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Wincing as my sister’s ranting rises a couple of decibels, I turn to Pen, mouthing a plea for help. She rolls her lips together, her amused expression telling me she’s maybe enjoying this a little too much. When I pout, she sighs and takes my phone, cutting off Amelia’s verbal attack.
I don’t listen to whatever Pen says to calm my feral sister—I’m too busy fixating on said sister’s words—but when she hands my phone back, I’m greeted by silence. “Well?”
After another sullen second, Amelia huffs. “I’m not apologizing.”
Shocker.“Why the hell did you think I was on a date?”
“You know there are people whose literal jobs it is to follow you around and post about it, right?”
Yeah, I do know that but I’ve gotten pretty good at dodging them lately. With Pen guiding me towards the lowkey spots in the city, I’ve been relatively in the clear. Or at least, I assumed so. The media hasn’t really been on my radar lately. I told Ryan to tell me if anything important popped up but clearly, that was a bad move, because dating rumors? Top of the list of stories to debunk. “And you couldn’t tell it was Pen?”
“I didn’t actually see any of the posts,” she admits, still snippy. “August told Izzy his mom was crying because you have a new girlfriend and Izzy told Rory and of course she told me, and I swear to God, Cass, if I wasn’t in labor—”
“Sunday was crying?” Over me? That’s… oh, fuck me so much for saying this but that’s good, right? Means she cares?
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off, the rest of her words finally fighting their way into my one-track mind. “Wait. Did you just say you’re inlabor?”
* * *
I barely step one foot into the hospital room before a small body collides with mine. Hoisting Rory up with a wince, the pain in my shoulder and the knowing looks everyone in the room throws my way are a small price to pay as my niece wraps her arms around my neck, hugging tightly. “Missed you,” she murmurs, her breath hot and sweet, tattling on whoever she conned into buying her a sugary snack while her mom popped another sibling out.
“Missed you more,” I murmur back, hugging her just as tightly, wondering, not for the first time, how long I have left before she gets too old for cuddles from her favorite uncle. Not that long, if I had to guess, considering less than a minute passes before she’s wriggling out of my grip.
Her feet are barely on the ground before I’m attacked again, Reese this time, followed by Matthias, Winona close behind and Isaac bringing up the rear with Pippa on his hip.
It’s a full house in here, of course. I don’t think a Silva-Jackson-Evans child has ever not been subjected to an audience within hours of being born. It’s just how they work; they like to show off their brood, and the rest of us are an impatient bunch, greedy for newborn cuddles. Usually, I love it. But, as is typical as of late, I’m not loving it the way I usually do.
I’m definitely not loving all the eyes on me. The kids might be happy to see me but the adults? They’re not quite as enthusiastic. They’re a lot more scrutinizing. They’re not hiding their frustration with me, which isn’t unusual, but for once, I can admit I deserve it.
Their greetings come slowly and are quiet, careful. Paired with fierce hugs because they can be mad at me all they like but we’re still huggers. And, while it might be completely my fault, it’s still been months since we saw each other. A bit of a record, now that I think about it.
It cuts me deep, the disappointment I keep glimpsing in everyone’s eyes so I keep mine on the tiny baby my brother-in-law transfers into my arms. “Think you need a DNA test,” I joke with my sister. “She looks nothing like you.”
“DNA test.” She snorts. “I’ve got three stitches proving she’s mine.”
I grimace. “Probably wish she didn’t get Nick’s big head, hey?”
“I do not have a big head.” I can sense Nick’s scowl without seeing it. “And neither does Estrela.”
“Estrela,” I repeat, cooing it to the owner. “That’s cute.” She’s cute. So damn cute. Even if she does look exactly like her father to a slightly scary degree.
She makes me wonder if my genes are going to be as unrelenting as Nick’s. If my daughter is going to look just like me too. Brown skin, dark eyes, thick curls. Dimples and a wide nose and the height her mother’s genes will undoubtedly try to counter. Maybe she’ll be like Reese and favor her mother altogether. Take on her lighter features, her petite frame. Maybe she’ll be like Izzy, a perfect mix of both of her parents; Sunday's hair, my eyes, skin and height somewhere in the middle.
My head spins as I imagine the possibilities, and I think it’s obvious. I think I might as well be imagining aloud because when a gentle hand lands on my shoulder and golden eyes dip to find mine, both feel a little too knowing.
“Your turn soon,” Nick says, lips quirked at the corners.
I smile but the thought doesn’t flood me with pure joy like it used to. It’s tainted by a whole lot of apprehension, confusion, fucking fear. “Yeah.”
“Listen,” my brother-in-law starts, but he never gets the chance to finish, interrupted by a quiet knock.
A long couple of seconds later, the door tentatively opens. A greeting starts and abruptly stops. A sudden hush falls over the room. And I start to wonder if I’ve suddenly developed some incredible powers of manifestation because standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and frozen in place as she cradles an enormous stomach, is Sunday.
49
SUNDAY
