It’s a solid plan. Except—Riley’s a teenager, so she whines, “Come on, the library’s on the other side of town.”
“That’s the thing about cars,” I tell her. “They can travel long distances. It’s amazing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Why do I have to do it?”
“Because you agreed to help drive the kids around when we agreed to buy you a new Camry instead of a used one. That was the deal, Riley,” Chelsea answers.
Robert and Rachel McQuaid had a sizable life-insurance policy when they died, so even with six kids to care for, money isn’t really an issue for us. The house is paid off, each of the kids has a healthy college fund, and being a founding partner of my own law firm, I do pretty damn well. But—thanks to the advice of my best friend and partner, Brent Mason, who inherited more money than he’ll ever be able to spend—we keep that info from the kids. It’s important for them to have ambition, to set goals for themselves—I don’t want them ever thinking they can waste their lives living off money someone else earned for them.
“Fine.” Riley sighs. She looks at her brother. “How long are you going to be at the library?”
Raymond cleans his Harry Potter–like glasses. “Three or four hours.”
“Okay—text me when you’re ready to be picked up.”
Raymond nods.
And just like that, plain old chaos becomes organized chaos.
This is my life now. And it’s pretty fucking great.
Chapter 2
I crouch down and pull out the weeds around the white marble, then brush away the grass clippings clinging to the etched name.
“Hey, Judge!” Ronan’s baby-sweet voice chirps. He places a pot of forget-me-nots at the base of the headstone proudly. “We got these for you. They’re like the color the sky gets sometimes.”
His round eyes look up at me. “Can I go look at the statues?”
I nod, smiling. “Stay where I can see you. And don’t run on the graves—it’s disrespectful.”
“Got it!” He scampers away, toward the large old crypt in the center of the cemetery.
The Judge passed away six months ago, but it feels like he’s been gone a lot longer. His last year was rough. Advanced Alzheimer’s is a bitch. He stopped speaking, eating, walking. It was almost . . . a relief when he went. Because the real Atticus Faulkner—the man who saved me from prison and from myself—would’ve never wanted to live the way he was living then.
I used to visit him in the nursing home every week. These days I stop by once a month, to let him know I’m still thinking of him, still grateful for all the things he taught me. And . . . because I just miss him.
“Hey, old man. What’s new?”
No, I don’t actually expect an answer. Chelsea’s Catholic, and so are the kids, but I’m . . . nothing. Our wedding was held at sunset, in the garden outside our reception venue. I would’ve converted—for her—but Chelsea didn’t want to wait as long as we would’ve had to, to do the deed in a church. I don’t know if I even believe in God . . . but the Judge?
I believed in him.
“The scholarship has been running for the last month. We’re already getting submissions. Lots of smart kids who’ve done some stupid shit in their lives.”
The Judge didn’t have any family, so he left his entire estate to me, with a note: You’ll know what to do with it. I didn’t, at first, and I cursed the son of a bitch for not being more specific. I imagine he got a good laugh over that—he never liked making things too easy for me. But then I got it: The Atticus Faulkner Scholarship. It’s open to high school students with difficult backgrounds who can show they’re smart and willing to work hard. The scholarship will pay for their education.
“Lots of kids who remind me of me—you’d get a kick out of them.”
I hang out at the cemetery a little longer talking to the Judge and watching Ronan running around in circles, like our dog, Cousin It, chasing his tail. Before we head out, I tap the top of the headstone. “See you soon, Judge.”
****
Later that afternoon, I’m in the den watching the baseball game. Except for Riley and Raymond, the kids are scattered throughout the house, but it’s quiet, which is a rare commodity around here. Chelsea comes in and hands me an iced tea.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
She sits beside me on the couch, facing me, her legs tucked, her pretty feet curled under her. Yes—Chelsea has pretty fucking feet, okay? I never knew feet could be pretty—until I saw hers.
“So . . . that talk I mentioned before? We should probably have that now, while we can.”
I take a sip of my drink and nod. “Yeah—I wasn’t at all hoping you’d forget about it or anything.”
Her face slides into a grin. “Funny.”
I look back at her, straight-faced. “I’m a funny guy.”
When she doesn’t say anything for a few moments, I ask, “What’s up?”
Because now I’m actually getting concerned. My stomach tightens as I brace for whatever’s worrying her—and before I even know what I’m up against, in my head I’m already planning all the ways I’ll take care of it. Because that’s what I do—and I’m good at it.
But what she tells me next blows my fucking mind.
“I’m late.”
Two words—ten thousand thoughts exploding in my head at once.
I’m a big guy, six-five, 225 pounds of muscle. Guys like me, our voices don’t squeak. But at this moment, mine comes damn close.
“Like . . . for an appointment?”
Chelsea’s beautiful face is tense and her crystal-blue eyes are iced over with worry. She takes the biggest breath and says, “No.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Fucking, wow.”
“I know.”
I’m guessing couples usually talk about having kids before they get married—but Chelsea and I didn’t. Mostly because our plate was already fucking full.
“How . . .” I begin, then stop myself. Obviously I know how. “I mean, you’re still wearing the patch?”
