Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella(11)

Stanton passes me a cold beer from the ice bucket on the end of the table. “Welcome to the party.”

Two-year-old Samuel squeals as Sofia tickles him, murmuring something in Portuguese. Then he pops a candy in his mother’s mouth.

“Check it out, Jake.” Rory motions to the half-constructed building in front of him. “Me and Brent are making the law firm. Becker, Mason, Santos, Shaw and McQuaid—has a pretty nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Kennedy answers before I can. “You should think about being a prosecutor, Rory. We have a great office building.”

Brent scoffs. “Don’t listen to her—she lies. Her office is shit small.”

Kennedy plops a glob of icing on Brent’s nose.

But he’s not bothered at all. “Now you have to lick that off, Wife.”

She adds a red M&M to the center of the icing. Taking the cue, Regan screeches, “Food fight!”

“Noooo!” Chelsea laughs. “No food fighting.”

Brent shakes his head at his wife. “You’re such a bad example.”

Kennedy just sticks her tongue out at him.

“Presley and I are making the capitol building,” Raymond tells me from the other end of the table. “Together.”

Then, behind the seventeen-year-old’s back, he gives me a thumbs-up and wiggles his eyebrows. That crush is still going strong.

Chelsea takes my hand. “Come on, grab a chair. What should we make?”

Sometimes I look around and wonder, how the hell did I get here? How is this my life? It all changed so fast. But then I stop wondering. Because how this life became mine doesn’t really f*cking matter. I’m just crazy-happy that it is.

“Let’s make our house,” I tell Chelsea.

Her eyes flare. “Good one. Let’s do it.”

****

On Christmas morning the kids converge on our bedroom at 4 a.m.—it’s the one day they’re allowed to come in without knocking. When wrapping paper covers every inch of the floor, and the dog and the kids are busy figuring out their new toys, I set Chelsea up with a cup of tea on the couch, while Rosaleen and I start making enough strawberry-and-blueberry pancakes to feed an army.

Rosaleen whisks a huge bowl of batter while I slice the strawberries.

And out of nowhere, she asks, “Do you think you’ll like the baby more than us?”

The knife in my hand freezes. “What?”

She shrugs, blond curls jiggling. “We’ll understand if you do.”

It takes me a second to come up with an adequate response.

“You know how in school they tell you, ‘there are no stupid questions’?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re lying to you.”

She snorts but doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing hard on her bowl.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Well . . . the baby will be yours. Yours and Aunt Chelsea’s.”

I put the knife on the counter, wipe my hands, and crouch down to her eye level. When those sweet blue eyes are on me, I give her the firm, irrefutable truth.

“You are mine. Mine and Aunt Chelsea’s. Never doubt that.”

The words sink in . . . and then, slowly, she smiles. And her grin is brighter than all the Christmas lights on this street put together.

“Okay.”

I nod and stand up. “Now let’s get these pancakes made before your brothers start eating the tree.”





Chapter 6

January

After a relatively quiet New Year’s, the kids head back to school. Being home with them over the break, I noticed Raymond was really quiet. Too quiet.

So, one day, when Chelsea’s boss calls her in early to the museum, and I’m in charge of getting them on the bus, I hold Rory back at the front door.

“What’s up with him?”

Rory follows my gaze toward his twin brother’s back. Then he shrugs. “Raymond worries.”

This isn’t news to me. Like many intelligent children, Raymond has anxieties: global warming, droughts, nuclear war—if there’s a possibility of worldwide catastrophe, Raymond’s shitting a brick about it.

“What’s he worried about these days? Specifically.”

Rory’s gaze turns cautious, reminding me of a witness on the stand. “I can’t tell you. It’s a brother-code kind of thing. But . . . Raymond doesn’t have a password on his laptop. If I was a smart guy—that’s where I’d look to find out what’s going on.”

Then he heads down the driveway. “Later, Jake.”

“Yeah, have a good day, kid.”

I wait in the front until they all get on the bus. Then I head straight to Rory and Raymond’s room. They’re twins, but from the looks of their room, you wouldn’t think they were even related. The top bunk—Raymond’s—is neatly made with hospital corners; the bottom is a ball of blankets, crushed pillows, and mangled sheets. One desk is a disaster area covered in papers, video-game controllers, empty soda cans. The other desk is just-dusted shiny and clean—save for the closed silver MacBook Pro laptop sitting dead center.

I’m sure some parents would feel guilty about invading their kid’s private space, but I’m not one of them. Kids can have privacy when they move out.