Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella(8)

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 f*cking 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 * 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 f*cking 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 look 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.”