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“Mocha Latte Lane will survive.”
And just like that, I’ve got her. She huffs and puffs and makes a hell of a fuss of it but she follows me into the house, only scoffing once when I pull out a stool for her to sit her grumpy ass on. Suddenly feeling not quite so resentful about the extortionately priced, elaborate machine Amelia goaded me into getting, I make quick work of preparing Sunday’s lifeblood beverage just the way she likes—not too sweet, milk steamed and frothy, a heaped teaspoon of cocoa powder and a dusting of cinnamon. Sunday practically licks her lips when I set it in front of her, but that bottom lip is quick to jut out again when I don’t immediately let her have it. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I bargain, and lucky for me, I’m holding exactly the right chip.
“Being pregnant sucks.”
Releasing the mug, I stifle another smile when Sunday snatches it up like a feral creature. “Can I do anything to help?”
Slurping greedily, she evil-eyes me over the rim. “You’ve done enough.”
Deja vu washes over me; I distinctly remember this exact conversation occurring between my sister and brother-in-law. The solution, if I remember correctly, was somewhere in the ballpark of ‘shut up and do whatever she wants.’
Heading to the fridge, I pull out the necessary ingredients to satisfy the—hopefully temporary—monster carrying my child. Under her watchful eye, I rip open a package of chicken wings and dump it into a bowl before slathering it in the homemade honey garlic sriracha sauce I make in bulk and hide from my greedy, spice-obsessed family. After rinsing my hands, I set a pot on the stove and start glugging oil into it. “Craving anything else?”
“Labor.”
“Only five months to go.”
“Shut up.” Sunday slumps over the counter, head flopping to rest on stacked forearms. “How the fuck did I forget how shit being pregnant is? Cass, I canfeelmy skin stretching. Do you understand how fucking disgusting that is? And I have heartburn all the time. I can’t stand up for more than, like, thirty minutes without getting light-headed. None of my clothes fit right. And everyone is sofuckingannoying.”
Abandoning our dinner, I move to stand behind her, my hands smoothing over her shoulders. “What can I do?”
“Go back in time and wear a condom.”
I bury my laughter in her hair. “You mean go back in time and say‘no, Sunday, that’s a bad idea.’”
I wrap my arms around her from behind, preemptively thwarting her attempted elbow jab. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna go take a bath. I’m gonna make dinner. We’re gonna eat together, and then, you’re gonna tell me how I can actually help.”
It’s a day for homeruns, apparently, because Sunday barely hesitates before tilting her hopeful face up towards me. “A bath?”
“I’ll throw in some bubbles if you ask nicely.”
Sunday groans lowly, eyes fluttering shut as she slumps against me. Her expression pinches as an internal war wages, the allure of my clawfoot tub fighting against her need for self-reliance, and probably a slight discomfort with getting naked in my house.
“C’mon,” I coo, gliding my palms along her biceps. “You know you wanna.”
She’s downright pitiful as she squints up at me. “I really do.”
Stooping to kiss her forehead is instinctive. As is lacing our fingers together, as seems the appreciative noise Sunday hums. It’s the most natural thing in the world, standing there, hugging her to my chest, tracing the curve of her wrist with my thumb while she all but nuzzles my neck. “We have a deal?”
A warm sigh skates across my skin. Sunday doesn’t verbally concede but she does slide off the stool. She does slide me a helpless, defeated look. And she does let me keep her hand in mine as I lead her upstairs and run her an extra hot, extra bubbly bath.
* * *
I’m setting the dining table when tentative knocks rap against the front door.
“Come in,” I shout after checking the security camera, frowning at the boy who cautiously pads into the kitchen. “You don’t have to knock, August.”
Surprise flashes across his feature but he plays it off well, easily conjures up an excuse. “I wanted to check if it was safe first.”
I laugh before giving him the all clear. “She’s upstairs.”
August remains cautious as he moves closer, toying nervously with the straps of his backpack. “Is she still mad?”
“She wasn’t mad, kid. Just frustrated.”
“She was scary. She went all purple like Ursula.”
“If you wanna survive the night, buddy, I wouldn’t repeat that.” Clasping him by the shoulders, I give him a little shake. “Don’t worry. I gave her coffee.”
