Oh Baby
NORA
The lake house is chaos when I arrive, and I mean that in the best possible way.
Voices overlap in the living room—Camilla's laugh, Mia's gentle corrections, Mom directing traffic like she's choreographing a Broadway production. The dining table is covered in pastel ribbons, tissue paper, and what appears to be enough tulle to outfit a small ballet company.
"Nora!" Mom spots me first, waving me over with a glue gun that feels vaguely threatening. "Finally. We need another pair of hands."
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was—"
“Traffic is nonexistent in Eden," Camilla cuts in, grinning. “What were you really up to, huh?” She says with a wink.
I eye roll at her and drop my bag before surveying the organized chaos.
Lydia is at the dining table with two of Mia's cousins—Priya and Anjali, I think—all three of them weaving garlands with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for bomb defusal.
Mom and Lydia are debating the merits of lavender versus mint green ribbons like it's a matter of national security.
In the living room, Camilla, Marcus, Mia, and a guy I don't recognize are assembling what appears to be miniature gift bags.
"Nora, this is Alex," Marcus says, gesturing to the man beside him. "My boyfriend. Alex, this is Nora, the friend I told you about."
"The bestselling author," Alex says, standing to shake my hand. He's tall, polished, with kind eyes and the sort of firm handshake that screams lawyer. "Marcus talks about you constantly. It's annoying, actually."
"I do not," Marcus protests.
"You literally have a spreadsheet ranking her books."
"That's called being a supportive friend.”
I laugh despite myself and settle onto the couch beside Camilla, who immediately hands me a glue stick and a pile of miniature thank-you cards.
"You're on bag duty," she says. "We're making sixty of these, so pace yourself."
"Sixty?" I stare at the components spread across the coffee table—tiny bottles of hand sanitizer, lip balms, chocolates, personalized tags. "How many people are coming to this shower?"
"Forty," Mia says from her spot in the armchair, one hand resting on her very pregnant belly. "But Lydia insisted on extras in case people bring plus-ones."
"Or in case I eat half of them," Camilla adds. "Those chocolates are really good."
Mia looks radiant, honestly. Eight and a half months pregnant and she's glowing in that way people always talk about but you don't really believe until you see it. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and she's wearing a soft cotton dress that shows off her bump.
"You look incredible," I tell her, and I mean it.
"I look like I swallowed a yoga ball," Mia says, but she's smiling. "I can't see my feet anymore. Ollie has to tie my shoes."
"That's adorable," Marcus says.
"It's humiliating."
"It's pregnancy," Lydia calls from the dining room. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Soon you'll be sleeping in two-hour increments and covered in spew.”
"Very reassuring, Lyds,” Mia laughs.
"I'm just being honest."
Alex leans back, surveying the scene with barely concealed amusement. "I have to say, this is significantly more wholesome than how I usually spend my Saturday afternoons."
"What do you usually do?" Camilla asks.
"Depositions, mostly. Contract negotiations. The occasional threatening letter."
"He's an entertainment lawyer," Marcus clarifies. "He makes sure artists don't get screwed over by studios."
“Oh, no way,” I say.
Alex shrugs. "It has its moments. Though most of it is reading contracts so dense they could be used as doorstops."
"Do you know Wesley Grant?” Camilla asks, and I nearly drop my glue stick.
There's a beat of silence.
"Horizon Pictures, right?" Alex says carefully. "I know of him. We've never worked together directly."
"He's Nora's fiancé," Mia offers, and I want to sink into the couch cushions.
Alex's eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh wait, I do remember seeing that the other week. Well. Congratulations."
"Thanks," I manage.
"He's a piece of shit," Camilla adds cheerfully. "Just so you know."
"Camilla," Lydia warns from the dining room.
"What? He is. Multiple sources confirm."
Marcus is trying not to laugh. Alex looks like he's mentally drafting a very polite exit strategy from this conversation.
"So Nora," Mia interjects. “Ollie says you're staying with Nate? How’s that going”
“She’s not staying with him.” Camilla intervenes before looking at me. “You have your own bed right?”
The name drops into the room like a grenade, and I watch everyone's attention shift to me with the synchronized precision of a dance troupe.
“I have my own cabin.” I reply.
"Wait," Alex says. "Who's Nate?"
"Oh, this is good," Marcus mutters, settling in like he's about to watch his favorite show.
"Nate is Nora's ex," Camilla explains. "First love. Childhood sweetheart. The one that got away. The reason she writes emotionally devastating romance novels that get turned into movies.”
"That's not—" I start.
"It absolutely is," Mia interrupts gently. "Your books are basically just Nate with different names."
"They are not."
"The brooding musician with the tragic past who's really good with his hands?" Camilla raises an eyebrow. "Book two. That was Nate."
"The guy who builds furniture and has commitment issues but is secretly a softie?" Marcus adds. "Book three. Also Nate."
"I'm sensing a pattern," Alex says.
"There's no pattern," I insist, but my face is burning.
"So let me get this straight," Alex continues, clearly entertained. "You're engaged to one guy but staying at your ex's studio?"
"It's not like that."
"It's exactly like that," Camilla says. "She's been there for days. Living in a cabin sixty feet from his. Book four perhaps?”
"It's a Nicholas Sparks novel waiting to happen," Marcus corrects.
"I hate you all.”
"Nothing about this is practical," Mia says, but she's smiling. "But we support you anyway."
"This is better than cable," Alex mutters.
“Right?” Marcus adds.
"Should I move back to the lake house?" I ask the room. "Is that what you're all telling me?"
"No," Camilla, Mia and Marcus say collectively.
"You should stay exactly where you are and see what happens." Camilla continues.
“And you should ask yourself what you actually want," Mia says quietly. "Not what's practical. Not what makes sense. What you want."
The room goes still.
I look down at the half-assembled gift bag in my lap, at the tiny bottles and ribbons and chocolates that are supposed to celebrate new life and new beginnings.
"I don't know," I admit.
"Yes you do," Camilla says. "You just don't want to say it out loud yet."
Marcus squeezes my shoulder. "For what it's worth, I vote for the guy who inspired four bestselling novels over the guy who's reportedly a piece of shit."
And just like that, the chaos resumes.
But this time, I'm laughing.
Because this—this messy, nosy, overwhelming, unconditionally supportive group of people—this is family.
Even when they're completely out of line.
Especially then.