Chapter 13 #2
Gunther's watching us. That look. The one that makes my heart do stupid things.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just. This. You. Him. Us."
"Eloquent." I nod, sleepily.
"I'm tired. Sue me."
I kiss his temple. "Let's go home, Ridge."
"Yeah. Let's."
We gather our things. Say goodbyes. Load Orry into the car.
The plaza's quiet now. Just the fountain and the lights.
Married.
Holy hell.
Four weeks after the wedding, I wake to the sound of Orry singing the alphabet at full volume.
"Z! X! C! P!"
"Close enough," I mutter into the pillow.
Gunther's already up. I can smell coffee. And something else. Burning?
I haul myself out of bed. She's going to be a linebacker at this rate.
The kitchen's a disaster.
Flour everywhere. Eggs. A mixing bowl tipped sideways. And Gunther, standing at the stove with a spatula, staring at a pan like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"What are you doing?"
He jumps. "Making breakfast."
"By summoning chaos?"
"It's supposed to be pancakes."
"Those are not pancakes."
"They're helmet-shaped." He points to the pan. "See? Little orcish helmets. Orry requested them."
I lean over. Squint. One looks vaguely helmet-shaped. The others resemble abstract art.
"That one's a helmet. The rest are crimes against food."
"Constructive criticism appreciated."
Orry's in his high chair, banging a spoon. "Hewmet! Hewmet!"
"Coming, buddy." Gunther slides the least-burnt one onto a plate. Cuts it into pieces. Sets it in front of Orry.
Our son examines it. Picks up a chunk. Takes a bite.
"Good?"
"Good!" Orry shoves another piece in his mouth.
Gunther beams. Looks at me. "See? Success."
"He also eats dirt. Not sure he's a reliable critic."
"You're mean before coffee."
"You married me anyway."
He pours me a cup. Slides it across the counter. "I did."
I take it. Sip. Watch him attempt another pancake.
This one's worse. Lumpy. Uneven. Definitely not a helmet.
"What is that?"
"Abstract interpretation."
"It's a blob."
"A creative blob."
Orry's already finished his plate. "More!"
Gunther flips the blob onto a new plate. Orry devours it.
I sit. Let the coffee work its magic. The baby kicks.
"She's awake," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Very awake. She's got your energy."
"Poor you."
"Tell me about it."
We eat. Gunther manages three edible pancakes. I eat one. Orry eats four.
The doorbell rings.
"Who shows up at eight on a Saturday?" I groan.
"Colum," Gunther says.
Of course. I open the door. Colum's holding a basket.
"Morning, newlyweds!"
"It's early."
"It's practically noon." He sweeps in. Spots the kitchen. "Did a tornado hit?"
"Gunther made breakfast."
"Ah. That explains it."
Gunther glares from the stove. "What's in the basket?"
"Housewarming gifts. Muffins. A bottle of wine you can't drink yet, Cecie. And this." He pulls out a onesie. It says "Future CFO."
"Subtle," I say.
"I thought so."
Orry waves. "Co-um!"
"Orry! My favourite tiny human." Colum scoops him up. "How's life?"
"Hewmet."
"Helmet. Naturally. Only the best headwear for warriors."
I pour Colum coffee. He settles at the table, Orry on his lap.
"So," he says. "Big news."
Gunther freezes. "What news?"
"The photo. From the wedding. It went viral."
"Define viral."
"Three million views. Trending on two platforms. BuzzFeed wrote an listicle."
I choke on my coffee. "What?"
"You're famous. Well. More famous. The headline's something like 'Orc Dad and Human Mom Prove Love is Universal.' Very heartwarming."
"Oh my god."
Gunther sits. Heavily. "Three million."
"And climbing. You're a sensation."
"I'm a financial analyst. Sensations are not my brand."
"Too late. You're a brand now."
I gawk at Colum. "This is your fault."
"I merely documented a beautiful moment."
"You staged the whole wedding."
"Documented. Staged. Semantics."
Orry pats Colum's face. "More hewmet?"
"Later, buddy. Dada needs to process his internet fame first."
Gunther's rubbing his temples. "This is fine. It's fine. People will forget."
"Doubtful," Colum says. "But hey. Free publicity for Sparkle Beauty."
"I don't need publicity. I need privacy."
"You're married to an influencer now."
"I'm married to a woman holding our child and looking ready to commit murder," Gunther corrects.
Colum grins. "Fair. I'll leave you to it. Enjoy the muffins."
He deposits Orry back in his chair. Waves. Leaves. Silence.
"Three million," Gunther says.
"Yep." I shake my head as a small smile graces my lips.
"People are talking about us."
"Yep."
"On the internet."
"Welcome to hell, babe."
He groans. Drops his head to the table.
Orry giggles. Throws a pancake piece. It lands in Gunther's hair.
