Page 29 of Oops I Fell For The Lumberjack Next Door

"How." My voice is flat. "How does she do this."

"I stopped asking years ago." He texts back.

Me:

Everything's good, Mom. Margot's fine.

Mom:

Wonderful! I'll bring muffins Tuesday. The cinnamon ones. Extra folic acid in the batter. Just because!!!!

"She knows."

"She absolutely knows."

He laughs. Pulls me against his chest. My ear against his heartbeat, steady and solid, the same rhythm I fell asleep to last night and the night before and every night since I walked across that tree line in my pajamas.

We tell Donna in person that afternoon. She cries. For twenty two minutes straight, according to Briggs, who times it on his phone because he claims it's a new personal record. She also produces, from somewhere in the depths of her enormous purse, a pair of tiny knitted booties she made "on a hunch" three weeks ago.

"They're green," she says, holding them up. "Neutral. Because I didn't want to assume."

"You literally knitted baby shoes before we knew we were pregnant."

"Intuition, sweetheart. A mother always knows."

Briggs's dad claps him on the shoulder. Doesn't say much. Gets a little red around the eyes. Goes to the porch to "check on the weather," which is code for crying privately, a skill he passed directly to his son.

My own parents take the news with the measured enthusiasm of people who are still processing the fact that their daughter moved to a mountain town and fell in love with a lumberjack. My mother cries on the phone. My father says "that's great, honey" in the exact same tone he uses when I tell him about a book I'm editing.

My brothers text within minutes of each other.

Jake:

Wait are you serious?? Congrats sis!! Is this the tree guy?

Connor:

Mom just called crying. Everything ok? You aren't dying right?

Jake:

Dude she's pregnant not dying

Connor:

HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW MOM CRIES FOR EVERYTHING

Layla calls from Portland. Screams. Actually screams. Into the phone. For so long that Princess Buttercup leaves the room.

"The villain got you pregnant," she says when she regains the ability to form sentences.

"He's not the villain. He was never the villain. He was a twenty one year old kid who tried to protect me from a guy who was cheating on me, and I spent fifteen years hating him for it."

"I know. You've told me. Several times. Usually while crying. Usually naked. Usually right after he's done something disgustingly romantic."

"I'm not naked right now."

"Are you wearing his flannel?"