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“Grandma, we’re not sneaking off to a closet. We’re in the middle of Meghan and Nick’s rehearsal dinner,” I remind the ornery ol’ woman.
“I know very well where we are, Payton McIntire. Give me the baby, and go fornicate in the closet. Don’t you know the bridesmaids are always hooking up at weddings? It’s practically a law!” she bellows, drawing the attention of Nick’s mom.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Yeah, well, you’re stubborn,” she argues.
“I’m stubborn? You’re just still bitter that you lost your red room,” I tease.
“I miss that room,” Grandpa says softly, placing his hand over his heart.
“Dad needed it for his grandkids,” I add.
“Yes, well, I guess it was time to retire the toy room. Your grandpa’s hips aren’t what they used to be, you know. After the replacement surgery at the end of last year, I knew it was time to let it go,” she says, turning to my grandpa. “We have a lot of great memories of that room,” she adds, patting his arm gently.
“The best, Emmie,” Grandpa replies with a knowing smile.
“Anyway, let’s talk about the closet,” she says, but I stop her right there.
“We’re going to be heading out soon to put Noah to bed. Why don’t you find Abby? I bet she’d love to fornicate in a closet,” I say of one of my youngest sisters.
“Again, Payton. She’d love to fornicate in a closet again.”
I pull a grimace, not really wanting to think about my sister doing the nasty in a closet. They’re dark and dirty and…well, a freaking closet.
“We’ll just go find Abbers and the sexy fireman,” Grandma says, grabbing Grandpa by the hand and pulling him toward their next victim.
“Can we not have just one nice family function without the words orgasm or fornication?” I ask, dumbfounded, as they walk away.
“I don’t recall them using orgasm, sweetheart,” Dean says, gently swaying as he rocks our son.
“No, but it was next. They would have gone into great detail on something I – and no one in this room – wants to know anything about. They’re eighty-five, Dean. How in the hell can they still be going strong like rabbits at that age?”
“I think they are the youngest eighty-five-year-olds in the world, and who knows, maybe all of the sex keeps them young,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
I snort. “You said the sex.”
“I guess they’ve rubbed off on me in the last few years,” he says with a shrug.
“That’s not a good thing,” I argue, rubbing my son’s back as he snoozes against his father’s chest.
The sight of these two together still pulls at my heart. There was a time where I thought I’d never have this. In fact, the doctors told me it was almost certain that I wouldn’t. I tried to push Dean away, but he wouldn’t go. He fought me, tooth and nail, and refused to let me ruin the best thing that ever happened to me.
Dean. Brielle.
And eventually, our Noah.
It’s funny that we tried all sorts of things, and nothing worked. The stress of wanting a baby so badly, and not being able to actually conceive, is almost overwhelming. On everyone involved. We decided to take a step back and breathe. Hell, we needed it. You know, decide what steps we might want to take after, and the next thing I know, I’m pregnant. On my own. Without drugs or medicine or crazy books with old wives’ tales. Just me and Dean, and the beautiful miracle we created.
Our son.
The perfect addition to round out our family…
