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Luckily, it’s as I expected, and Frankie produces a jar filled with holes from behind her back, setting it on a coffee table across the room. “Sorry, we’re late. We caught these all by ourselves.”
Oliver flicks grass off his shoulder. “Almost died wrestling one of them.”
Frankie collapses onto the sofa, hand over her forehead. “Zach told us crickets are a symbol of luck and a good omen for lots and lots of children.”
“I didn’t say to catch them.” I push Ollie away with a single index finger when his mud-crusted ass weasels by a little too close for comfort.
See? Passionate about hygiene.
Oliver peeks under the hospital bed. “Where’s the little addition to the family?”
Romeo dusts crumbs from his shirt with one hand and strokes Dallas’ head with the other. “On his way.”
Frankie rushes to the mini fridge in the corner, plucking two water bottles from inside.
She waves at her face. “My gosh. Am I the only one who’s super hot?”
Ollie pops his head up from beneath the bed like a groundhog. “To a nuclear point, baby.”
She hands him a Voss, and they chug them down.
“It’s pretty chilly.” Dallas screws her nose. “Then again, maybe that’s because I tore the skin between my vagina and rectum, so basically, I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey about to be filled with onions, sweet potatoes, and herbs.” She frowns. “God, that sounds delicious.”
Once Oliver collapses onto the sofa, the entire room descends into chaos. I sit in the corner, scrolling through my phone as everyone fusses and bickers, hovering over Dallas like she just came back from a fourteen-month trip to Mars.
“More painkillers?”
“Have you had water? You need water, Dal.”
“Are you craving a Thanksgiving feast? I’m sure February is pumpkinseason, too.”
A knock stops the madness.
I peer up from my phone in time to spot a nurse wheeling in a see-through hatch. Oliver, Frankie, and Farrow crowd around it, holding their breaths.
I trudge over, figuring I’d see what the fuss is all about.
I’m not a fan of babies. They’re loud and entirely useless, even by human standards.
I do, however, have to admit that the baby Dallas and Romeo produced is a good-looking one. Unlike the majority of newborns, he doesn’t resemble a bitter politician berating a lowly staffer.
He turns his head just a tad, offering me a better view. Dallas and Romeo’s best features war across his face.
From Dallas—a button nose and prominent red lips the shape of a strawberry.
And from Romeo—a shock of black hair matting his tiny head and enough lashes to warm a herd of llamas.
“My God.” Frankie slaps a hand to her chest, sticking her whole body in the hatch. “Sissy, he’s gorgeous!”
“I know.” Dallas slips off the bed with a grin and wheels the hatch to Romeo’s side. “He’s going to break a lot of hearts.”
The baby is fast asleep, just as I should be at this hour.
“And baseball bats.” Oliver mocks a swing. “Those dads won’t know how to handle Baby Costa.”
Romeo and Dallas grin down at their son. A sudden feral desire to produce an heir with Farrow slams into me.
I don’t want to wait for tomorrow.
