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My phone dings with a text from Evan:
We’re almost home.
“All right, everyone!” I shout. “This is a surprise party, so hide as best as you can and get ready to yell, ‘Surprise!’”
Everyone does as I say, and the room grows surprisingly quiet.
The doors open, and Evan is the first to walk in.
I suck in a breath. Even after being with him for three years and receiving about 1,357 orgasms, the sight of him still makes my panties damp.
Reagan steps in next, and it could be my imagination, but I think he grew another inch in the few hours he was away. As luck would have it, his surfboard blocks his view, so I shout, “Now!”
“Surprise!” we all scream at the top of our lungs.
The yelling works a bit too well. Reagan is so startled that he accidentally smacks Boone on the head with the surfboard. Like something out of The Three Stooges routine, Boone waves his arms to regain his balance—and accomplishes it by grabbing one of Bonnie’s ample breasts, at which point she screams like a heretic in the hands of the Inquisition.
Balance regained—but not his dignity—Boone releases the boob, and Bonnie goes silent and beet red.
“Surprise?” everyone yells at Reagan weakly.
My son drops the errant surfboard at his feet and unleashes one of his weaponized boyish grins.
Everyone relaxes, and chaos reigns for the next few minutes as our guests congratulate him and shower him with gifts. Meanwhile, Evan makes his way to me and gives me a kiss that tastes like ocean, sunshine, and orgasms.
“Ready to unveil our big surprise?” he murmurs after pulling away.
All I really want is to chase Evan to our bedroom, but maternal duty comes first, so I nod.
Taking out his phone, Evan uses an Octothorpe app to wake the giant movie-theater-sized screen on the far wall, and the first picture in the slideshow we created appears. One that simply says, “And now for the gifts from Mom and Dad.”
Yep. For two years now, Reagan has been referring to Evan as Dad, and to this day, something melts in my chest every time I hear it. On some occasions, he also calls him Mr. Dad.
“Can I get everyone’s attention?” Evan says loudly.
Everybody quiets down.
I catch Reagan’s gaze. “Ready to see the first gift?”
“Yes!” Reagan’s eyes gleam.
I suspect he knows what it is because he’s been hinting very strongly at it for a few months now.
Evan shows the first slide, and lo-and-behold, it’s a picture of a jet ski.
Reagan squeals in glee and tackle-hugs Evan—because he’s probably guessed correctly that it was Evan who convinced me to allow my son this exorbitant and dangerous-seeming gift.
Evan actually bought three jet skis, so we can ride them together. We also agreed that Reagan will only go out on the jet ski with an adult, preferably one as good at swimming as Evan is (as opposed to myself who has a history of almost drowning).
When Reagan’s excitement dies down a little, he asks, “What’s the second gift?”
Ah. Right. “Remember all the times you’ve asked for a sister?” I ask with a smile.
It was always specifically a sister because—and I quote: “This way, I can protect her. Also, when she grows up, I can date one of her friends.”
At the word “sister,” my son’s eyes light up even brighter. Oh, and not surprisingly, all the attendees dart glances at my stomach, followed by disapproving looks at the champagne that I’m sipping.
“Meet Ariel,” I say and nod at Evan, who presses the button again, unleashing a new slideshow featuring the adorable three-year-old we’ve decided to foster with the goal of adoption.
