Chapter 17
Tuck
“Can grief make you—” I circle a hand in the air, searching for the right word. “Like, lose the plot? Cuckoo?”
We’re out back, after being banished from the kitchen, listening to a flock of noisy blackbirds as the setting sun wrings the colors from the earth.
It’s part of my parents’ well-worn ritual. It starts the same way every time, with Mom tidying around Dad’s prep, then inching closer, sprinkling in extra salt or tweaking his carefully balanced pasta sauce. Before long, she’s meddling in the sacred art of simmering versus boiling. Dad tolerates it up to a point, until his patience finally cracks, and she’s exiled until dinner is ready.
Mom shuffles her feet, considering. “Well, I guess it can alter your state of mind if that’s what you mean,” she says in her measured, teacherly tone.
“I mean…like making rash decisions?”
“You’re worried about Penelope?” Mom adjusts a cushion behind her back. “I think she’s handling things remarkably well, considering the shock of Caitlyn’s death. Naturally, there are a lot of decisions to make quickly. But she’s set a date for the funeral, she’s considering options for the house. What more could you ask of her at this point?”
“That’s just it,” I explain. “She’s suddenly running around like a maniac. Funeral’s sorted, she’s been spending time in Newcombe at that shelter place, interviewing people who knew her mother, collecting contributions for the service.” I shake my head. “She’s barely stopped to take a breath.”
Mom shrugs. “That all sounds completely normal, Tuck. What are you so concerned about?”
I press my lips together, hesitating. “She…decided something. Out of nowhere.”
“And what’s that?”
I rub the back of my neck. “She wants to have a baby.”
Mom carefully sets down her glass of white wine. “Well, she’s in her mid-thirties, Tuck. It’s not unusual for women to start thinking about motherhood at that time.”
“I mean—like now . Soon.”
“And…with someone?” Mom leans forward, scanning my face. “Or are you saying she wants to do this alone?”
I fold my arms. “She can’t exactly have a baby alone, can she?”
“There’s more than one way to cook an egg, Tuck,” Mom says wryly. “Excuse the pun.”
“But someone still has to be the father.”
“So who does she have in mind?”
“That’s the thing.” I sigh. “She hasn’t really said.”
Mom purses her lips, thoughtful. “And you’re suggesting this decision is a reaction to losing her mother?”
“Yes! Maybe? I mean, couldn’t it be? Grief, emotions, everything getting mixed up in her head?”
“Possibly.” Mom reaches for her wine again. “Or perhaps she genuinely wants a baby.”
“But…surely that should just happen naturally when she, you know, meets the right guy.”
Mom’s mouth quirks slightly. “And if the ‘right guy’ doesn’t appear? Should she just let the opportunity pass her by?”
“She’s got time.”
Mom lets out a quiet sigh. “Tuck, her mother just passed away at fifty-five. That’s young. You don’t think that shifts Penelope’s perspective on things? And women’s fertility isn’t the same as men’s. It starts declining in the early thirties, significantly more so after thirty-six. A man can theoretically father children well into old age. A woman doesn’t have that luxury.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “But still, it’s not something you just decide overnight.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “And you think it happens overnight? Do you know how long your father and I tried to conceive you?”
I wave my hand, grimacing. “TMI, Mom. I don’t need to think about you and Dad…you know.”
Mom coughs on her mouthful of wine. “And perhaps I don’t need to think about your sex life either, Tuck. But it’s pretty hard to ignore what goes on between you and Penelope whenever you’re together.”
I jolt upright. “Wait. What?”
She’s laughing now, fully enjoying herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think you were being discreet?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Oh, Tuck.” She shakes her head, still amused. “You and Penelope have always had a special connection. But I’ve wondered, from time to time, how healthy it is. Tell me, is Penelope the reason it’s over between you and Stella?”
And there it is, the conversation I’d rather not have with my mother. But I’ve already blurted out too much, and there’s no walking it back now.
I shrug.
“Use your words, Tuck,” Mom says dryly.
