37. Marcella
thirty-seven
Marcella
Christmas Day
Life is funny.
A year ago, I was cross-examining a cardiac surgeon so ruthlessly the court reporter needed a break.
Today, I’m pregnant, in my much-younger-boyfriend’s oversized hoodie, riding shotgun to a family dinner where I get to tell my parents they’re about to become abuelos .
I’m giddy. I’m terrified.
I’ve never been happier.
This wasn’t the plan.
Turns out, I don’t miss the plan at all.
After spending a few hours at the McGloughlins, my hand is tangled in Seamus’s on our way to Tacoma. He drives like he’s got nowhere to be but next to me. One hand on the wheel, the other brushing slow circles against my knuckles like he can feel every neuron firing beneath the skin.
The air inside the car is warm. Calm. Outside, the trees blur past like watercolor—pine-tipped, wrapped in sleepy holiday lights. We’re both still buzzing, and I’m not talking about coffee—obviously.
We fucked each other blind all morning.
Not lazy, half-asleep sex either. I mean full-throttle, hand-over-mouth, can’t-stop-coming sex.
He worships my soft, ripe body like it’s holy ground. My breasts are heavier, my hips wider, my belly already starting to pop around the baby we didn’t plan but already love—and none of it seems to scare him.
If anything, he’s more obsessed than ever.
“I crave you,” he whispered against my skin under the covers when he pushed into me from behind. “You drive me mad.”
I know it’s true. I feel it. His hands on me constantly, possessive and gentle. Reverent. Like he’s cataloging every change. Every inch of soft new curves.
I crave him too. I’m insatiable for my man. Pregnancy hormones have turned me into some sort of touch-starved Siren, and thank God I'm with the one man on earth who’s both relentlessly good at sex and delighted to be used like a personal vibrator.
My own personal Orgasm Whisperer.
We barely made it to his parents’ house.
On our way out the door, I yanked him back into the bedroom and pushed him onto the edge of the bed.
Then I climbed on and rode him slow in front of the mirror—my eyes locked on his, his hands controlling my hips so his cock hit me just so—until I came so hard I saw stars.
It wasn’t enough, I’m embarrassed to say.
A few hours later, his mom was putting out scones and coffee after the gifts were opened, and he walked past me, stopping to give me a kiss on the temple. Instant hormonal surge.
I gave Seamus the “look.” He tracked my meaning and motioned for me to follow him upstairs.
“We’ll be right back.” I tried to sound innocent, already halfway out of my chair.
Everyone was on to us. I mean, duh.
I saw the way his brothers exchanged glances. Ronni, Astrid, and Ivy all smirked. Maureen didn’t even look up as we made our way past her.
In his childhood bedroom, the moment the door clicked shut behind us, I pushed him against it.
Hands under his shirt. Tongue in his mouth. Desperate and completely unapologetic.
“Jesus, Marcella,” he groaned.
I pulled his pants down. “Quick, fuck me so they don't get suspicious.”
“They already know exactly what's happening.” He spun me around, pressed me against the door, and dragged my leggings and underwear down in one motion. My palms braced on the wood as he slid inside. One of his hands covered my mouth, the other splayed over the curve of my belly.
We made it back downstairs ten minutes later, hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed, pretending like we weren’t christening his childhood bedroom.
Connor raised one brow. “You’re glowing, Doc.”
“Hope the door didn't splinter.” Padraig took a long sip of coffee.
Astrid hid a smile behind her hand and Ronni rolled her eyes.
Maureen seemed unfazed. She slid a plate of eggs in front of me, then patted my shoulder. “Eat up, love. You’ll need your strength.”
Seamus’s eyes caught mine from across the table. He winked.
God, I love his family.
When it came to telling them, we didn’t make a big speech. There was no dramatic pause, no clink of a glass. Just a natural lull in the conversation—one of those rare silences you don’t see coming until it lands—and Seamus gave my hand a squeeze under the table and said, “We have news.”
He looked at me. I nodded.
“We’re having a baby.” Simple. Clear.
For a second, no one moved.
Then Maureen cried. Not a polite dab at the eyes either— cried cried.
Hand to her heart, reaching for Ronni like she needed to physically anchor herself.
