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Briefly, I’m tempted to accept, if only because my brain is convinced that my refusal will manifest as a giant, blinking arrow pointing directly at my womb.
When I ultimately refuse, Kate whistles an impressed noise. “Stronger than I am. I need a stiff drink to get through family events, and this ismyfamily.”
“How…” I start to ask, trailing off as I contemplate the best way to ask what I want to know.
Kate makes it easy. “How is this a family?”
“How did y’all meet?” sounds a lot better.
“College, mostly. Cass and Amelia met when they were kids—neighbors turned best friends turned soul siblings, y’know?”
Not really but I nod anyway.
“They’ve been through a lot together. We all have.”
Ah. Okay. I know where this is going. “I’m not trying to mess anything up for y’all. Really. If this is about the article, I swear—”
“It’s not. Trust me, the only person who believed that was Cass, and I’m not sure he really did.”
In the name of peace, I decide not to argue that.
“Anyway.” Kate settles beside me again, sipping her wine. “No one cares that you and Cass had sex.”
“I care.”
“Because you’re embarrassed?”
Because I’m pregnant, mostly, and I’m convinced if this current line of questioning continues, I’ll word-vomit the joyous news.
Luckily, it doesn’t last long. Luckily, I have a son with a freaking sixth sense. Luckily, when August waltzes into the kitchen with a suspiciously innocent expression and his hands hidden behind his back, and asks if he can speak to me alone for a moment, Kate is quick to oblige.
Once the backdoor slides shut behind her, I eye my kid warily. “What’s up?”
Slow and cautious, August reveals his little secret. A paper plate with a baseball design holding a slice of chocolate cake—that, before everyone dug in, resembled a baseball—with a stolen, unlit candle nestled in the fudge frosting.
The knot in my chest doubles, tripling when August mutters words I usually only hear whispered late at night, when this specific day is already almost done and dusted. “Happy birthday, Mama.”
That supersized knot migrates to my throat. “August…”
“I know you don't like celebrating but I also know you like cake. And this is really good cake. Rory’s dad made it.”
Well, then sign me up. Nicolas Silva is a god not only in looks, but in the kitchen too. As I bite into thick, fudgy cake, I make a mental note to ask him for the recipe before I drop the baby bomb on his brother-in-law and potentially get scarlet-lettered. Patting the seat beside me, I wait until August sits before dragging the stool close enough for me to slip an arm around his shoulders. “You know why I don’t celebrate my birthday?”
August sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
I provide the answer anyway. “I have somethingwaybetter to celebrate. Because twelve years ago, I found out I was having you.”
“I know.”
“It’s like our anniversary.”
“That’s weird.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m your mother. Don’t argue with me.”
