions or you’re wondering about something . . . you can talk to us. Me or your aunt—there’s nothing you can’t tell us. Got it?”
She nods. “Got it.”
I dip my chin. “Good.”
Riley stands up and we walk to the door. Halfway there, she pauses. “This was really open-minded of you, Jake. And I appreciate you and Aunt Chelsea, you know, swapping gender roles in this situation.”
Is that what we did?
“But . . . let’s never speak of this conversation again. Sound good?”
All the air rushes out of my lungs. “Jesus Christ, yes. Sounds great.”
She gives me a thumbs-up and a smile. It’s small and still really embarrassed, but it’s a smile.
“Awesome.”
****
The next morning, Chelsea and I are right back where we were a few weeks ago, sequestered in our bedroom, counting down the three-minute wait time to read the pee test. Chelsea’s more subdued this time, keeping a tight rein on her anticipation.
I sit on the bed, tapping out “Iron Man” on my legs. Anxiety is an uncommon feeling for me—but I’m feeling it now. Because, I want this. For her. Because it’ll make her so happy.
And I want it for me, too.
Chelsea pushes a reddish-brown lock behind her ear and stands before me. “It’s time. You want me to look?”
I grasp her hips and pull her between my legs, planting a kiss against her sternum.
“I’ll do it.”
This time around, when I step out of the bathroom, I do it smiling. Big and proud. Actually fucking giddy.
Chelsea doesn’t wait for me to say the words. She takes one look at my smile and throws herself straight into my arms.
Because we are well and truly knocked up.
Chapter 4
November
It’s a good thing the sex was so abundant before Chelsea got pregnant. It made the weeks that followed—when the pussy party came to a sad, screeching halt—a lot easier to bear. It was the exhaustion that got to her first. It hit Chelsea like a freight train—not even my mouth between her legs could wake her up.
I didn’t take it personally.
Then the puking started. Morning sickness would strike in the afternoon, which—big-picture-wise—was for the best. Because most afternoons she was at the museum, which made keeping the news from the kids a lot easier. Not telling them, until after we were sure everything was up and running, was a decision Chelsea and I made together. One in five pregnancies ends in miscarriage during the first trimester—and if that tragedy happened to us, and the kids knew, we’d be opening a whole can of ugly worms that we didn’t want to go anywhere near.
So, for the first few months, we didn’t tell anyone. I went with her to the first doctor’s appointment. Chelsea cried when she heard the heartbeat, and cried harder during the first ultrasound.
I didn’t. Seeing a gray blob on a screen and hearing a whoosh-whoosh sound didn’t do anything to me. Didn’t make any of it real.
I kept that to myself though. Because I’m not a fucking idiot.
****
“So . . . I have big news.”
It’s a mild, sunny Thursday afternoon and me, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia are having lunch at a bar and grill a couple blocks from our building. Brent leans forward on his elbows as he makes this proclamation, his mischievous baby blues landing on each of us to make sure we’re paying attention.
If Peter Pan ever decided to grow up, I imagine he’d lo
ok a lot like Brent. He’s always had this carefree, spontaneous attitude—and getting married a year and a half ago only brought that out in him more. Because now he’s got a partner in crime.
Brent and Kennedy travel a lot on the weekends: white-water rafting, skydiving, Antiques Roadshow hunting—they’ve done it all.
With a smile that won’t be stopped, he announces, “Kennedy’s pregnant.”
Sofia squeals, her long dark hair swaying as she pops up and pulls Brent into a bear hug. Stanton raises his glass, and I reach across the table and slap Brent on the back.
“Congratulations.”
“That’s awesome, man.”
I lean back in my chair with a smirk. “How’d your mother take the news? Did she spontaneously combust?”
Mrs. Mason has been looking forward to a grandchild since Brent hit puberty.