Chapter Twenty-Five
Julien
The spreadsheets worked.
I needed to document this moment. To record it for posterity, for future generations, for anyone who ever doubted that chaos could be conquered through proper organization and meticulous planning.
The spreadsheets worked.
Athena’s pregnancy had proceeded according to schedule. Well, my schedule. The feeding times, the prenatal appointments, the vitamin regimen, the exercise routine, the hydration tracking—all of it had been executed with surgical precision.
“You’re very smug,” Athena said from the couch, where she was currently thirty-seven weeks pregnant with triplets and approximately the size of a small planet. Possibly Jupiter.
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re absolutely smug. You’ve been smug for weeks. You’re practically radiating smugness. If smugness were visible, you’d be glowing.”
“I’m satisfied,” I corrected, reviewing my latest checklist. “There’s a difference.”
“You literally have a spreadsheet tracking your spreadsheet success rate.”
“That’s just good data management.”
“It’s smug. You have a graph. With color-coded bars showing the correlation between spreadsheet adherence and pregnancy milestones.”
“Visual representation aids in pattern recognition.”
I looked up from my tablet. She was smiling at me. That smile that meant she was teasing but also genuinely amused by my neuroses. Also, she was eating pickles dipped in peanut butter, which the pregnancy cravings spreadsheet had predicted would happen.
The spreadsheets never lie.
“The pregnancy has gone smoothly,” I said.
“Because of your spreadsheets?”
“Partially.”
“Not because of, say, my body doing what bodies naturally do?”
“That too,” I admitted. “But the organization helped.”
“The organization,” she said, shifting uncomfortably and trying to find a position where three babies weren’t using her internal organs as a trampoline, “also made me eat breakfast at exactly seven-thirty every morning.”
“Consistency is important for fetal development.”
“I’m nocturnal, Julien. Seven-thirty is the middle of the night. It’s basically three AM in Athena time.”
“You adjusted.”
“I grumbled.”
“Minor grumbling is acceptable within the parameters of the plan.”
She laughed, then winced and put a hand on her stomach. “Baby B is kicking again.”
I was at her side immediately, my hand joining hers. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Just... active.” She smiled. “They’re going to be just like you. Precise. Organized. Probably color-coding their toys by eighteen months.”
“That would be developmentally advanced.”
“I’m joking, Julien.”
“I know.” I kissed her forehead. “But it would be impressive. And efficient. Toy retrieval time would decrease by approximately forty percent.”
“You’ve calculated toy retrieval time?”
“It’s in the childcare efficiency spreadsheet.”
“Of course it is.” She laughed again, and I felt that familiar warmth in my chest. The one that appeared whenever she was near, whenever she smiled, whenever she looked at me like I was simultaneously ridiculous and exactly what she needed.
The universe had tested me, and I had won.
Take that, cosmos.
Suck it, universe!
The satisfaction lasted exactly four more days.
Four days of smug certainty that I had conquered chaos.
Four days of believing my organizational skills were superior to cosmic interference.
Four days before I realized the fatal flaw in my planning.
Four days of thinking I’d finally beaten the universe at its own game.
“Julien,” Athena said, standing in the doorway of what was currently my office but would soon need to be converted into a nursery. “Where exactly are we putting three cribs?”
I looked up from my laptop, where I was currently updating the nursery layout spreadsheet. “In here. I have the layout planned.”
“And where are you putting your office?”
“I’ll move it to the bedroom.”
“Where we already don’t have space because of all your color-coded filing cabinets?”
“I’ll consolidate.”
“You have seventeen filing cabinets, Julien.”
“Sixteen. One is for archives.”
“That’s not better. And what about the changing station?” she continued.
“In the nursery.”
“Which is also your office?”
“Former office.”
“And the rocking chair?”
“Also in the nursery.”
“And storage for diapers, wipes, clothes, bottles, three car seats, the stroller? The triple stroller that’s the size of a small bus.”
“It’s only the size of a large sedan.”
“And three swings, three bouncers, three of everything because there are THREE BABIES!”
“I have a storage plan.”
“Julien.” She walked into the room, her hand on her lower back, moving with the grace of someone who was carrying approximately forty pounds of baby. “This apartment is nine hundred square feet.”
“Nine hundred and forty-three square feet.”
“We don’t have room for three babies.”
I stared at my laptop screen, at the carefully designed nursery layout I had spent weeks perfecting. At the color-coded zones for sleeping, changing, and feeding. At the optimized traffic flow patterns. At storage solutions that would maximize vertical space.
She was right.
The apartment was too small.
How did I miss this?
“We need a house,” Athena said gently.
