Chapter 57
BLAKE
The door clicks shut behind me and three faces stare up.
Caleb's got his arms crossed—been awake long enough to build a grievance. June's holding her stuffed rabbit by one ear, bottom lip threatening to tremble. Iris is just standing there in her footie pajamas, diaper sagging in a way that tells me we've got a situation.
"Papa. The door was stuck."
"It wasn't stuck, buddy. It was locked."
"Why?"
Because your Daddy is currently inside your Mama and I'm standing here with a hard-on trying to be a good father. "Grown-ups need privacy sometimes."
"Why?"
"We just do."
"I want Daddy to make pancakes."
"Daddy's resting. I've got breakfast."
"But—"
"I've got breakfast." I keep my voice easy. He's five. He doesn't need an explanation. He needs consistency.
Consistency. Eight years ago, my version of consistency was waking up screaming and drinking coffee strong enough to stop my hands from shaking.
I used to crave the silence of the workshop, convinced that noise was the enemy.
Now, the silence is the only thing that sets me on edge.
I look down at the chaos of three kids in a hallway—the noise, the demands, the absolute lack of order—and my chest loosens.
This is better than silence.
June tugs at my sweatpants. "Papa, Caleb said my rabbit is ugly."
I crouch down to her level. "Your rabbit isn't ugly."
"He said her ears are too long."
"Rabbits have long ears. That's the whole point of rabbits."
She looks at me, weighing whether this is sufficient vindication. Decides it is. I get a small nod.
Iris toddles forward and pats my face. Both hands, not gentle. "Papa."
"Hey, sweet girl."
"Papa papa papa."
God, I love that sound. Seven years of hearing it and it still hits the same way.
I pick her up. The diaper situation is as bad as I suspected. "Alright. Changing table first. You two—" I look at Caleb and June. "Come with me. No fighting."
"She started it," Caleb says.
"Don't care who started it. I'm finishing it."
They follow me down the hall to the kids' room. Caleb's still talking—something about Marcus at school and when Santa comes—and June's muttering to her rabbit. Iris has a fistful of my shirt, holding on.
I lay her down on the changing table. She kicks her feet while I work, happy to have my attention.
"Papa, why does Iris poop so much?"
"She's two."
"I didn't poop that much when I was two."
"Yeah, you did."
"Nuh-uh."
"Buddy, I changed your diapers. Trust me."
June giggles. Caleb looks offended. Iris grabs her own foot and tries to put it in her mouth.
I get her cleaned up, fresh diaper, pajamas snapped back together. She reaches for me immediately, and I lift her up against my chest.
Then I look at the other two.
"Come here."
"Why?" Caleb, suspicious.
"Because I want to hold you."
"I'm too big."
"You're not too big."
"I'm five."
"And I'm forty-four. Get over here."
He hesitates, but June's already pressing against my leg, so I crouch down and scoop her onto my hip. She wraps her arms around my neck. Caleb watches, wavering.
"Come on," I say. Soft. "While I can still do this."
Something shifts in his face. He steps forward.
I pull him in, hoist him onto my other hip. He's heavier than he used to be. They all are. Growing so fast I can almost watch it happen.
Three kids in my arms. Iris against my chest, June on one hip, Caleb on the other.
They're giggling. Squirming. June's rabbit is pressed against my cheek. Caleb's elbow is digging into my shoulder. Iris has found my ear and is exploring it with great interest.
I stand there.
Just stand there, holding them.
Everyone leaves.
I told Laine that once. Believed it, too.
Iris grabs my ear. June's rabbit smacks my cheek. Caleb's elbow digs into my shoulder.
Jury's still out on whether I was wrong or just lucky.
They're so small. Still so small. Caleb thinks he's big because he's five and he can write his own name and he lost a tooth last month. But he's not big. None of them are. They still fit in my arms, all three of them, if I hold on tight enough.
That won't last forever.
I know that. I feel it every time Caleb shrugs off a hug, every time June insists she can do it herself, every time Iris figures out something new. They're growing up. That's the whole point—you raise them so they don't need you anymore.
But right now, they need me.
Right now, they're small and warm and mine, and I'm not missing a single second of it.
"Alright." I take a breath. "Uh oh."
June looks up at me. "What?"
"I don't know if I can hold all of you. You're getting too big."
"No we're not!" Caleb says, but he's already grinning. He knows this game.
"You are. You're huge. I can't—I don't think I can—"
I stagger dramatically. All three of them shriek.
"Papa's gonna drop us!"
"I'm trying—you're just so—"
I stumble toward the bed, making a show of losing my grip. Caleb's laughing so hard he's not even holding on anymore.
"Caleb's going! I can't save him!"
