Chapter 12 If The Bird Shits, I’m Out Cara
MOST PEOPLE WATCH SOMEONE’S FACE to get to know them. Study their expressions—if they look away when they say something, chew on their lip, flush. Me? I study their hands.
Do they fidget when they’re talking to someone new, or about something uncomfortable?
Do they tap against the armrest when they’re forced to wait, or do they lace together as they lean forward, closer, patient while they listen?
How steady is their hand when it’s pressed to your back or squeezing your shoulder?
I’ve learned a lot about people by watching their hands for a few mere moments, and right now, as I stare down at mine, at the tremor that seems to have gotten more violent with each day that passes in our third and final round of IUIs… mine are a fucking mess.
“How’s this one?”
I clasp my hands tightly in my lap, willing away the nerves I can’t shake, fixing a smile on my face as I look up at Rosie, standing in the fitting room.
She’s beautiful, but then she always is.
Her hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, stunning honey waves with shimmering rose gold woven throughout, brushing her collarbone.
She’s draped in mauve lace, a gorgeous dress with a plunging neckline and dropped sleeves, an empire waist that highlights her growing belly.
Despite the feeling in my stomach, the way it seems to clench, the forced smile on my face melts away, replaced by one that’s nothing but genuine.
“You’re beautiful, Rosie.”
She smiles at me, bashful and pink-cheeked. “You think?”
I nod. “That’s the one, babe. And check out that rack. Adam’s gonna lose it.”
“Agreed,” Lennon sighs, looking longingly at Rosie’s belly. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No. I’m not ready for parenthood. Not yet.”
Jennie snorts a laugh. “Garrett caught Jaxon Googling cat with newborn photoshoot ideas the other week on the plane, so you might want to relay that to your husband.”
Lennon rolls her eyes. “I know. He discovered Pinterest during that research session, and now I can’t get him off the fucking app.
Mittens isn’t ready to share the spotlight, though.
Honestly, Jaxon isn’t ready to share the spotlight.
” She frowns. “I don’t think I am either. I like being the center of his world.”
“That won’t change,” Olivia assures her, doing her little pregnancy waddle over to Rosie as she fawns over her dress. “I was afraid of that with Carter too. I know I whine sometimes about him being a little over the top—”
I fold my lips into my mouth, but my laugh slips out. “A little.”
“Okay, a lot over the top. But the truth is, I love being the object of his obsession. I remember watching him hold Ireland that first night, the way he couldn’t tear his eyes off her, like he couldn’t believe something as beautiful as her existed.
It was such an overwhelming feeling for me.
I fell so much more in love with him in that moment, and at the same time, I felt this strange feeling in my chest, a pang of jealousy, almost. That I wasn’t going to be his anymore.
” She sniffles, turning her attention to Lennon.
“Then he walked over to me with her in his arms, crawled onto the bed, and pulled me into his chest. ‘It feels like my heart got bigger,’ he said, ‘so I’d have enough room for both of you.’ ”
I sniff, forcing my constricted chest to inflate. “Jesus, that man really knows what to say sometimes, doesn’t he?”
“He puts his foot in his mouth more often than I can count, but he always shows up when it matters.” Olivia smiles. “Boys like ours don’t forget how to love us when our minis come along. They just figure out how to open their arms a little wider, because their world got bigger.”
I hang my head as a vision of my world dances in front of my eyes. There’s my family, my friends, each with their own growing brood. And there’s Emmett, hands tucked in his pockets, a broad grin on his face as he looks at me, like I’m the only thing he sees.
But then his gaze coasts behind him, and the smile on his face falters, dims slowly as he watches our friends with their kids.
His eyes come back to mine, filled with a longing I feel so deeply, and he steps forward.
His hands leave his pockets, and I try not to notice, but even in my head I feel the way one lands on my lower back. The way it trembles.
What if Emmett’s already opened his arms, a little extra space waiting for something precious to be tucked inside? What if I can’t ever fill it?
“Hey.” Olivia loops her arm through mine when we leave the shop ten minutes later. “How you doing?”
“Good. Great. I’m awesome.”
“Uh-huh. So, hey, do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
She smiles at me, everything saucy and knowing and all my best friend. “Cut the shit.”