Chelsea nods. “Yes. But it’s not one hundred percent effective and remember a few weeks ago it kept peeling off?”
I’m lucky I remember my own name right now.
My thoughts are still scrambled. Images of a tiny newborn mixed in with the six faces we already have. Ronan was only a few months old when Chelsea and I first met, so I know what’s coming. Midnight feedings, teething, crying for no reason at all. And the diapers—fuck—so many diapers. For years.
On the other hand, I’ve heard pregnancy makes a woman’s tits huge. My eyes are drawn to Chelsea’s already impressive rack. That pro might just outweigh all the cons.
I scrub my hand over my face. “Have you taken a test yet?”
“Not yet.”
In the years before Chelsea, I banged lots of women. Hundreds. But I never had a pregnancy scare because I was religious about condoms. There was an STD scare once—because those can happen even with condoms—but this is brand-new territory.
“Okay.” I stand up from the couch. “I’ll go buy a test.”
“I already bought one.” She smiles shyly. “I bought three, actually.”
“Oh.” My brow wrinkles. “Well, let’s go take them.”
I hold out my hand and pull her up from the couch. As I turn toward the hallway, her hand on my arm stops me.
“Jake . . . where are you on this?” She peers up at me, trying to read my face. “I mean, if I am pregnant . . . are we gonna be okay?”
I’m floored that she even needs to ask.
“Of course we’ll be okay.” I cup her jaw, holding her gaze. “It’s a hell of a shock, sure, but it’s not like we don’t know what we’re doing. Adding one more to the mix . . . will only make it better. Maybe.”
When she smiles, it’s full and relieved.
I kiss her forehead. “Let’s go piss on some sticks.”
****
“I
couldn’t believe it when I didn’t get my period. I kept waiting for the cramps to start, I double-checked my calendar, and when the realization finally hit me, I was just like, wow! You know?”
Chelsea’s talking a mile a minute. She talked while she took care of the three tests and hasn’t stopped to take a breath while we wait to read them. She flutters around the room, like a twittering, gorgeous bird, putting laundry away, shifting things around on the dresser, unable to be still.
“I was thinking I’d like to have the baby down here with us for at least the first year. They’re so tiny when they’re first born, I don’t want to be too far away. I don’t know if we’ll need to do more construction, to make our room bigger—which will suck—but we have nine months still. There’ll be time.”
My mouth quirks up as her wheels spin. “Plenty of time.” I check my watch. “Speaking of time . . .” I tilt my head toward the bathroom.
Chelsea practically vibrates next to me. “I can’t look! You should do it, you look.”
“Okay, okay—I’m looking.” I chuckle as I walk to the adjoining bathroom to get the tests.
Chelsea’s voice follows me. “The kids are going to freak out. Regan and Ronan will be excited—Riley will probably be glad . . .”
I step back into the bedroom slowly, a heavy weight pressing on my stomach.
“Chelsea . . .”
“. . . that she’s leaving for college in a year. I’ll have to talk to my boss at the museum. I wonder—”
“Chelsea.” My voice is firmer this time, drawing her smile to my face. “It’s negative.”
Her smile freezes. “What?”
“They’re negative. All of them.”
Pink rises in her cheeks and understanding washes over her expression, taking her beautiful smile with it.
“Oh.”
She glances at the tests in my hand—and the weight in my stomach is replaced with an empty, sunken feeling.
Chelsea clears her throat and lifts her shoulder. “Well, I guess that’s good news then.”
“I guess.”
But it doesn’t seem like good news.
She exhales a big breath and takes the white sticks from me, tossing them in the trash can. Then she moves around the room quickly, rearranging the things on the dresser she just arranged.
“Of course it is. I mean, the last thing we need . . .” She shakes her head. Her back is to me so I can’t read her expression. “I must’ve miscalculated my dates. Stupid. I’ll be more careful.”
“Chelsea.”
She turns around, head down, moving toward the door. “I have laundry to do. Rory needs his uniform tomorrow and—”
Before she gets near the door, I catch her with my arm and pull her in close. She presses her face into my chest and a second later she lets out a deep, choked sob.
Chelsea’s not a crier. Or a sulker. She’s scrappy, tough in that feminine, enduring, always-making-the-best-of-things kind of way. And I do my damnedest to make sure she doesn’t ever have a reason to cry. Because I’m tough, too. Hard. Some would even say callous. Except when it comes to her tears.
They fucking wreck me, every time.
After a minute, she hiccups. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
I stroke the back of her head. “You’re crying because you’re disappointed. Because, even for just a little while, you thought we were having a baby—and you were happy about it. You want to have a baby.” My own realization comes just a second before I say the words. “And I do, too.”
Her head jerks up, eyes darting over my face. “You do?”
I wipe at her tears with my thumb. “Well, I didn’t, up until a few minutes ago. But now . . . yeah . . . the idea of having a kid with your eyes and my bubbly personality . . .”
That gets her laughing because I’ve been called a lot of things, but bubbly will never be on the list.
“. . . that would be incredible, Chelsea.”
Her brows draw together. “So, what are we saying? Are we going to try and have a baby? Like, actively?”