I let him slide off my hip onto the mattress. He bounces, cracking up, immediately scrambling to sit up and watch the rest of the show.
"June! June, hold on!"
"I'm holding!"
"It's not enough! You're too—"
She goes next, squealing as she tumbles onto the bed beside her brother. Her rabbit goes flying. Caleb catches it without thinking, tosses it back to her.
Iris is the only one left now, still clutched against my chest. She has no idea what's happening but she's laughing because everyone else is laughing.
"The baby! I can't—she's too—"
I spin once, let out a dramatic groan, and deposit her gently between her siblings. She immediately tries to climb back up.
"More! More papa!"
"Papa's arms are broken. You broke them. All three of you."
"Do it again!"
"Breakfast first. Then we'll see."
They groan but they're already scrambling off the bed, thundering toward the kitchen. I follow behind.
Forty-four years old and I'm doing theatrical pratfalls before coffee. Jared would laugh his ass off if he could see me now.
I've got eggs on the stove and Caleb strapped into his booster seat when the questions start again.
"Papa, when's Grandma and Grandpa coming?"
"I'm picking them up at the airport after breakfast."
"Can I come?"
"Not this time, buddy. You're staying here with Daddy and Mama."
"Why?"
"Because we have a surprise for Grandma and Grandpa, remember? You're going to help set it up."
His eyes go wide. "The little house."
"That's right. But it's a secret, so—"
"I know, I know. Don't tell."
"Good man."
June's pushing scrambled eggs around her plate. "Papa, do Grandma and Grandpa live at the airport?"
"No, sweetheart. They live far away. They take an airplane to come visit us."
"Why don't they live here?"
"They work in other countries. Helping people."
"Why?"
"Because that's what they do. It's their job."
"But I want them to live here."
"I know, June-bug." I flip an egg. "Maybe someday."
The guest house. Eight months of work—framing, wiring, plumbing, finishes. Every evening and weekend I could spare. Reid helped when he could, but mostly it was me. My hands. My design. My gift to them.
To all of us.
I want David and Mary closer. Want them here for Sunday dinners and school plays and random Tuesday afternoons. Want the kids to know their grandparents as more than twice-a-year visitors. Want Laine to have her parents nearby.
Want to give them a reason to stay.
Iris bangs her sippy cup on the high chair tray. "Dada! Dada dada!"
"Daddy's coming, sweet pea. He's just—"
"He's resting," Caleb says, matter-of-fact. "Because grown-ups need privacy."
I cough to cover a laugh. "That's right."
"Why do grown-ups need privacy?"
Kid's relentless. Gets that from Reid. He's a mirror image really. I wondered, for a minute if I would feel different about a kid that wasn't my blood. Turns out that was a dumb fucking thought. They're all my kids and whose DNA is in the mix doesn't matter at all.
"Eat your eggs, Caleb."
"But why?"
"Because I said so."
He frowns. Doesn't buy it. Too smart for his own good.
"Grandma says 'because I said so' isn't a real answer."
"Grandma's not here yet. Eat your eggs."
He scowls but digs in, giving me a little time to regroup.
Reid and Laine emerge fifteen minutes later. Laine's glowing—cheeks flushed, hair still damp from the shower. Reid looks way too happy with himself.
"Fifteen minutes," I say under my breath as I hand Laine her plate.
"Twelve," she corrects, kissing my cheek.
"I'm putting that on my tombstone. 'Sacrificed so Reid could have twelve minutes.'"
Reid laughs, the sound easy and unburdened.
It hits me, sudden and sharp—the memory of him standing in this exact spot years ago, asking me if Laine being at the house more would be a problem. I told him I'd make myself scarce. I told him I wasn't the dinner party type. I thought I was doing him a favor, protecting him from my own rot.
If I'd actually left, if I'd let the guilt win... I never would have had this. I never would have known that I could be part of the happiness instead of just the guy watching it from the sidelines.
"Papa needs coffee," Reid says, grinning.
"Papa needs something." I give him a look. He grins wider.
"What does Papa need?" Caleb asks, because the kid has bat ears when it's inconvenient.
"Patience," Blake says smoothly. "Papa needs patience. And for certain people to stop talking."
"That's rude," Caleb informs him.
"You're right. I apologize."
"To who?"
"To Daddy. For his personality."
Laine's laughing, and it hits me low in gut. That sound, the fact that I had some part in her joy is never going to get old.
"Daddy!" Caleb's out of his seat, throwing himself at Reid's legs. "Papa said you were resting but I wanted you to make pancakes."
"Papa's eggs are better than my pancakes."
"No they're not."
"Hey," I say, but I'm not offended. The kid's right. Reid makes better pancakes.
Iris is reaching for Laine, making grabby hands. "Mama Mama Mama."