Chapter 47 #2
Reid groans. "In my defense, the second time was the toaster's fault."
"You put a Pop-Tart in a toaster oven set to broil," Blake says. Not looking up from Claire.
"The dial was confusing!"
"It said broil."
Tony shakes his head. "You two are like an old married couple."
The room goes quiet. Just for a beat. Not awkward — more like everyone clocking the phrase at the same time. Two. Old married couple.
Tony catches it. His face does a quick reset. "I mean — all three of you. Sorry. I'm still — I don't always know how to—"
"You're fine," I say. Because he is.
"It's a learning curve," Reid says. Easy. No edge. "We get it."
Kerry takes a pull of her beer. "It doesn't stop, by the way.
The learning curve." She's not looking at anyone in particular.
Just talking. "Mila and I have been together eight years.
Married for three. People still trip over it.
Not mean people. Just — people who haven't had to think about it before. "
"The worst ones are the nice ones," Jamila says. "The ones who say I totally support you and then spend the rest of dinner being weird about it."
"Or the questions," Kerry says. "'So who proposed?' 'Do your parents know?' And my personal favorite — 'Which one of you is the guy?'"
She gestures at herself — the flannel, the basketball shorts, the ponytail. "As if it's not obvious."
Jamila throws a napkin at her. "You are not the guy."
"Babe, I'm a little bit the guy."
"You cried at a dog food commercial last week."
"The dog was old, Mila. He was bringing the ball back one last time. That was emotional terrorism."
Tony's losing it. Angie's got her face in her hands.
"The thing nobody tells you," Jamila says, catching her breath, "is that it's not the big stuff.
The big stuff you're ready for. It's the small stuff.
The waiter handing one of us the check — always Kerry, by the way.
The nurse asking if we're friends. People slow blinking and needing time to process when I say 'my wife'. "
"You'll get that times three, probably," Kerry says. Looking at me now. Steady. "People not knowing where to look. Which one of you to address. Forms that don't have a box for what you are." She shrugs. "You just figure out who's worth explaining yourself to and who isn't. That's the whole game."
The room's quiet. Not heavy. Just — listening.
"Extremely relatable," I say. My voice comes out thicker than I want it to.
Jamila catches it. Gives me a look. Don't you start.
I take a sip of wine. Regroup.
"This is better than anything on Netflix," Jamila says.
"We should charge admission," I say.
"I'd pay," Tony says..
The conversation rolls. Tony tells the story about Reid locking himself out of the rig with a patient inside.
Kerry and Jamila argue about whether Jamila could successfully follow a recipe if Blake wrote it in crayon.
Angie's leaning into Tony, laughing, loose.
Reid's on the floor next to Blake making faces at Claire until she does this hiccupy giggle that makes everyone stop and lose their minds.
Blake catches my eye across the room. Holds it. Claire's asleep on his chest, one tiny hand still gripping his finger, and he looks—
Settled. He looks settled.
I mouth I love you.
He doesn't mouth it back. Just holds my gaze. Nods once. Slight. Just for me.
Yeah. I know.
The evening winds down easy. Hugs at the door.
Angie tucking a sleeping Claire into her car seat.
Tony clasping Blake's hand, clapping Reid's shoulder.
Jamila squeezing me hard—longer than usual—and whispering I'm really happy for you against my ear.
Kerry hugging Blake, which I'm pretty sure shocks him, then slugging Reid in the arm.
"Do this again," Tony says from the driveway.
"Absolutely," Reid calls back. "Blake will bake."
"Blake didn't agree to that," Blake says.
"Blake will bake," Reid repeats.
Headlights pull away. Taillights disappear around the corner. The street goes quiet.
I close the door. Lean against it. The house is warm and messy—wine glasses on the coffee table, pie crumbs on the floor, Claire's burp cloth draped over the arm of the couch.
Reid stretches. Blake starts collecting plates.
"Leave it," I say.
They both look at me.
I grin. "So. Who gets me first?"
Beat of silence.
Reid's eyes go wide. Blake's hands stop on the plates.
"Because I'm feeling generous tonight," I say, already backing toward the hallway. "But you're going to have to earn it."
I turn and run.
Behind me—Loss of a glass. Reid swearing. Blake's boots on the hardwood. A thud that sounds like a body hitting a wall.
"Motherfucker—"
I'm laughing so hard I can barely see, halfway down the hall, and I hear them—Reid cursing, Blake's boots closer, so much closer—
I round the corner to the bedroom and a millisecond later Blake's already there. Filling the doorway. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked.
Grinning.
"How—"
"I'm faster." He shrugs. "Always have been."
From somewhere behind him, Reid's voice, "You literally threw me into a wall!"