“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Next month?”
“Still no.”
He considers this while cutting into his pancakes. “Three more.”
“Months?”
“Kids.”
I stare at him. “You want four children?”
“At least.”
“At least?” I repeat, laughing. “You understand I’m the one who has to carry them, right?”
His expression turns serious at once. “I understand. And I’ll take care of you every second.”
I know he means it. I know it because he already did. Through morning sickness, swollen ankles, every appointment, every fear, every craving, every night I woke up panicked because motherhood suddenly felt too big for my body to hold. Connor was there, always there, loving me through all of it.
I look at him with our sleeping daughter against his chest, and the future opens in front of me. More babies. More chaos. More mornings in this booth. More flowers for no reason. More of Connor’s hand finding mine whenever he senses I need it.
“Maybe two more,” I say.
His eyes sharpen. “That’s a negotiation.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“I can work with possibility.”
“I know you can.” I reach across the table and rest my hand over his. “You built an entire life on possibility after knowing me for one day.”
Connor turns his hand under mine and laces our fingers together. “No. I built it on certainty.”
I should probably tease him for that. Instead, I let myself sit there with my husband, our baby, and the wild, beautiful shape of everything still ahead of us.
7
EPILOGUE – CONNOR
15 YEARS LATER
The girls are late.
This shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve lived with them their whole lives, and none of my daughters have ever treated a departure time as anything other than a loose suggestion. Still, I stand by the front door with my keys in hand, listening to the chaos upstairs and trying not to yell too harshly when I call out again.
“Car leaves in two minutes,” I say.
“We know,” Louisa calls back, sounding deeply offended.
“You said that five minutes ago,” Toni adds.
“That’s why he’s saying it again,” Sophie chimes in.
A thump shakes the ceiling. Then a door opens, several feet hit the hallway, and my three girls come down the stairs in a messy wave of towels, sunscreen, and tote bags. Louisa is fifteen now, tall and sharp-eyed. Toni is thirteen, an expert in dramatic sighs. Sophie is eleven and currently wearing sunglasses indoors.
