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She’s sobbing as she throws herself at me, chanting a chorus ofmy baby’s having a baby, and under normal circumstances, I would laugh at her dramatics, if only I didn’t feel like crying too.
Mom pulls away, grasping me by the biceps, and in the blink of an eye, she’s all business. “How’s Sunday? Is she feeling okay?”
“She-”
“Poor thing probably has morning sickness,” she continues without a breath, and I let her, unintentionally so, becausefuck. Morning sickness. She didn’t have theflu. My shitty reaction was not the driving force behind today’s sinkful of vomit—just my fertility was. “If that baby is anything like its father, she’s probably starving all the time too.”
My gaze darts to the cookbooks taking up one full shelf in the bookcase in the living room. She mentioned pickles, right? No eggs. Something about strawberries—I’m pretty sure that wasn’t craving related but fruit is good. Nutritious. I’m so caught up in meal planning for my pregnant, possibly-fake-girlfriend, I almost miss what else comes out of Mom’s mouth.
Luckily, “I need to meet her before I leave,” is just panic-inducing enough to snap me back to reality.
“Hold on, Mom.” I catch her by the arm, half-scared she might tear out the door and hunt Sunday down herself. “Maybe let her be for a while. There’s a lot going on.” And I doubt she needs my mother, as well-meaning and kind and wonderful as she is, bombarding her.
I could tell she was struggling. Overwhelmed as hell. So, I figure if I can temporarily hold off the parade Mom is likely planning to throw in her honor, that’s probably for the best.
My sixty-five-year-old mother pouts like a child being toldno. So I treat her like one, dangling the equivalent of a shiny, new toy in front of her face in the hopes of warding off a tantrum.
She snatches the sonogram so quickly, it also rips at the edge, and then I’m on the verge of a tantrum. “Careful.”
Mom doesn’t hear me; I no longer exist to her. Much like I’ve been for hours, she is completely entranced by the barely-there sight of my child. So much so, she doesn’t notice when I slip away, out of the house and into the backyard.
My whole body sighs as I lower myself onto a deck chair, every joint seeming to creak as I stretch out. Twinkling stars and chirping cicadas my only company, I feel like I breathe my first real breath of the day.
I wonder if I should be concerned with how quickly I’ve accepted this. If I should’ve allowed myself to consider the… consequences doesn't seem like the right word. The future, I guess. Mine, Sunday’s, August’s, Fetus’.
All the reasons why I thought I wasn’t ready for fatherhood aren’t suddenly invalid. Those, I worry about. But fuck, I don’t know. I’ve built a career on trusting my gut. I worked my ass off too, of course, but without those mythical baseball instincts, I would never have gotten as far as I did as quickly as I did.
It’s like reading a batter and knowing when they’re gonna swing, or if they’re trying to steal a base. Sensing I need to trick with a curveball or overpower with a fastball. Trusting my gut and following it through.
My gut says this is right. Everything I told Sunday, I meant. I’m not fucking around here, I’m not half-assing this. I want kids, and I especially want this kid. Sure, it didn’t happen in the ideal way but it happened. We’re gonna have a baby together. And fuck if I’m gonna do anything but love the hell out of it.
“Hey, Daddy.”
Eyes still closed, I throw a middle finger towards the blond man I know is helping himself to a seat beside me. On my other side, the smell of paint gives Jackson away. Even before his accent tells on him, it doesn’t take a genius to guess Nick is the third arrival. “Amelia thinks we manifested this.”
With a tired laugh, I squint at my friend. “Really?”
“Luna agrees.” Jackson presses an ice-cold beer into my palm. “She said we joked your unborn child into existence.”
Ben tosses me a churchkey. “I’m willing to take, like, eighty percent of the blame.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” I joke—but not really.
“I gotta say.” Nick reclines, long legs stretched out before him. “Of all the random people you could’ve tied yourself to for life, you got lucky. Sunday’s pretty cool.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to agree but since their knee-jerk reaction will likely be merciless mockery, I resist. “The one conversation you had with her told you that?”
“Yes. Doesn’t that say a lot?” That’s large, snarky Brazilian forwe told you so. “She’s funny. Smart, too, even if her taste in men suggests otherwise. And the kids really like her; you know they’re hard to please.”
Something warm and fuzzy grows and dies in a matter of seconds, murdered by Nick when, as is his nature, ruins the moment. “You know, she’s barely older than Sofia.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
“Eliza is older than her.”
“Fuck,I know.” I’m painfully aware that Nick and Jackson’s little sisters are closer to Sunday’s age than mine. Not because I care—we’re both adults, it’s not that big of a deal—but because other people clearly do. The media are working overtime spinning it into something it’s not. Making Sunday sound like a barely legal child bride and me like a cradle-robbing creep.
Anoldcreep. Everyone and their mother is calling meold.
