Chapter 16 #2
Ian, Hamish's old friend, a struggling actor who oozes charm, sees Hamish and lights up.
They were born three days apart, next door neighbors in Glasgow, and Fiona and Ian's mum are best friends.
I first met him when I was Hamish's handler, and we were in California.
Hamish took me to a Scottish pub where Ian bartended, and I watched as Hamish forced money on him, learning about Ian's diabetes and how Hamish was worried he couldn't cover his medical expenses.
It was the first time I realized that underneath the playboy exterior, there was a deeply responsible, caring man.
A man who's is now my child's father.
"Hamish!" he calls.
Hamish's whole body loosens, like he just stepped back into a version of himself that existed before the injuries and pressure. They hug, back claps filling in for emotion. Hamish slings his arm around Ian's shoulders and his friend looks down at his knee.
"Aye, ye're still limpin'," Ian says.
"Ye still got eyes," Hamish replies.
Ian's gaze flicks to my belly.
"Jesus. Ye did it, ye bawbag."
"Why do you insult each other while smiling?"
"It's affectionate."
"It sounds so rude."
"Aye," he says, smiling. "That's why it's affectionate."
"Congratulations," Ian says to me with a wicked grin.
"Thank you. We're excited to meet her." I pat my belly.
"Nae, I mean fer pinning this one down," he says, squeezing Hamish's shoulder. "Ne'er thought I'd see the day Hamish McCormick picked just one woman fer life. Good on ye. Ye must be special."
Hamish fixes his gaze on me. "She is," he says softly.
"Remember I'm the one that called it," Ian says smugly.
"Told ye back in California. Ye handled him well, and when I heard Fiona said ye'd marry, I ken ye were right fer each other.
I even asked if ye and Hamish had bairns, how would yer sister's kids be related?
Lot o' McCormick blood in there, minglin'.
Double cousins or somethin', aye?" He points to my belly.
"So if it's a boy, put Ian on the name list."
"It's a girl," I assure him.
"Well," Ian says, eyes scanning the crowd. "Unlike numpty here, I am not rooted ta one woman, so there's a blonde carrying a catering tray givin' me eyes, and I need ta get a number. Cheers!" He walks away, leaving Hamish laughing, me smiling.
Ye must be special.
We take our seats at the front table. Hamish sits between Fergus and James; without even realizing it, he's become a bridge between them.
Fergus McCormick is wearing a blazer, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, a man who has lived a long life and decided humor is the only way to survive it.
James is composed, expensive-looking, a quiet force that makes the room feel more controlled.
"Ye've picked a fine woman." Fergus says, and Hamish's throat moves.
"Aye. I have."
"I'm pleased ye've moved on from only havin' three kinds o' women in yer life," Fergus adds, casual as the weather.
"Da..." Hamish blinks.
"Three?" I ask, suddenly invested. "Tell me more."
Fergus holds up three fingers.
"Groupies." One finger.
"Flight attendants." Second finger.
"And daughters o' men ye dinna like." Third finger.
I choke, Hamish turns red, James's mouth quirks.
"That last one got him so much media attention," James winks. "Name recognition matters, whether it's on the pitch or in the bedroom. You're married to him because he slept with his old team owner's daughter."
"Uncle," Hamish groans.
"Name recognition doesna help if it ruins yer reputation," Fergus says evenly.
"It does if there are enough dollar signs attached," James spars.
"Money isna everythin'."
"Says a man who doesn't have much," James counters, but Fergus just shrugs.
"Aye, and ye think emotions are a hostile takeover."
These are two men who spent years apart, half-brothers, their father a man who started a family in Scotland, then moved to America and began anew. Fergus is Old World; James is New World. Now they find themselves sharing family events again, because their children refuse to repeat their mistakes.
Across the room, Fiona stands with her shoulders squared. Her face is set in what she thinks is a pleasant expression but makes me think of Mom's Labor, Porn, or Constipation? game, heavy on the constipation face.
She approaches, voice low.
"Ye shoulda spent the money on a proper weddin'."
"We're no' doin' this today, Mum," Hamish says.
Fiona's mouth opens. Hamish continues, firm but not cruel.
"This is Amy's day. Our day. The baby's day. Ye can enjoy it or ye can sit in the corner and glare at a napkin like it's an Englishman visiting the Culloden fields. Yer choice."
The air tenses. Fiona blinks, then exhales, clipped.
"Aye. Fine."
And she walks away.
I stare at Hamish. He shrugs, as if boundaries are just a thing he has always had in his back pocket. My chest fills with pride, gratitude, and love.