Some guys would say I’m nuts, to add more time-sucking responsibility, more stress to our family situation. Especially now, when it finally feels like we have a handle on things.
But . . . screw it.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Let’s do it.” A thought occurs to me and I add, “I mean, if you’re sure you want to. This is going to affect you a lot more than it will me. You should consider that.”
Chelsea finished her graduate degree in art history just before our wedding. She really likes her job at a small offshoot of the Smithsonian, but even with a sitter helping out a few days a week, because of the inflexibility of my hours, she’s never been able to do more than part-time. A new baby would mean she wouldn’t even be able to do that—at least not for a while.
Chelsea wraps her long arms around my neck, reaches up on her tiptoes, and kisses me. It’s sweet, and hot at the same time. Needy, but tender, too. When she pulls back, there are still tears in her eyes—but happier ones.
“Let’s make a baby, Jake.”
Chapter 3
September
Whoever said trying for a baby is hard work is out of their mind. Our sex life was hot before, but once the effectiveness of Chelsea’s birth control wore off, it went into overdrive. My wife is creative—she’s a sketch artist as well as a curator—but the creative ways she found for us to fuck were nothing short of extraordinary.
On top of our normal, pre-dawn screwing, there was shower sex, lunch-break-on-my-desk at the office sex, on-top-of-the-washing-machine laundry-room sex, putting-away-the-groceries pantry sex. We even defiled the hall closet, which was a tight fit, and yet fantastic at the same time.
Then there was the night we had dinner with Stanton and Sofia, my best friends and partners at the firm, as well as parents to two-year-old Samuel. The four of us knocked back three bottles of wine and when we got home the kids were already fast asleep. So I nailed Chelsea, rough and dirty, over the back of the armchair in the den.
Needless to say, during the course of those weeks, I was a happy son of a bitch.
****
While Chelsea and I were busy trying to make a baby, the rest of the crew was remaining in denial about the arrival of the Best. Month. Ever. For most of my adult life, my calendar revolved around my career as a criminal defense attorney—bail hearings, arraignments, motions, trials. I was indifferent to what month it was, because every month was basically the same.
That all changed when I fell for Chelsea and the McQuaids.
Now, after a long, hot summer with a house full of needy kids, I look forward to September—the same way little ones all over the world look forward to Christmas. Back-to-school displays are up as far as the eye can see, and childhood despair is in the air. September is a good time.
Except . . . for school-supplies shopping.
That blows.
“It’s the wrong one,” Rosaleen tells me, scrunching her nose up at the folder in my hand.
I check The List—caps intended.
“It’s green. How can it be the wrong one?”
She points at the inventory as long as my arm. “It says lime green. That’s kelly green.”
Is this school fucking serious?
Annoyed, I jam the folder back into the disaster that is the store shelf and push the cart down the aisle.
“This box has ten crayons, Mommy. The List says I need the eight box,” Regan explains to Chelsea, who looks as frustrated as I feel.
“There aren’t any eight-crayon boxes, Regan.”
The midget shrugs. “Then we have to go to a different store.”
There’s no way the person who made these lists actually has kids. They should be shot. And at this moment, I would defend the person who shoots them, pro bono. Just saying.
Rory hands me a dictionary. “This only has nineteen thousand words—I need the twenty-one-thousand-word edition.” Then he smirks. “Don’t want to st
art the year off on the wrong foot. I need all the right feet I can get.”
He’s got a point there.
“Jake!” Raymond runs up to me from the end of the aisle. “Can I get this science calculator? It’s awesome!”
I glance at the calculator in his hand—it has more buttons than I’ve ever seen in my life. Only Raymond would get excited about a calculator.
“Sure, kiddo.”
“Sweet!”
I push my cart up beside my wife’s. “How we doing?”
She sighs. “Twenty items down—only about a hundred left. And that’s not counting the epic saga of backpack selection.”
I don’t remember needing so much shit when I was in school. It was a good day if I had a pencil in my pocket.
Chelsea lifts her purse and gestures to the box under it. A pregnancy test. “I picked this up for us. It says it can show results five days before my period’s due, so even though I haven’t missed it yet, we can take the test tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.”
Her eyes dance with hope. With excitement. When Sofia was pregnant with Samuel she experienced morning sickness. A lot. So I squeeze Chelsea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The way we’ve been going at it, you’ll be puking your guts out in no time.”
She smiles.
Then her lovely face straightens as she remembers something. “Speaking of which, you should talk to Riley today. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“No, I didn’t forget. Unfortunately.”
With sex and pregnancy at the forefront of our thoughts lately, Chelsea thinks it’s important that we talk to Riley about safe sex.
And by “we” she means fucking me.
She read somewhere about the positive effect a male relationship has on young girls and she thinks, coming from a guy, the information will have more of an impact.
I get it. It’s just going to be the most awkward, uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some winners, believe me.
Chelsea runs her hand over my chest. “What’s the matter? Big, tough guy like you afraid to talk to a teenage girl?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Afraid? No. Just never thought I’d think of the time I took her to a One Direction concert as the good old days.”