I laugh. Can't help it.
"This is our life now," Gunther mutters.
"This was always our life. Just with more witnesses."
Two months later. Baby arrives.
Labour's fast. Painful. I scream things at Gunther I'll probably apologize for later.
"You did this to me!" I scream, gripping Gunther's hand hard enough that I'm pretty sure I'm cutting off circulation. Don't care. He deserves it.
"I know. I'm sorry." His voice is strained, earnest, helpless in that way that would be endearing if I wasn't currently being split in half.
"You're sorry?" Another contraction hits and I arch off the bed, every muscle in my body screaming. "Sorry doesn't—oh god—"
"Very sorry. So sorry. The sorriest I've ever been in my entire life—"
"Breathing, Sis. Remember your breathing," the midwife says, calm as Sunday morning, like women aren't howling curses at their partners in this room every single day.
"I am breathing!" I gasp between contractions, sweat plastering hair to my forehead. "You breathe! You, just, breathe for me because I can't—"
The midwife's completely unfazed, checking monitors with the kind of steady competence I'd admire if I had any brain cells left for admiration. "You're doing great, love. Almost there. One more big push and we'll meet your baby."
"I hate you," I tell Gunther, locking eyes with him. Meaning it. Not meaning it. Meaning it again as another wave of pain crashes through me.
"I know." He brushes damp hair off my face, and his hand is shaking.
Then, quieter, when the contraction eases just enough for me to think: "I love you."
"I know that too." His voice cracks. He's still holding my hand like it's the only thing anchoring him to earth.
One more push. The midwife's coaching, Gunther's murmuring something I can't hear over my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, and then—
A cry.
Small. Sharp. Furious at being ejected into the cold, bright world.
"It's a girl," the midwife says, and there's a smile in her voice, the kind that says she never gets tired of this part.
She's placed on my chest, still connected, still slick and new. Tiny. Pink. Screaming her lungs out in outraged, healthy protest. Perfect. So perfect my heart physically hurts.
Gunther's crying. Not quiet tears—full-on sobbing, shoulders shaking, glasses fogged up, the works.
"Hi," I whisper, touching her impossibly small head, her little fists waving. "Hi, baby. Hi, sweetheart. We've been waiting for you."
She blinks. Goes quiet. Stares at me with grey-green eyes that seem to focus and unfocus, like she's trying to make sense of the sudden brightness, the voices, the fact that she exists at all.
"She's got your eyes," I tell Gunther, my voice thick with exhaustion and wonder. That particular shade—not quite grey, not quite green, shifting depending on the light. Unmistakably his.
"She's got your everything else," he counters, and there's awe in his tone. His finger traces the delicate slope of her nose, the curve of her tiny ear.
"Good. One of you is enough," I say, but I'm smiling. Can't help it. Can't stop staring at her, this impossible little person we made.
He laughs, shaky, broken, joyful, and kisses my forehead. Lingers there a moment, breathing me in. Then he touches her tiny hand, barely the length of his thumb.
She grips his finger. Holds tight with that instinctive newborn strength, like she already knows he's hers.
"Strong," he says, and his voice cracks again.
"She's ours," I whisper, because I need to say it out loud. Need to make it real.
"Yeah." Gunther looks at me, then back at her, tears still tracking down his face. "Yeah, she is."
We name her Mara. Orcish. Means "gentle strength."
Gunther insists, explains the meaning three times with that earnest intensity he gets when something matters. I don't argue. It fits. She's already both those things, gentle in her smallness, strong in the way she's holding on to us.
Orry meets his sister three hours later.
Gunther carries him in, moving slowly, deliberately, like he's transporting something precious. He's been whispering to Orry the whole way down the hall—I can hear the low murmur of his voice, explaining, preparing. Sets him on the bed next to me with careful hands, making sure he's steady.
Orry stares. Eyes enormous, taking up half his face. He's clutching Mr. Grunt in one hand, the plush orc dangling forgotten.
"Baby," I say softly, adjusting my hold so he can see her better. "This is Mara."
"Baby?" His voice is hushed, reverent in a way I've never heard from him.
"Your sister."
He leans closer, drawn in by curiosity, and then does the most Orry thing possible—sniffs her head. Takes a big deliberate whiff like he's investigating a new food. "Smells funny."
"Yeah. Babies smell weird." I'm trying not to laugh. Don't want to break the moment.
"She little." He says it like he's discovered something profound, a scientific observation that needs recording.
"Very little. Much littler than you were. You have to be gentle with her, okay? Soft touches."
He nods. Expression going serious, solemn. The way he looks when Gunther explains something important about numbers or sorting. Reaches out and touches her hand with just one finger, so careful it makes my chest ache.
Mara squirms. Makes a soft squeaky noise, half-awake.
Orry gasps, jerking back slightly. "She talking!"