Connor made an awkward joke about shotgun weddings until Ronni elbowed him so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
Cillian’s face lit up. Brennan and Astrid gazed at each other lovingly.
Liam and Padraig exchanged a long, unreadable look I still haven’t deciphered.
Rory raised his glass and said, “Good. The world needs more of you.”
“We didn't plan this. I had to stop birth control to prep for egg freezing,” I explained. “Dr. Madison told me the older I get, the lower my odds. So I went off the pill, planning to start the cycle.”
Cillian deadpanned. “Well, if a few minutes ago is any indication of how often you guys are together…”
“You're one to talk.” Brennan slugged him in the arm.
Ronni choked on her wine. Maureen fanned herself like she was about to faint.
“We’re grateful,” I said quickly. “Really grateful. We’ve got a healthy baby on the way.”
Through all of it, Seamus never let go of my hand.
Now we’re heading to my family’s restaurant, and my nerves are pulsing with a vengeance. It’s not the same kind of nerves—not performance anxiety or dread. More like I’m walking into a room I’ve been in a hundred times before, only this time I’m carrying something no one else can see yet.
To my family, maybe it looks like I’ve gained ten pounds. My body’s changing. My life is changing. I don’t know what they’ll say when I tell them it’s not a phase or a craving or the holidays.
Seamus and I are having a baby. It’s real.
“You okay?” Seamus asks as we exit the freeway, heading toward the waterfront.
I fib, “I’m fine.”
He smirks. “Which means you’ve been replaying every past Christmas dinner in your head and bracing for a fresh round of sibling interrogation—only this time, it’s your sister’s turn to grill us instead of my brothers.”
“I have not,” I say. Then sigh. “Okay, maybe a little. Mostly reliving their faces when we came back downstairs.”
We smile at each other.
He covers my hand with his. “Want to run one of your arguments by me?”
“Do you think they'll be weird about this?” I panic a little.
He laughs and pulls my hand to his thigh. “We don’t have to tell them tonight, you know. We could…eat, smile, and lie.”
I give him a look.
“Right,” he says. “You don’t lie.”
“Not well.” I scrunch my nose.
He raises a brow. “Or, not at all.”
“It's time.” I turn my hand over and let his fingers lace through mine. “If I don’t say something tonight, my mom’s going to say it for me. She kept staring at my boobs last Friday at dinner.”
“Hard not to,” Seamus says under his breath.
My mouth drops open dramatically. “ Seamus .”
“I’m just saying. There’s a very obvious growth curve.” He licks his lips.
I swat him gently with our laced hands. “Do not say ‘growth curve’ while discussing my pregnancy symptoms. You’re a scientist, not a frat boy.”
“You say it like the two are mutually exclusive,” he says as we pull up in front of the restaurant. He leans across the console, presses a kiss to my temple. “Let’s go, Mama.”
Twinkling lights dance behind fogged windows.
Inside, the noise hits first. My family doesn’t do quiet holidays.
Someone’s baby is crying—probably my cousin Lucia’s.
My dad is laughing like a man who’s had two glasses of wine and plans on having seven more.
The smell of garlic and chorizo makes my mouth water—and the caramelized cinnamon wafts from a giant bowl Rosa is setting on the table. Arroz con leche . My comfort food.
My mom looks up from behind the bar and immediately points at me.
“Late,” she calls, smiling.
“It’s Christmas,” I protest. “Time is a construct in an Irish household.”
Seamus chuckles behind me. “She reminds me every time we leave my family's house.”
“Chellie.” My mom makes her way around the bar, pulling me into a hug and holding me for a beat longer than usual. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
She pulls back, narrows her eyes. “Are you?”
I don’t answer.
Seamus distracts her by kissing her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Delgado.”
“You’re too handsome.” She swats him with a towel. “You make us all suspicious. Go sit before I get out my rosary.”
Lucas emerges from the office, scrolling his phone. “Why are you glowing? Either you're getting married or you're pregnant.”
I choke on air.
Seamus slides into his seat like this is the most normal night of his life. “Can’t it be both?”
Lucas lowers his phone and stares at me. At Seamus. Back at me.
“What did you say?” Rosa appears at his side, wooden spoon in hand.
