Oh, my god. This is bad. What if I’m never allowed to have an adult sleepover again?
“Why do we even have a white rug?” I yell, like maybe Wyatt would hear it from out of town. I’m quickly ripping off my hoodie, dropping to my knees and pressing the fabric into the ground. I press harder, but it just fucking spreads. “There’s a damn toddler living in this house!”
We all run around, grabbing what we can, admittedly rather slowly and with a fair amount of stumbling. We do what we can for the deep, dark stain now littering the cream rug. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, pass before we give up. The five of us all stand in a circle, staring at the spot. I bite my nail nervously. Blake stands with her hands on her hips, hovering over the spot like a project manager. Vivienne’s trying and failing to cover up her laughter, and Amaya’s plotting face is on while Harper’s pacing.
Vivienne is the first to speak. “We could just move the couch?”
Harper immediately claps her hands, pointing at Vivienne. “You’re the smartest woman on the planet.”
When the couch is finally moved and looking 100% out of place, we sit back and admire our work. It is… well, it is fucking obvious. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
“Personally,” Harper mutters, “I still want to hear more about what Wesley did with the honey.”
“I hate you, guys,” Blake groans. Vivienne starts laughing and soon I’m following suit. Harper, and then Blake, and then Amaya, until we’re all doubling over, and tears are streaming down our faces. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard, and I wonder if that’s true for the rest of them, too.
In our drunken, giggly stupor, we eventually turn off all the lights, turn on the flashlights on our phones, and jump and dance around like a bunch of lunatics to that “Feel So Close” song from Vampire Diaries. To say it feels like the iconic Damon and Elena dance scene would be an understatement—but it’s so much better doing it with friends.
When we start to dwindle down, exhaustion taking over from the impromptu performance and ruined rug, Vivienne, Blake, and Harper fall deep in conversation about some lacrosse player we grew up with, while Amaya and I sit crisscrossed on the floor across from each other. We’ve been playing a game of goldfish, and she is positively kicking my ass. “How old is Beverly?” I ask as I set down my cards and pick up my glass of water.
“She’ll be two in four months,” she responds. Her smile is contagious. A milestone like that is so exciting, and I can’t help but internally celebrate that win with her. But I watch as it dims slightly, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “You okay?” I ask, tilting my head and taking a sip of water.
Amaya hesitates to respond for a few moments—like she can’t decide if opening up will ruin the vibes or make me look at her differently. “That thing you said at group?” she finally asks, “About how some days were easier than others? About being scared of not getting those moments, even the hard ones, back?” I nod, not able to form any words. The fact that she remembers what I said so vividly feels like a knife twisting in my chest. She continues, sucking in a breath. “Beverly’s dad didn’t want to bearound either. We tried when I was pregnant, but he didn’t want to be a dad. And I couldn’t beg him to stay, you know? I didn’t want Bev to grow up in a household that was like mine-”
“Hey.” I interrupt her with a gentle touch on her elbow. “I think making that decision alone says enough about you as a mom. We learn from our own experiences, and it allows us to give them the lifetheydeserve.”
Motherhood is nothing but blood, sweat, and tears. Trial and error. Because beingjustpresent isn’t what makes someone a mom—loving, fighting, hurting, and then getting up again to try over and over is what makes someone a mom. Even reminding myself of these words is easier said than done—but it’s becoming easier the more I surround myself withgoodpeople. People that support me and never doubt my abilities. People like Wyatt.
“Thank you.” Amaya speaks, reaching up to squeeze the hand. “I’m really glad we met, Whitney.”
“Me, too.”
I mean it. I have my girls of course, and they truly are always there when I need them—but they aren’tmoms. I can’t bond over what type of wipes are best, or how it felt when Brinley called me mom for the first time. I can’t talk about postpartum without feeling just slightly crazy or even a little judged. My friendship with Amaya just feels different. Like I can understand her, and she can understand me in a different way. The things we’ve experienced, the things that we’ve sacrificed and will continue to sacrifice for our little girls.
“Let’s get the girls together this week?” she suggests, “They’d have so much fun.”
“I’d love that,” I agree enthusiastically. “And maybe we could go to yoga together too?”
“It’s a date.” she teases, and we go back to playing cards. Laughing and talking and maybe even cutting into the other girls conversation when needed. What I told Amaya is true. I reallywould love for us to spend time with her. Brinley doesn’t have many opportunities to hang out with kids her age, so I’m excited. I’m hopeful, too—about this new friendship. About my battle with Andrew. About where Wyatt and I stand. About my ability to navigate this world as a mom.
And damn, does it feel good to have a positive outlook for once.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WHITNEY
Summer, spring, and fall are gorgeous in Clover-Hills, but nothing beats the wintertime. The way the snow-capped mountains surround our small town will always be my favorite sight. It means fuzzy socks, a roaring fireplace, and an abundance of hot cocoa. A Clover-Hills Christmas is a sight to behold, but Wyatt says we have to get through thanksgiving before I’m allowed to decorate the house. He’s no fun.
It isn’t necessarily Brinley’s first snow, but it will be the first one she’ll actually get to play in. Depending on how much we get today, I’ll pick her up from Ana’s and we’ll spend the rest of the evening making snow angels or sledding. Blake bought her the cutest snow suit that I can’t wait to put her in.
Maybe I’ll invite Amaya and Beverly over, too.
It’s been a couple days now since Wyatt left. The morning after the sleepover I had with the girls was rough. I haven’t been that hungover since Blake’s wedding, and I really might keep my vow to never drink again this time. That, or the toilet and I are about to become best friends.
I hate not knowing exactly when Wyatt will be back. He said sometime today or tomorrow, but wouldn’t fill me in on much else. We haven’t touched in nearly four days, and every singlenerve in my body is onfire.I truly did almost send him a topless picture just to see what he’d do. I thought better of it, though. I’ve gone as far as debating whether or not to sleep in his bed–just for the comfort of smelling him, but decided that would probably be a little weird.
Nerves mixed with the cold bite of winter makes my hands slightly shake as I situate the worn saddle on Maggie’s back. We’ve been working up to this moment for quite some time, but I woke up today and realized we were both ready.
My hands wrap around the horn, and I pull in a long, cold breath. The air chills my lungs but fills me with enough ease to place one boot in the stirrup. With one clumsy hop up later, I’m swinging my leg over. My balance is off, and my thighs protest as I pull myself over–stiff from lack of exercise and how long it’s been since the last time I rode–but I’m on.