“I don’t know. Yes. According to Stella, I’m in love with Penelope.”
Mom sighs. “Oh, dear. Poor Stella. She never really had a chance, did she?”
“I didn’t set out to hurt her. And I didn’t cheat on her.”
“There’s more than one way to be unfaithful, Tuck. If your heart belongs to someone else, you can hardly give it to another woman.”
“I didn’t say I’m in love with Pen, that’s just Stella’s theory.”
Mom tilts her head. “And yet, the moment Caitlyn died, you dropped everything to be here for her. You, who always puts business before personal relationships. You have a history with Penelope that no one else does. You’ve rearranged your life for her, you’re sleeping with her, and now you’re completely thrown by her decision to have a baby. Why ?”
I stare into the darkening sky, exhaling. “It’s just…unexpected. Pen’s always been a free spirit. And now she’s talking about kids? Since when? With who? What kind of guy is she even looking for?”
“As we established, she may not be looking for a relationship with whoever fathers the child.” Mom’s voice softens. “When a woman chooses a sperm donor, it usually comes down to clear attributes. Health, genetics, academic achievements, physical appearance, ethnicity.”
I shake my head. “That’s no way to choose a partner.”
“Are we talking about a partner or a sperm donor, Tuck?” Mom asks, watching me carefully. “Because if Penelope’s looking for someone to actually co-parent , then it’s about something else entirely. Reliability. Security. Compatibility. Love . And whether that love can be sustained through the challenges of parenthood and living together.”
“Basically,” I murmur, “a marriage.”
Mom catches my eye, starts to speak, then hesitates as Dad appears.
He tugs off his apron. “Do we know if Penelope’s joining us for dinner?”
Mom and I exchange a look.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head. “She’s out with Misha somewhere.”
“Then let’s eat!” Dad claps his hands and hustles us inside.
And I’m stuck in my head all through dinner, clearing up, half an episode of some nature documentary Dad’s into, and Mom’s detailed recap of my cousin’s fortieth birthday—the one I missed last month.
When they head to bed, I wander into the kitchen, pacing as I set water to boil for some herbal tea I probably won’t drink. My eyes keep drifting to the window, scanning the house next door. Wondering when she’ll be back.
Pen and Misha are hanging out a lot. It seems Misha’s at a constant loose end with Steven’s long shifts at the fire station, and her bestie, Vivian, tied up at the restaurant most nights.
What can they still be talking about? Is Pen gauging Misha’s thoughts about this baby bombshell? Are they strategizing the best way to choose a father?
Is she talking about me ? About us ?
What we are.
What we aren’t.
What she might want us to be.
I turn to check the clock on the countertop.
It’s late. Where is she?
The restaurants are closed by now. A bar?
A sharp, cold twist in my gut.
No way. She wouldn’t. Would she? My grip tightens on the edge of the counter.
What if she’s out there, scanning the room, sizing up possibilities? What if she and Misha are weighing options, breaking it down like a damn checklist: height, IQ, eye color…like picking out a stud horse?
I can practically hear her, half-laughing, half-serious. “ He’s got great hair, but do we think it’ll hold up against male pattern baldness?”
My jaw locks. The thought of her sitting across from some guy, assessing him for potential fatherhood. Or worse, letting some asshole put ideas in her head about what she should be looking for. Shit.
I shove a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. It’s none of my business. She can do what she wants. So why does the idea of her doing this make me feel like I’m about to tear apart?
The kettle clicks off, but I don’t move.
The kitchen is dim, with just the light from the overhead range hood. It casts long shadows across the counter as I rub at my face, willing myself to stop obsessing.
I press my palms against the counter, telling myself to let it go.
Until— thunk.
A flash of something at the window, followed by a sharp whack against the wooden sill.
I jolt forward.
What the…?
I squint through the glass. A bird? A lizard? A branch?
The backyard is still, silent.
Then, I look down and spot a single bronze, strappy sandal on the ledge.
My pulse kicks up.
I straighten, eyes snapping upward.
And freeze.
What the hell is she doing?