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  Chelsea laughs. Then walks over when Regan calls her to look at puppy-covered notebooks.

  “I’m booored,” Ronan whines from his seat in my cart.

  “We’re almost done.”

  “This sucks.” He frowns.

  “Don’t say ‘sucks,’” I tell him in my best “parental” voice. “It’s not a nice word.”

  His devil-cute blue eyes meet mine. “But it does suck.”

  I hold back a grin. Because I have a weakness for the pure honesty kids have at his age—before they learn to weigh their words or shadow their opinions.

  I rub his head, messing up his thick blond hair. “Yeah, it does.”

  ****

  That afternoon, I bite the bullet and stick my head through Riley’s bedroom door—she’s lying on her bed, phone in hand.

  “Hey.”

  She plucks an earbud from her ear. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Got a second?”

  Her long-lashed eyes narrow. “I didn’t do it.”

  Preemptive denial—always suspicious.

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever you want to talk to me about. It wasn’t me.”

  “Noted.” I jerk my head toward the spare bedroom. “Come on.”

  She gets up and follows, throwing her brown curly hair up into a messy bun. We walk into the yellow-walled spare bedroom a few doors down the hall, and I close the door behind us. Riley sits on the bed with a half-annoyed sigh—like I’m wasting her precious time. As if there weren’t a hundred other things I’d rather be doing—like getting a root canal without Novocain.

  I cross my arms, look at her, and imagine I’m in court, talking to a witness. Calm, cool, and steady—that’s my job. And I’m fucking good at it.

  “So . . . you and Peter . . . how’s that going?”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Uh, fine?”

  “Six months is a long time in high school years.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is that like a candy anniversary?”

  And now she looks even more weirded out. “What are you talking about, Jake?”

  “Okay, here’s the deal—your aunt and I have noticed that you and Peter seem . . . pretty serious. And . . . we want to make sure you’re being safe.”

  The last word hangs heavy in the air. Like one of Cousin It’s rancid dog farts.

  Riley’s face turns a startling shade of fire-engine red. “Oh my God. Is this really happening?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know, I know, it’s fucking awful.” Then I open my eyes and tell her the bare honest truth. “But this is important, Riley.”

  Her eyes hit the floor and she breathes out a quiet, “Okay. But I’ve already had the sex talk. Like, years ago, with my mom. I know about being safe.”

  And there goes the eye roll—it was only a matter of time.

  I nod. “Knowing isn’t the same as doing. Especially when you’re in high school.” I open the nightstand drawer and pull out the box of condoms inside it. “So, this is always going to be in here. For you to use. No questions asked. Me or your aunt will replace the box as needed—again, no questions asked, Riley.”

  Trust me—those are answers I do not want to hear.

  “Just to be clear, this isn’t us saying we’re okay with you having sex. This is us being realistic and wanting you to protect yourself . . . if and when you do.”

  I put the condoms back in the drawer and lean against the wall, crossing my arms again, as Riley watches me.

  “Some guys may try and give you a hard time about using condoms. And as a guy, I’m telling you straight up—screw them.”

  The echo of my own words penetrates.

  “I mean, don’t! Don’t screw them. Ever.”

  Shit, I’m bad at this.

  A quick, awkward chuckle pops out of Riley’s mouth.

  I rub the scruff on my chin, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite and tell you to wait until you’re married . . .”

  Though it’s very tempting.

  “I just want you to remember . . . people can get hurt when they have sex before they’re ready. No one’s ever been hurt by waiting.”

  She doesn’t say anything and I don’t really expect her to—but the contemplative look she’s wearing tells me everything she doesn’t say. She’s hearing me.

  “And if anyone ever pressures you or hurts you . . .”

  I will tie them to a tree and burn them alive.

  “. . . if you ever have any questions or you’re wondering about something . . . you can talk to us. Me or your aunt—there’s nothing you can’t tell us. Got it?”

  She nods. “Got it.”

  I dip my chin. “Good.”

  Riley stands up and we walk to the door. Halfway there, she pauses. “This was really open-minded of you, Jake. And I appreciate you and Aunt Chelsea, you know, swapping gender roles in this situation.”

  Is that what we did?

  “But . . . let’s never speak of this conversation again. Sound good?”

  All the air rushes out of my lungs. “Jesus Christ, yes. Sounds great.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up and a smile. It’s small and still really embarrassed, but it’s a smile.

  “Awesome.”

  ****

  The next morning, Chelsea and I are right back where we were a few weeks ago, sequestered in our bedroom, counting down the three-minute wait time to read the pee test. Chelsea’s more subdued this time, keeping a tight rein on her anticipation.

