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I tug him by the hand, drawing him back through the glittering groups of people drinking their martinis, listening to the swanky jazz band in the corner. I love the way my silk gown swishes around my legs, flowing up behind me like flower petals. It's wonderful.
I still keep mostly to bare feet, because I never really learned how to walk in heels. But somehow bare feet are trendy around here. People think I'm quirky, like some kind of religious hippie, they assume. I get away with not wearing shoes, at least in the house. Sometimes at parties if they’re nice enough.
I get away with a lot of things. Everything I could possibly want.
I open the door to our bedroom, and Owen turns around when he hears us. Softly, I close the door again and lock it. This is our sanctuary. No one can see in, and no one can hear us through the soundproofing. The housekeeper doesn’t even clean in here. I do it myself. It keeps me grounded.
It’s just us. Safe and sound. Separated from everyone who would want to criticize or judge us.
Owen’s tux coat is across the custom-made, extra large bed. The top four buttons of his shirt are undone. He raises his glass, a tall sparkling water with a twist of lemon. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since we got here. He says I am the only drug he needs.
Isn’t he sweet?
“Okay. I wanted to talk to both of you.”
Silas shifts away from me, his eyes dark with concern. I love how he always thinks of me first, always looking out for me.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly all right.”
Owen walks over to us. He looks me up and down with the same sort of concern. I puff up my chest with pride and allow them to inspect me. I hope they never stop.
“Well, you know how I told you have been working on something…” I tease, just sort of giving another hint. I love to see the frustration in their expressions.
“Go on,” Father Daddy prods.
“It's not another foster house, is it?” Owen rolls his eyes. “I think we might be just about maxed out, don't you? We can't give beds to absolutely everybody, you know. We have to work up to it.”
I nod seriously, like I'm considering it.
“Well… you may have a point.”
“Oh, Angel, I hope you're kidding! Another foster house? Really?”
I pout, looking between each of them, drawing the moment out as long as possible. “Well, I mean… I guess Owen has a point about there not being enough beds…”
“There really aren't,” he insists.
“Well, then... how about a crib?”
They look at each other. Some silent communication passes between them. I just wait.
“A crib for what?”
I stare back at Silas. “What are cribs usually for?”
The realization dawns on both of them at the same time. I love to watch it. It's like the sun coming through the clouds. It's like seeing a parade at the end of the block, just as it turns into view.
“No way!”
“Are you for real?”
I nod happily, just about to burst with excitement.
“You're going to be fathers!”
They look at each other again. Owen pipes up first.