I huff a laugh, squinting up at the sky.
“Tired. My brain is just… tired.” I don’t know how else to explain the sheer exhaustion running rampant through me.
I spend most of my days in my office lately, communicating with vendors, with clients, finalizing plans.
I get out with the girls once a day for a gossip walk, which is mostly where we share all the ridiculous things our husbands are doing and I’m forced to exercise at the same time.
Preseason games have ended, and Emmett’s been home for two weeks.
Things are quiet, even the sex, and yet my mind is a fucking mess.
Jumbled thoughts I can’t untangle, unfamiliar emotions I’m trying to get a grip on, and the icing on the cake: existential dread.
My life is a web of ovulation calendars and bloodwork.
Injections that have left my torso mottled and bruised, and goopy fucking progesterone shots that leave me uncomfortable and my underwear wet all damn day.
It’s overthinking every little pang, every flutter of butterflies in my stomach, Googling early pregnancy symptoms, scouring the online support groups, obsessing over vitamins, over every product I put onto my skin, swapping all our plastic Tupperware for glass and refusing receipts because of the BPA levels.
It’s me, tearing my goddamn hair out, searching for an answer, trying anything, everything, in case it’s the one thing that makes a difference for me, because it worked for someone else.
I’m fucking exhausted, but the most exhausting thing by far?
The grief that comes with each failed cycle, month after month, and the way I feel every ounce of hope leave my body.
Just for me to manage to find a shred of it again the next month, to latch onto the idea of a miracle, battle against that giddy feeling vibrating through my body with each pregnancy test, like this really might be the time I get that extra pink line.
Only to have all that hope torn from my grasp all over again.
Hope, in the face of infertility, is by far the most exhausting, isolating, soul-crushing emotion I have ever, ever felt.
And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
Olivia laces her fingers through mine, squeezing tenderly.
“I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, Care, but I want you to know that I see you.
I see your strength, your determination in the face of your struggle, and I admire you.
You don’t have to do it all, though, either.
Like, this.” She gestures with her head back at Rosie, strolling alongside Lennon and Jennie as they talk about her upcoming baby shower, the one I insisted on throwing for her, the one she just bought that dress for.
“If it’s too much, just say the word. Fuck, you don’t even have to say anything. Just blink twice, and I can take over.”
“It’s not too much.” It might be. It’s hard, at the very least. But Rosie never had a baby shower when she had Connor.
Hell, she didn’t even have the father of her baby at the damn birth.
She deserves to be showered, and I want her to always be sure of her place in this family.
“I want to do it. For Rosie and Adam. I’ll be okay. But thank you for checking in.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. “I’m here, though, okay? Lean on me. Lean on all of us. That’s what family is for, Care. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”
“Even if all you want is someone to sit next to you in silence,” Jennie adds quietly, stopping beside us at my car.
“Or if you need to scream,” Lennon says. “If you need to cry, and you want someone to cry with you.”
Rosie wraps her arms around me, and the rest of the girls follow. “We love you, Cara. You’ve always been our rock. Let us be yours.”
And I do. We stop off for lunch at a little café, and they sit there and listen to me as I talk about the needles, the early-morning cycle-monitoring appointments, and never-ending bloodwork.
They don’t interrupt me, but they listen with their whole hearts, hands reaching out to squeeze mine, rest on my shoulder, or tug me into their side for a hug.
When we pull into my driveway later in the afternoon, I feel lighter, a little bit more like me, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen me, I almost don’t recognize myself.
The scene when we walk through the front door is… well, it is what it is, I guess, because these boys are who they are, and we chose them, or whatever.
Still, I drop my bag to my feet, strutting through the foyer, stopping at the edge of the living room, arms crossed over my chest as I take in this shitshow.
The shitshow is Garrett, on Emmett’s back, shrieking bloody murder, his face buried in my husband’s hair.
Carter, rolling around on the kitchen floor, attempting to shield his face while Ireland and Connor beat him with the oven mitts they wear, so big they’re all the way up to their shoulders.
Jaxon, arms out in front of him, running through the living room in a hideous crocheted vest with his name and number on the back.
What is he running from?
A sparrow, in my fucking living room.