Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella(19)

I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

When she smiles at me—remorseful and forgiving at the same time—the tightness that’s been slowly crushing my chest since yesterday finally loosens. Chelsea’s arms wrap around me, holding on tight, and after a few moments everything starts to feel normal again.

Our normal is pretty awesome.

Raymond’s voice from the doorway, addressing his brothers and sisters, makes us both turn our heads.

“Yeah—they’re making out. Divorce averted.”

And then . . . we laugh.





Chapter 8

May

March and April go by on fast-forward, a blur of plea deals, doctor’s appointments, recitals, homework, baseball games . . . and Chelsea’s ever-increasing stomach.

It’s wild.

She was asleep the first time I felt the baby kick. It was a little before 5 a.m. and my eyes had just opened. I was thinking the ceiling needed to be repainted, when I felt it—a tiny jab against my ribs where the bump pressed against me. It was the first time the reality really hit that there was a baby in there. A whole, new, real, unique little person that Chelsea and I made together. Like I said—f*cking wild.

That’s when I finally understood what Chelsea felt at that first doctor’s appointment. The excitement. Total wonder. And even some impatience.

We decided months ago not to know the baby’s sex—much to the kids’ deep disappointment. Rory represented his siblings and debated with us for weeks. He cited the delicate boy-girl balance in our household and how the males, in particular, would have to mentally prepare themselves if, as he put it, there wasn’t “a penis in there.”

I told him there were few real surprises in life, so he was shit out of luck.

Chelsea tried to console him by saying she’d do her best with the penis thing.

But whatever’s in there, an auburn-haired little boy or a baby girl who’s as beautiful as her mother . . . either way, I can’t wait to meet the kid.

****

One early Saturday night, Chelsea and I are watching a movie with three of the kids in the living room, when the front door slams and the sound of sobbing and stomping feet fly up the front stairs.

“Riley?” Chelsea calls, but there’s no answer.

So the two of us head to Riley’s room. The door that had been taken away from her is now back—and her aunt knocks on it. When all we hear is crying from the other side, we walk in.

Riley’s on the floor, her back against her bed, her forehead on her knees. Her cheeks are wet and blotchy and big, heaving sobs rack her shoulders.

Chelsea awkwardly settles on the floor. “Honey?”

Riley looks up. “Peter broke up with me.” She pauses to cry into her hand, then goes on. “He said he didn’t want a girlfriend during the last summer before college.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Chelsea envelops Riley in her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m not. I’m f*cking elated. Best news I’ve heard all day.

Of course I can’t tell Riley that. She wouldn’t understand. So I offer my support the only way a guy in this situation possibly can.

“Do you want me to snap him in half for you? It’d be really easy.”

Riley squeezes her eyes and shakes her head. “I loved him so much. Why doesn’t he love me back?”

Chelsea brushes her niece’s hair out of her eyes. And she gets this determined, resolute look on her face. “Listen to me, Riley. Millions of women have been where you are right now. I know it’s hard and I know it hurts . . . but I promise you, you will come out of this stronger than you were before. There’s a reason; there’s something better waiting for you, just around the corner. And it won’t hurt like this forever. One day you’re going to wake up, take a breath, and realize . . . you’re over it. You’re over him.”

About fifteen minutes later, Riley asks to be alone—so she can listen to depressing songs on repeat and watch YouTube montages about her favorite deceased dystopian-books-made-into-movies characters. As we walk down the hallway, I mention, “You seemed pretty experienced in the whole breakup pep-talk thing.”

Her eyes crinkle up at me, curiously. “I’ve had my share.”

“Is that what you thought about me? Back in the day. Were you waiting for the moment when you realized you were over me?”

Boy was that a terrible time. I remember the weeks Chelsea and I spent as civil, polite, platonic friends—at my insistence—with a mixture of shame and nausea.

She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest. “No. I’d resigned myself to a life of faking it. Because I was sure there was no way . . . I’d ever be over you.”

“Yeah. You pretty much ruined me, too, Chelsea.”

****

That Tuesday, I’m in the office going over my messages when Brent—and his very round, very pregnant wife—walk in. Kennedy’s wearing pink velour sweatpants, one of Brent’s Batman T-shirts, and a pair of fuzzy beige boots that probably cost an obscene amount of money. She looks like a homeless person who raided a dumpster in the fashion district.

“Hey, Kennedy.”

“Hi, Jake.”

“How are you feeling?”

She rubs her protruding belly. “Like a tick ready to pop. Today’s my first day of maternity leave.”