“That was a joke. We were pretending to be an expectant couple for that stupid childbirth class mystery shop,” Josh hisses. “Don't hold it against me now!”
“Were you joking back then when you told me I wasn't fit to raise a sea monkey?” I shoot back.
“Of course I was! The entire mystery shop was a joke.” He runs his hands up and down his body, pointing. “I was pretending to be hetero. We were acting. You're more than capable of raising a sea monkey.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey,” he says, brow furrowed in concentration. “Remember how we learned that some women eat the placenta? Are you planning to do that?”
“Yes. I'll eat half right after the birth and freeze the other half. Then I'll wait a few months, until I'm back at work.”
“Why wait until you're back at work?”
“So I can cook it up, slip it into my lunch bag, and put it in the staff kitchen at Anterdec. Then when you steal my food, you'll eat it.”
“You wouldn't!”
“What good is making an entire organ with my body if I can't use it to torment you? And aha! You didn't deny being the leftover thief!”
“Of course I'm not.” But his shifty eyes give him away.
Of all the moments for my father-in-law to appear.
He looks at the carved-up alien baby on the table.
“I see Marie made the cake herself,” he says dryly, reaching for an unopened bottle of whisky of such high quality and expense I'm one hundred percent sure he brought it as a contribution to the celebration, but with the intent of consuming most of it himself.
“No! I found someone on Facebook Marketplace who does baby cakes,” Marie chirps.
“That's supposed to be a baby? It looks like someone hit a clown with a Humvee and you scraped it off the turnpike.”
We all do a double take, because that's exactly what it looks like.
“It's nothing some good ice cream can't fix,” Carol says patiently.
James shakes the whisky bottle midair. “This will suffice as my dessert.”
I grab the slice with the baby's nose and chomp down. Mmmm. Caramel.
Jason joins us. The bottle in his hand is amber, and must be some kind of locally brewed beer.
“Andrew.” They shake hands, Jason turning to James to do the same. Then his eyes settle on–take a guess.
My attached boulder.
“Two in there, huh? We never had two babies at the same time. That's going to be so much fun.”
“You have a warped idea of fun, Jason,” James comments.
“I love babies. You two ever need a babysitter, let me and Marie know.”
“Hey!” Declan says to his mother-in-law. “You're our babysitter.”
“Ellie's growing up. We need a new baby to hold,” Marie says pointedly. She actually sniffs.
“Is that a subtle hint?” Shannon asks, coming in next to Declan to slide her arm around his waist.
“Since when do I hint?” Marie replies. “I've been saying Ellie needs a sibling since...”
“Since we conceived her,” Dec mutters.
“If you two want to get started on another, go for it. I'm sure there's a closet somewhere here at Pam's where you can have privacy,” Marie says to Declan.
Who points at Andrew and me. “They're the ones with a thing for closets.”
“Maybe that's how we stop fighting about cribs,” I say to Andrew with an elbow nudge. “Just give them a walk-in closet to sleep in.”
“Who does that? Sounds cruel. Besides, we can afford new cribs.”
“You can afford to build new walk-in closets,” Jason says drolly as he offers up a piece of poop.
Which I accept gratefully.
“Why are we eating cake first? Don't we normally do this later?” Declan asks, spearing a chunk of red cake that must be from the placenta and chewing thoughtfully. He scoops a piece of poop off his plate and eats it.
Andrew turns green.
“What kind of party games did Shannon come up with?” Marie asks, eyes bright with excitement. “Remember Porn, Labor, or Constipation?”
“How could we forget, Mom?” Amy says, frowning as she enters carrying a red and white polka-dotted gift. She looks at me, teeth gritted, eyes shining maniacally as she adds, “I'm never having kids after playing that game.”
“Come on! The pain isn't that bad.”
“I meant the constipation pictures.”
“Oh. Yes. The first postpartum poop is–”
Amy shoves a piece of chocolate poop in her mom's mouth. She moans.
“I love these chocolate shavings around this pink cake!” James says, appearing with a slice. “How inventive. The shades of pink and purple are so vivid.”
“It's a hairy vulva,” Marie explains.
Instantly, Andrew turns on one heel and leaves.
“A what?” James inquires politely.
“Hairy vulva.”
“Is that a Latin term?”
“Like cunnilingus?” Marie replies, clearly perplexed. James begins to choke.
Good to know my father-in-law knows the meaning of that word.
“Don't you dare mention Cardi B. and Megan Thee Stallion's song,” Shannon whispers in my ear. I laugh, which nearly makes me pee, which confuses my central nervous system, and suddenly, I'm hiccuping and have an eyelid twitch.
“If we're going to talk about vaginas at a baby shower, it should be mine. Not the one on the lovely cake Marie brought,” I say, trying to divert attention.
It works.
“And have you seen the album?” Mom says loudly as she picks up on my cue and changes the subject. “Amanda's baby photos.” Mom looks at James. “We have one of Andrew, too, thanks to his father.”
“You do?” Andrew says, surprised.
“Of course. Remember the copies I made years ago and gave to you for Christmas?”
Declan looks at Grace, who is now across the room, chatting animatedly with Gina. “You mean the copies Grace made and put into the albums we all received.”
James waves his hand dismissively. “You have them. I assume the boys will look like Andrew,” he says in a tone that is so annoying it's as if it's all affect, but it's not. James came out of the womb clutching a mergers and acquisitions contract and an ego the size of Missouri.
“You can't assume that.”
“Why not? My sons resemble me.”
“They have some of Elena in them, James,” Grace points out, joining our group. I notice Gina now at the table, picking up a Cheeto marshmallow treat, sniffing suspiciously.
“Fine. And the boys would certainly be well served by big, smart eyes like Amanda's,” my father-in-law says, offering an unctuous–and rare–compliment.
I blame the scotch.
“Thank you,” I say politely, earning a dazzling smile from him. The guy may be in his sixties, but I see how he manages to get women in their twenties to date him. Charm doesn't fade from men like James McCormick.
Or from his sons.
Andrew's arm wraps around my expanding waist and squeezes my hip, his nose in my hair. “I hope our boys take after you. But when we have a girl, she'll–”