I calculated EVERYTHING. I have spreadsheets for spreadsheets. I have backup plans for my backup plans. I have—“We need a house,” I repeated, my voice hollow.
“A bigger house.”
“Significantly bigger.”
“With room for a nursery.”
“Multiple rooms,” I said, my mind already racing, already spiraling, already calculating square footage and mortgage rates and property taxes. “We’ll need separate spaces for sleeping, playing, storage—”
“Julien.”
“—and a home office for me, and space for your healing practice, and—”
“Julien.”
“—adequate closet space, and a kitchen large enough for three highchairs, and a dining area that can accommodate future growth, and—”
“JULIEN.”
I stopped.
She was smiling.
“We’ll find something,” she said. “The universe will provide.”
How is she smiling? We need to buy a house. In approximately three weeks. Before three babies arrive. This is not a smiling situation. The universe, I thought grimly, has provided nothing but chaos, triplets, and a crippling real estate crisis.
But I didn’t say that because I was still trying.
“I’ll start researching properties,” I said.
“Of course you will.”
“I’ll create a spreadsheet of requirements—”
“Naturally.”
“—and we can begin viewings this weekend.”
“Perfect.” She kissed my cheek. “But, Julien?”
“Yes?”
“The house has to have good vibes.”
I stared at her.
“Good... vibes?”
Blinked.
Stared some more.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know. Good energy. Positive spiritual resonance. The right feeling.”
“The right feeling.”
“Exactly!”
“Athena, I need concrete criteria. Square footage, number of bedrooms, location, school district, proximity to hospitals, crime statistics, property tax rates.”
“And vibes,” she said firmly. “I’m not living somewhere that doesn’t feel right.”
“How do I measure vibes?”
“You don’t measure them. You feel them.”
“I don’t feel things. I assess them logically.”
“Then you’re going to have to learn.” She paused, her hand on her stomach. “And, Julien? I can’t go with you.”
“What?”
“I’m thirty-seven weeks pregnant with triplets. Dr. Morrison said no unnecessary travel. You’re going to have to find the house without me.”
I felt my left eye twitch.
“You want me to find a house with good vibes?”
“Yes.”
“Without you there to assess the vibes?”
“Yes.”
“How am I supposed to know if a house has good vibes if you’re not there?”
“You’ll figure it out.” She smiled. “The universe will guide you.”
The universe, I thought, is going to guide me straight into a nervous breakdown, a psychiatric facility, and possibly an early grave.
My eye twitched harder.
“She wants WHAT?” Hayden asked, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
We were in the hospital cafeteria: me, Nathan, Hayden, Gabriel, Quinton, Winnie, and Fitz. I called an emergency meeting because I was, quite frankly, losing my mind.
“Good vibes,” I repeated. “The house has to have good vibes.”
“What does that mean?” Nathan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes. She said I have to feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“The vibes.”
Silence.
Then Hayden started laughing.
“This is not funny,” I said.
Not just laughing. Cackling. Like a hyena that had just heard the funniest joke in the history of comedy.
“This is hilarious,” he corrected, wiping tears from his eyes.
“This is the funniest thing I’ve heard all year.
The universe looked at your house-hunting spreadsheet and said, ‘You know what would really mess with Julien? VIBES.’”
“The universe is a menace.”
“The universe is a comedian,” Fitz said, grinning. “And you’re the punchline.”
“The universe is a sadist,” I corrected. “Can we focus? I need help.”
“We know,” Gabriel said kindly. “What kind of help?”
“I need you all to come house hunting with me.”
“Why?” Quinton asked.
“Because maybe one of you can figure out what good vibes means.”
“Julien,” Nathan said carefully. “None of us know what good vibes mean.”
“Then we’ll learn together.”
“How?”
“I don’t know! But I have six properties lined up for viewing this weekend and Athena can’t come because she’s too pregnant, and I need someone to help me assess spiritual energy or cosmic resonance or whatever the hell good vibes are.”
More laughter.
“I hate all of you,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” Winnie said. “You need us. Which is why we’re all going house hunting this weekend.”
“We are?” Gabriel asked.
“We are,” she confirmed. “Because Julien is going to have a breakdown if we don’t help him, and I don’t have time to manage another breakdown.”
“I’m not going to have a breakdown.”
“Your left eye is twitching.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It’s absolutely related,” Hayden said. “But fine. We’ll help. This is going to be entertaining.”
“My suffering is not entertainment.”
“It absolutely is,” Fitz said cheerfully. “When do we start?”
“Saturday. Ten AM. First property.”
“I’ll bring popcorn,” Hayden said.
“This isn’t a show.”
“It absolutely is.”