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Kingston makes a low sound, like a laugh smothered in his throat. “He’s one, right?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “But he’s also my godson. Which means I’m morally obligated to go overboard and emotionally bankrupt myself trying to prove that I’m good at this.”
I snort. “You already are.”
She shoots me a look. “Tell that to the overpriced party planner who keeps trying to sell me on balloon arches the size of small countries.”
Kingston raises a brow. “Can Eli even walk yet?”
“Barely,” Reese sighs. “But he claps now. And eats puffs like he invented carbs. That’s enough to warrant celebration, right?”
I grin, warmth blooming in my chest. Reese may not be his biological mom, but Eli’s got her wrapped around his little fingers like a Hallmark plotline. It’s kind of beautiful to watch her care this much—fierce and funny and full of love she didn’t even know she had until life handed her a boy with stormy eyes and a story no one saw coming.
She sips again, then—of course—pivots. “Speaking of babies… how’s the nursery planning going?”
My breath catches, caught between amusement and panic. “Wow. Subtle.”
“I’m sorry, did you think I was going to tiptoe around it? Please. You know me better than that.”
Kingston glances over at me, his hand brushing my leg beneath the throw. “We’ve talked about a few things,” he offers.
“Mmhmm,” Reese says. “And by talked, you mean…?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not rushing it, okay? I just found out I’m having two boys. I’m still emotionally recovering from that information.”
Reese gasps. “What’s wrong with boys?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Except I’m pretty sure I’m growing two future linebackers who are already conspiring to destroy my bladder from the inside out.”
Kingston chuckles, low and warm. “We’re keeping things neutral. Soft greens, warm woods. Cozy, not chaotic.”
“I approve,” Reese nods, swirling her wine. “You don’t strike me as the polka-dot wallpaper type.”
I exhale slowly, the pressure behind my ribs easing. “We just want something that feels like peace. Not a Pinterest board on steroids.”
She softens at that, her teasing grin fading into something gentler. “You’ll give them that. You already are.”
My throat tightens, unexpected. Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s the truth.
Because the thing is… I want that too.
Not the party. Not the pressure. Just… a space where these boys—my boys—can exist safely. Loved. Held. Wanted.
Everything I never had.
Kingston’s fingers curl around mine, grounding me. Solid. Steady. Present.
And Reese? She just clinks her glass against mine with a small smile and says, “Well then. Here’s to the nursery. And the boys. And the future peewee football team you’re apparently building.”
Reese corners me the second the dishwasher hums to life. There’s a look in her eye I’ve come to recognize—part protective older sister, part private investigator with a badge that says I know you’re not telling me everything. She props her hip against the counter and crosses her arms, the sleeve of her oversized NYU hoodie slipping down to reveal one tanned shoulder.
The moment feels still. Heavy with unspoken things.
“Okay,” she starts, soft but sure. “Now that dinner’s done and Kingston’s off doing whatever it is guys do when they need space from girl talk, how are you really doing?”
Her voice dips, quiet and careful, like she’s afraid the wrong word might unravel me. “And don’t give me some cookie-cutter, ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. I want the truth, M.”
I drop onto one of the barstools and pull a throw blanket tighter around my bump. My stomach has its own zip code now, a permanent, round reminder of everything I’ve lost… and everything I’ve found.