Lots of relief, too.
Food arrives, plates that look delicate but taste robust. My baby approves, especially enjoying the shrimp puffs and the miniature pecan pie tarts.
Then the games begin, and they're not humiliating, just silly and fun.
Bingo, the squares filled with things Hamish will say to the baby:
Ye're a wee menace.
Dinna bite yer mum.
Where's yer socks, bairn?
Who taught ye ta swear?
Och, kick the ball, no' ma bollocks.
Even Fiona laughs once, quick and surprised, like it escaped her without permission.
Gifts come next.
Carol gives diapers, wipes, and a food delivery gift card.
"My standard new-parent gift. The gift card is because you won't cook," she says.
"And if you try, you'll cry and milk will cover your shirt and you'll cry harder and you'll feel like an utter failure and you'll just scoop peanut butter out of the jar with two fingers while breastfeeding and swig ginger ale until you burp so hard, you startle the baby. "
"You need therapy," I whisper. She nods in agreement. Jeffrey gives her a major gimlet eye as he points to himself and mouths, Was that me? Ewww.
Shannon gives a baby carrier that looks like NASA designed it.
"It has lumbar support," she says. "It has a pocket for snacks. There's a USB charging station in the straps. And a button for trading cryptocurrency."
"Is there built-in tech support for adults who get caught in it?" Hamish wants to know.
"Why would you need that?" Shannon asks slowly, but he waves her off and gives me a look that says, Dinna even think about showing her those toilet pictures.
Fiona stands, and the room quiets.
She walks up with a box wrapped in tartan paper, solemn, as if presenting a national treasure.
"This is a Baby's First Kilt kit."
I open it: tiny kilt, little vest, socks, mini sporran.
It's absurd but also sincere. Hamish's expression changes. His eyes hold mine for a second, and I understand what this is. Fiona is trying to claim a piece of the baby, trying to pass on something meaningful. Trying, in her prickly way, to show love without saying the word.
"It's adorable," I manage, and I mean it.
Fiona nods once.
"Aye. And it's so verra practical."
She meets my gaze, daring me to laugh. I do not. I just nod back, a tacit agreement between two women who love the same man, but don't know how to share him.
Then James stands with a sleek black box.
"A prototype baby monitor," he says. "It uses sound analysis to determine whether the baby needs to be fed, changed, soothed, or if it is angry."
"Angry? Bairns get angry?" Hamish's eyebrows lift.
"Hamish, have you met humans?" Carol calls out.
"It sends alerts to your phone," James adds, "where AI interprets the baby's voice frequency."
"Will it send alerts to me, too?" Mom asks eagerly.
"No," James replies immediately.
Mom pouts.
"Does it tell ye when the bairn's tossin' yer keys into the nappy pail?" Fergus wants to know. "Eatin' a bug? Drawing all over yer new dinin' table wi' permanent pen?"
"Those features are scheduled for Version Two."
"Guid." Fergus nods, satisfied. "Hamish did all that and more."
James faces Fergus. Fergus stands. James extends his hand. Fergus takes it. A handshake, firm and simple, as if they are agreeing to stop carrying old weight into a new generation.
"You've done well with him," James says quietly.
"Aye." Fergus's eyes soften. "And ye've done well with yers."
James's jaw tightens in a way that tells me the words matter, even if he'll never admit it.
He nods once, and that's it. But everyone sees it.
Darren stops scanning the room. Cora goes still.
Even Fiona's rigid posture softens, just barely, watching her husband and his half-brother find a way to meet in the middle, somehow.
Across the gifts, I catch Hamish's eye. He's watching me with that look, the one that makes me feel seen down to my bones. I put my hand on my belly and the baby kicks.
I mouth, Ours.
Hamish mouths it back. Ours.
He stands and comes around the table to me, careful with his knee, hand reaching for mine. He kisses my knuckles.
"Thank ye," he says. "Fer choosin' this. Fer choosin' us."
"Thank you," I whisper. "You were this raging playboy—and sickeningly happy—and you dropped into my life. You needled and joked and didn't give up, and you thawed me."
"Thawed you? That's a fine way o' callin' me hot." His eyes flare, tender and fierce.
Then my mother's voice cuts across the room like a trumpet.
"Okay! Everyone gather for a group photo!"
"Dinna tell me what ta do, woman!" Fiona snaps.
"This is goin' ta be a disaster." Hamish's grin turns wicked.
I look up at him, my heart full, my body heavy, my future uncertain yet somehow bright.
"Yes," I say. "But it's our disaster."