  I sit on the bed, tapping out “Iron Man” on my legs. Anxiety is an uncommon feeling for me—but I’m feeling it now. Because, I want this. For her. Because it’ll make her so happy.

  And I want it for me, too.

  Chelsea pushes a reddish-brown lock behind her ear and stands before me. “It’s time. You want me to look?”

  I grasp her hips and pull her between my legs, planting a kiss against her sternum.

  “I’ll do it.”

  This time around, when I step out of the bathroom, I do it smiling. Big and proud. Actually fucking giddy.

  Chelsea doesn’t wait for me to say the words. She takes one look at my smile and throws herself straight into my arms.

  Because we are well and truly knocked up.

  Chapter 4

  November

  It’s a good thing the sex was so abundant before Chelsea got pregnant. It made the weeks that followed—when the pussy party came to a sad, screeching halt—a lot easier to bear. It was the exhaustion that got to her first. It hit Chelsea like a freight train—not even my mouth between her legs could wake her up.

  I didn’t take it personally.

  Then the puking started. Morning sickness would strike in the afternoon, which—big-picture-wise—was for the best. Because most afternoons she was at the museum, which made keeping the news from the kids a lot easier. Not telling them, until after we were sure everything was up and running, was a decision Chelsea and I made together. One in five pregnancies ends in miscarriage during the first trimester—and if that tragedy happened to us, and the kids knew, we’d be opening a whole can of ugly worms that we didn’t want to go anywhere near.

  So, for the first few months, we didn’t tell anyone. I went with her to the first doctor’s appointment. Chelsea cried when she heard the heartbeat, and cried harder during the first ultrasound.

  I didn’t. Seeing a gray blob on a screen and hearing a whoosh-whoosh sound didn’t do anything to me. Didn’t make any of it real.

  I kept that to myself though. Because I’m not a fucking idiot.

  ****

  “So . . . I have big news.”

  It’s a mild, sunny Thursday afternoon and me, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia are having lunch at a bar and grill a couple blocks from our building. Brent leans forward on his elbows as he makes this proclamation, his mischievous baby blues landing on each of us to make sure we’re paying attention.

  If Peter Pan ever decided to grow up, I imagine he’d lo
ok a lot like Brent. He’s always had this carefree, spontaneous attitude—and getting married a year and a half ago only brought that out in him more. Because now he’s got a partner in crime.

  Brent and Kennedy travel a lot on the weekends: white-water rafting, skydiving, Antiques Roadshow hunting—they’ve done it all.

  With a smile that won’t be stopped, he announces, “Kennedy’s pregnant.”

  Sofia squeals, her long dark hair swaying as she pops up and pulls Brent into a bear hug. Stanton raises his glass, and I reach across the table and slap Brent on the back.

  “Congratulations.”

  “That’s awesome, man.”

  I lean back in my chair with a smirk. “How’d your mother take the news? Did she spontaneously combust?”

  Mrs. Mason has been looking forward to a grandchild since Brent hit puberty.

  “We haven’t told the parents yet. I’m trying to hold off the Fatal Attraction stalking for as long as I can. But we’re going to have to tell them soon. You know how small Kennedy is—she’s already starting to show. If her mother makes a comment about her weight, there’s an excellent chance I’ll finally tell her to go fuck herself.” He takes a sip of his lemonade. “Could make Thanksgiving dinner awkward.”

  I’m not generally a fan of the word bitch, but if there was ever a woman who deserved the label—it’s Kennedy’s mother, Mitzy Randolph.

  “How far along is she?” Sofia asks.

  “Three and a half months.” And there’s a light in Brent’s eyes that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

  So warm and fuzzy that even though Chelsea is still a few days shy of the end of her first trimester, I hear myself say, “Well, since we’re sharing, I guess I should tell you guys . . . Chelsea’s pregnant, too.”

  There’s more squeals from Sofia, and deep, congratulatory chuckles from Stanton.

  What I get from Brent is, “Dude, you are so screwed.”

  “Hey,” I tell him, “think fast.”

  Then flip him off with both hands.

  He laughs, because if you can’t give your friends the finger . . .

  “Why is your wife’s pregnancy the second coming but Chelsea’s screws me over?”

  It’s not that I really care, but his thought process is usually entertaining.

  “Because I don’t have six starters already sitting on the bench. I mean, damn, Riley’s a senior so she has half a foot out the door—and you’re already replacing her.” He holds up an open hand. “That being said, if anyone should have dozens and dozens of kids—”

  “I think we’ll stop at seven,” I interrupt.

  “—it’s you and Chelsea. Congratulations, big guy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When is Chelsea due?” Sofia asks.

  “She’ll be twelve weeks on Sunday. Due date’s in June.”