“Nothing,” I croak.
“Definitely something,” my dad says, appearing with a bottle of wine and five glasses. “She has the ‘I’m about to make an announcement and ruin dinner’ face.”
I cross my arms. “I do not.”
“You do,” Rosa says. “You always have.”
“Chellie?” My mother’s voice is soft now. Her eyes are wide.
I glance at Seamus. He nods, like this is one more thing we do together. Like telling my family I’m pregnant is no more terrifying than making tea or choosing a name or holding my hair back while I throw up every other morning.
“Fine. I’m pregnant,” I say.
For a second, the room doesn’t move.
Then my mom gasps and says, “I knew it,” while my dad shouts something in Spanish I think loosely translates to “buy more wine.”
Lucas chokes on his drink.
Rosa leans against the wall and grins. “You’re glowing.”
“What?” I narrow my eyes.
“Kidding.” She gestures to my glass. “You're drinking sparkling water with lemon. Could you be more obvious?”
Lucas raises his glass. “To the next generation of chaos.”
“You’re sure? You’re happy?” my mother asks, wiping at her eyes.
I nod, unable to speak. My throat is tight and my heart’s too full to form words, so I hold her gaze and hope she can see it—how much I mean it.
She smiles like she does.
The conversation starts to flow again in gentle waves—softer now, like the intensity has passed and left only the glow. Plates are half-finished. Wine refilled. Bit by bit, laughter returns to the edges of the room.
Eventually dinner winds down. Wine glasses are half-full.
Plates scraped clean. My mom’s leaning against the back of her chair, flushed from Rioja and joy.
Rosa’s still seated—finally off her feet, watching everyone like she’s trying to memorize the scene before it shifts.
My dad is retelling a story he’s told at least three Christmases in a row. No one interrupts because no one minds.
The energy is soft. Wistful, even. Like we’re all suspended in a beautiful evening we don’t want to end.
Then Seamus stands.
Not abruptly. Or dramatically.
Purposefully.
I look up. “What are you doing?”
“Something important.” He leans down, presses his mouth to my hair, and murmurs, “Trust me.”
Then he turns to my dad. “Mr. Delgado?”
“Yes, Seamus?” My father’s head tilts slightly.
“I’d like to ask for your blessing,” he asks earnestly.
Every fork stills. My breath stills.
“I love your daughter,” Seamus says. “Not because of this baby, or because our lives collided at the wrong time in all the right ways. I love her because when she walked into my world—demanding, brilliant, impossible—everything shifted.”
He breathes in. Steadies. “She didn’t make it easy and I'm glad because nothing worth it ever is. She challenged me. Called me on my bullshit. Made me question every rule I thought I had to follow. From the second I saw her there was something between us. Even when we were on opposite sides.”
His voice catches—slightly—and Rosa reaches over and gently touches my mother’s arm.
“She makes me better. Not by fixing me. By seeing me. Completely. Loving me anyway.”
No one moves.
“I know things are happening fast. I also know what matters. So does Marcella. She’s it for me. The loud moments, the quiet ones, the way she whispers 'I love you' when she thinks I’m asleep. The way she holds our future like it’s fragile and fierce all at once.”
He looks at my dad, steady. Strong. “I want to marry her. Not because we’re supposed to. Not to make anything right. I want to marry her because she’s the only life I want.”
Silence folds over us, full and still and reverent.
My dad stands, walks around the table, and stops in front of Seamus.
“You love her,” he says quietly. “I believe you know what that means to me.”
“I do.”
My father places a hand on his shoulder, nods once. “Then you have my blessing.”
He pulls Seamus in for a brief, firm hug.
My throat burns. My heart pounds. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Rosa hands me a napkin across the table and says, “You always act so tough and you’re the softest one here.”
Tonight, maybe I am.
Seamus returns to his seat beside me and takes my hand under the table, thumb stroking mine.
“Are you ready for forever?” I whisper, quiet enough for only him.
He turns to me, steady and soft. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Everything’s happening out of order.
A baby first. A proposal in a crowded restaurant. A future we didn’t anticipate.
None of it feels wrong.
Seamus is the right choice—no matter how and when he showed up.
I’m saying yes to all of it.