41. Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-One
Grand-Mères, GOATS + a Prime Time Debut
Aspen
One year later.
The sunlight in our new home is different from the penthouse.
It’s warmer, filtered through the oak trees in the backyard and bouncing off the soft, cream-colored walls of the nursery.
Our son is exactly one month old today, and the house is a beautiful, chaotic symphony of drifting lullabies and the faint scent of lavender baby lotion. The kind Marlow swears by.
My mother is currently perched in the large rocking chair, cradling Uzo with a warmth that only grandmothers can give.
“Penny, I’m serious,” she says, her eyes never leaving the tuft of dark hair on Uzo’s head.
“We need to set some ground rules before he starts talking.
I am not going to be 'Grandma Bertha.' It makes me sound like I’m almost eighty years old and living in a rocking chair on someone's porch. I’m thinking something a little more modern. Maybe just 'GG' or something.”
I huff a laugh, adjusting the nursing pillow on the sofa. “He’s four weeks old, Mom. I think we have some time before he starts labeling people.”
She sighs, a dramatic, elegant sound. “One can never start branding too early. Now, is Croix coming by later?”
Luca walks in, carrying a warm bottle for the baby. “Yes. I just spoke with him. He’ll be here within the hour.”
“Oh good! I really like when ya’ll are all together,” my mother sings. “And is he bringing that lovely wife of his?”
“She’ll be here, too,” I confirm.
We’re moving at a breakneck pace today, rushing through an early dinner. Usually, a one-month-old in the house means staying in pajamas until noon and calling a successful shower a “major accomplishment,” but tonight is a different kind of milestone.
Tonight is First Down’s official debut.
He’s been grinding on the local circuit for years, making us laugh at backyard barbecues and small-town bars, but tonight he’s stepping onto a stage that actually matters. We’re heading downtown to the Supper Club for his first real comedy show.
“I still can't believe he's performing at a place called the Supper Club,” Mom says, her brow furrowing as she tries to place the name. "It sounds swanky.”
I stifle a grin. “It’s reputable enough, Mom,” I say. But I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out what’s served on the fourth floor.
And no, Luca has not taken me there…yet.
“Luca pulled a few strings for him, mom. He knows the owners. First Down is actually opening for Jamie Foxx tonight!”
My mother’s eyes go wide, her mouth falling open in a rare lapse of composure. “Jamie Foxx? The Jamie Foxx? He's the GOAT!”
Luca just shrugs, his expression the picture of nonchalance as he walks over to kiss the top of my head and then the baby’s forehead.
“Well,” Luca says with a playful tilt of his head. “He’s got to start somewhere, doesn't he?”
I look at my husband—the man who went from a whirlwind marriage experiment to the steady, unshakeable center of my entire world—and then at my mother, who is currently trying to teach a four-week-old how to say Grand-Mère.
The dumpster fire of the last six months hasn't just been extinguished, it’s been replaced by a hearth that’s actually worth sitting by.
I’ve traded the uncertainty of the sidelines for a permanent spot on the only team that matters.
Hook, line, and star-crossed no more.