  “They might end up sharing a birthday,” Brent comments. “Maybe, after they’re born, we should set them up. If they get married we’d be related.”

  “They might be the same sex, genius.”

  He shrugs. “That’s legal now.”

  “Yeah,” I snort, “and there’s nothing creepy about an arranged marriage.”

  Brent holds up his hands. “All I’m saying is if we had listened to our parents, me and Kennedy would’ve been enjoying relationship bliss a long time ago.”

  “If either of you needs a babysitter, Presley’s always looking to make extra cash when she’s up here,” Stanton volunteers.

  Presley is Stanton’s seventeen-year-old daughter with his high school sweetheart, Jenny. She lives most of the year in Mississippi with her mother, stepfather, and two little brothers. Between those two and Samuel, Presley could practically run her own day care at this point.

  “Oh, I’m so excited!” Sofia claps her hands. Then to her husband, she says, “It’s all happening just like we talked about.”

  “Talked about?” I ask.

  Stanton nods. “Sure. Samuel’s out of the baby stage and we’re not having any more . . . ”

  Sofia finishes his sentence—because that’s how they roll.

  “. . . so we’ve been waiting for you two to get on the ball so we can get our baby fix on . . .”

  “. . . and then give ’em back,” Stanton drawls.

  They both nod.

  Sofia raises her glass. “To our next generation—may they be smart, talented, and beautiful, just like their parents.”

  We all drink to that.

  Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag, it’s time Chelsea and I tell the kids.

  This should be interesting.

  ****

  The six of them sit around the table . . . looking guilty. Why? They remind me of inmates lined up in cell block B, hoping the COs don’t find the contraband taped under the toilet. My eyes narrow at each of them, and I wonder what it is I don’t know.

  “So, we wanted to talk to you tonight because we have some exciting news,” Chelsea says, taking my hand on top of the table.

  Interrogations will have to wait for another time.

  “Are we going on vacation to Aruba?” Riley asks, wide-eyed.

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Florida?” Rory tries.

  “It’s not a vacation, guys,” Chelsea says, much to their disappointment.

  “Are we getting another dog?” Regan hopes.

  “No,” Chelsea and I say at exactly the same time.

  “Guys—shut up and listen.” Raymond always was the helpful one.

  Chelsea’s eyes dance from child to child, and you can almost feel their anticipation. “Jake and I are having a baby!”

  At first, no one speaks. Or moves.

  Then Raymond ventures, “Are you, like, adopting?”

  “No, honey,” Chelsea answers. “I’m pregnant.”

  Riley’s the first to pop up from her chair and hug us. “Congratulations, guys, that’s awesome.”

  “I really wanted another dog,” Regan says, gravely disappointed.

  Rosaleen leans forward. “Did you guys go to the doctor’s to get pregnant? Like Jackie Barbacoa’s two moms?”

  “No . . .”

  She thinks on that. While Rory wants more clarification.

  “Then how did this happen?”

  Chelsea glances at me, then shrugs at the kids. “The old-fashioned way.”

  Rory’s hand goes to his stomach. “I’m gonna puke.”

  That’s when they all start talking at once—except for Raymond, who sits back silently. Dazed.

  “What’s the old-fashioned way?” Regan asks.

  “Wow,” Rosaleen comments.

  “No, I’m seriously gonna puke.”

  “What’s old-fashioned mean?”

  Ronan stands on his chair. “I’m not gonna be the littlest anymore? I get to be the boss of someone?”

  “That’s right,” I tell him.

  He pumps his fist. “Yes!” Then he starts marching around the table chanting, “I’m gonna be a boss, I’m gonna be a boss . . .”

  While Rory sprints to the umbrella stand in the corner—gagging.

  “Huhhh, huhhh . . .”

  “Somebody tell me the old-fashioned way!” Regan yells.

  And Rosaleen gets fed up. “It’s when the man and woman fall in love and the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina and nine months later a baby comes out of it.”

  Regan looks at me like I’m a monster.

  “You put your penis in Mommy’s vagina?”

  Christ, this went downhill quick.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “. . . I’m gonna be a boss . . .”

  “We’ll talk about that when you’re older.”

  “Huhhh, huhhh . . .”

  “And now a baby’s gonna crawl out of you?!”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You’re so immature, Regan.”

  “Shut up, Rosaleen.”

  “Huhh . . .”

  Ronan puts the icing on the cak
e. “How big is your vagina, Mommy?”

  And I try to be helpful.

  “It’s not that big.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Chelsea’s head whips to me. And we both crack the fuck up.

  She covers her eyes with one hand, waving at the kids. “You’re crazy. You guys are all crazy.”

  But they’re not even listening to her.

  As the chaos continues to erupt, I put my arm around Chelsea’s shoulders and