Soon, all eyes are miraculously dry and everyone’s back on track for a quiet night.
• • •
Long after we put the kids down for the night, tension hangs in the kitchen. Owen scrubs relentlessly at the scorched pot while I nurse a glass of cranberry juice, wishing it were wine.
“When we move to Nashville,” he says, “let’s hire a personal chef to make all our meals.”
Based on the half smirk he gives me, I can tell that he’s joking. Still, it kind of stings.
“I’m trying my best, okay?”
He pauses, his hands at rest as his dumb man-brain catches up with his words.
When he meets my eyes, his are full of contrition. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re doing great.”
I nod, accepting his apology. But something is eating away at me, and I feel like if I don’t say it right now, I’ll end up like the swiss cheese I put on the kids’ sandwiches—kinda nutty and full of holes.
“Nashville is a big move,” I say carefully. “Away from our friends. Our support system. Your parents. Bishop’s school.”
“True. But you’ve said yourself that we’re due for a change. Nashville could be that change.”
I think back on a late-night conversation we had over wine maybe two days before I found out about baby number four.
I guess I did say that, didn’t I? Oh, how naive that Becca was.
“I just don’t know if it’s the right time.”
“Oh, come on. What do you have against Nashville, Becs? I know you don’t like country music, but I promise it’s not all—”
“Owen, I’m pregnant, okay?”
“You’re . . .” He half turns to me with a confused smile on his face, as if he’s waiting for me to finish the joke.
No punch line this time, buster. Just a punch-to-the-gut reality check.
Owen’s smile slowly fades. When all I do is blink at him, he turns off the faucet and hangs his head, staring at the suds.
My heart is crawling up my throat, pounding painfully in my ears. I need him to say something. Say anything.
“We weren’t even trying,” he says, his voice deep.
And just like that, my heart plummets. I don’t know what exactly I wanted him to say, but that wasn’t it.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump there. “I know. The doctor said that the pill isn’t one hundred percent effective. So there was always a chance.”
“How long have you known?”
“About a week.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Physically? I’m okay.”
“Good. That’s good. I’m . . . gonna go for a run,” he says suddenly, shooting me a sideways glance that has all of my insecurities doing the rumba.
“But the dishes—”
“I’ll finish them in the morning. Let’s talk about this later.”
Owen drops a kiss on my head, just like he always does, but I barely feel it. I listen halfheartedly as he rushes upstairs, opening and closing drawers to change into his running clothes. He’s down the stairs and out the door in less than two minutes.
“Be safe,” I call out.
“I will,” he calls from the foyer.
The door closes behind him, and all is quiet on the Parrish front. I lean back in my chair, resting my hand on my belly.
That was the hard part. I told my husband that we’re expecting our fourth child. Now he knows, even if his reaction wasn’t all puppies and roses. I don’t blame him. I also told him I’m not so sure about his plans for Nashville.
I remember Owen’s reaction when we found out about Bishop. He was over the moon, and so protective. The memory feels distant, like it’s someone else’s. I remember too what he said when I told him about the twins. He’d lifted me into his arms and kissed me.
I try not to think too hard about how, this time, his first impulse was to run.
4
* * *
BECCA
“Don’t!”
When Bishop screeches at the top of his lungs, I pivot in the patio chair to gauge whether it’s a happy screech or a bad screech. With a quick scan of Ana’s yard, I spot Hunter chasing Bishop around the petunia bed, little Bobbie on their heels.
Okay, definitely a happy screech. Carry on, gremlins.
My son may be causing a ruckus, but my girls are more than happy to sit back and relax with us ladies. Elise bounces Charli on her knee while I keep Bella gleefully occupied with a teething ring. Meanwhile, Harper avoids too much contact with the little ones, but that’s not unusual.
Brunch with my girlfriends has become more and more difficult over the years with Ana and me juggling full-time motherhood responsibilities. Harper and Elise have been great about it, agreeing to meet at one of our homes rather than the handful of cute brunch spots we used to frequent. These days, Ana and I alternate hosting every month, and it works well enough when the kids are on good behavior. Fewer mimosas, more “Mommy this” and “Mommy that.”
“I don’t know how you two do it,” Harper says between bites of Ana’s homemade quiche.
“It helps for them to have built-in friends.” Ana giggles, shooting me a wink. “They’re old enough to entertain themselves for the most part. Hunter adores Bishop.”
“Ditto,” I say, wearing the most cheerful smile I’ve managed all week.
We always go around the table and talk about our husbands—how they’re doing this season, what date nights have looked like recently, what’s been causing any stress at home (if anything).
But when it’s my turn, I immediately turn to Harper. “How are things with Jordie?”
Luckily for me, no one calls me out for avoiding the same question about Owen. The only evidence I have that he came home last night is the pile of running clothes in the hamper. He was gone again before I opened my eyes. When he said we’d talk about baby number four later, I guess he really meant later.
“Jordie? He’s . . . fine. He’s always fine. But I’m . . . Well, long story short, the honeymoon period is over and our marriage might be next.”
Elise and I share a quick knowing look. This is just like Harper, ready to fire off a bold statement when she’s on the defensive.
Ana, ever the peacekeeper, gives Harper a soft smile. “What makes you think that?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Are you kidding me? Is my whole life an echo chamber? I’m half waiting for 2003 Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the bushes with a full camera crew and yell, You’ve been punk’d!
Then Harper says, “With twins,” and I nearly burst into laughter. What are the chances?
“Oh my God, Harper! Congratulations!” Elise squeals, so enviably out of touch with no kids of her own.
Harper shakes her head in response, like she’s turning down an offer for seconds. “Thank you, but . . . I just don’t think Jordie can handle twins. I don’t even know if I can.”
“Have you told him?” Ana asks gently, wrapping one of Harper’s hands in her own.
She’s so effortlessly maternal. God, I wish I was like that.