Chapter 13 #4
We stop at the food trucks. Gunther gets fish tacos from the new fusion place, studying the menu like it's a financial report.
I get fresh-squeezed lemonade that's perfectly tart and cold.
Orry gets a chocolate chip cookie the size of his entire face, which he attacks with both hands and zero regard for his freshly painted helmet.
Mara wakes up right as we're settling onto a bench. Fusses. Does that particular newborn cry that means she's hungry and she's hungry now.
I nurse her under a lightweight cover while Gunther entertains Orry with an elaborate game involving collecting interesting leaves and sorting them by size. Numbers, always numbers with him. Orry's learning to count because of course he is.
People continue to stop. Say hi. Congratulate us with that particular brightness that suggests they've seen the photos, read the articles, formed opinions about our life. Most of them are genuinely kind, which still surprises me every single time.
A few just stare. Whisper to their companions behind raised hands.
I ignore them. I'm getting good at that.
One woman approaches while I'm burping Mara. Middle-aged, nervous smile, clutching a shopping bag from one of the craft vendors.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," she starts. "I just. I wanted to say. You're doing a beautiful thing."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it.
"My daughter's dating an orc," she continues in a rush, words tumbling out like she's been holding them in.
"And I was. Worried. You know. About how people would react, what it would mean for her future, for any children.
" She glances at the stroller, at Mara in my arms. "But seeing you two.
Your family. It helps. It really helps me understand. "
Gunther's listening now, very quiet, that particular stillness that means he's feeling something big.
"It's not always easy," I say honestly, shifting Mara to my shoulder. "People have opinions. They're not always kind about sharing them. But it's worth it. Every single hard moment is worth it."
"I can see that." She smiles, and it's watery but genuine. "Your children are very lucky to have you both."
She leaves, melting back into the crowd.
Gunther's blinking fast behind his glasses.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah. Just. That was really nice."
"People can surprise you."
"They really can." He reaches over, adjusts Mara's tiny sock. "Makes me think maybe. Maybe this won't be so bad. Being visible."
"Don't get too comfortable. Someone's probably live-tweeting this entire conversation."
"Definitely. I saw at least three phones pointed at us."
"New normal?"
"Apparently."
Evening falls. The market winds down, the crowds thinning as vendors begin packing up their stalls and families drift toward the parking lot.
We're sitting by the fountain, watching the last golden light play across the water.
Orry's asleep in the stroller, one sticky hand still clutching a half-eaten cookie.
Mara's tucked against Gunther's chest in the carrier, her tiny face smooshed against the fabric, making those ridiculous sleeping-baby snuffles that somehow reset my entire nervous system.
My feet hurt. My arms hurt. I'm pretty sure there's glitter in places glitter should never be.
But I'm smiling.
Colum finds us, because of course he does. The man has a sixth sense for Meaningful Moments.
"Successful outing?" he asks, settling onto the fountain's edge with the satisfied air of someone who's orchestrated everything perfectly.
"Surprisingly," I say, stretching my legs out in front of me.
"Told you. People love you."
"People love a story."
"Same thing." He grins, adjusting his pocket square—which today is patterned with tiny calculators, because apparently he's committed to the bit. "You're good for Poplar Springs. Good for business. Good for morale. The plaza's never been this lively on a Saturday."
"We're not a PR campaign, Colum."
"No. You're a family. Which is better." His tone shifts, just slightly, losing some of that theatrical edge. "Which matters more."
Gunther adjusts Mara carefully, one hand cupping her head. She makes a soft sound, a little sigh that might be contentment or gas—impossible to tell with babies—and settles deeper against him.
"Thanks," he says quietly, not looking up. "For. Everything. The space at the market. The. Encouragement. All of it."
Colum waves it off with characteristic flourish, but I catch the genuine warmth in his expression. "I'm insufferable and meddling and I stage things for maximum dramatic effect. But I care. About this community. About you two."
"We know," I say.
"Good. Now go home before one of you falls asleep sitting up. You both look absolutely exhausted."
He's not wrong. Gunther's blinking slowly behind his glasses, and I can feel the bone-deep fatigue settling into my shoulders.
We do. We go home.
That night, when we finally make it home—both kids asleep before we even get them through the door—Gunther and I collapse onto the couch with all the grace of toppled dominoes.
"We survived," I say, my voice muffled because I'm already half-buried in a throw pillow.
"Barely."
"But we did."
He pulls me close, shifting so I can rest my head on his shoulder without getting a face full of pocket protector. His shirt still smells faintly of baby powder and that cologne he thinks I don't know he wears specifically because I once said I liked it.
"This is good," he says quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Us. The kids. The chaos." He pauses, and I can practically hear him running calculations in his head. "The complete and utter lack of structure to our Saturday mornings."
"The viral fame?"
"I could do without that part."
"Too late, Ridge. You're a meme now."
"I know." He sighs, the sound resigned but not unhappy. "I've made peace with it. Mostly."
We sit there in the near-dark, the only light coming from the kitchen where we forgot to turn off the overhead. The house is quiet. Genuinely, impossibly quiet. It's rare. It's precious. It's probably not going to last.
Right on cue, somewhere upstairs, Orry coughs—one of those wet, phlegmy toddler coughs that makes every parent's ears perk up like a meerkat spotting danger. A beat later, Mara whimpers, a soft sound that could escalate into a full wail or fade back into sleep depending entirely on cosmic whim.
Gunther sighs, already starting to lever himself up. "I'll check."
"No. I will."
"We'll both go."
We do, because of course we do. Because that's what this is now—team parenting, coordinated maneuvers, the quiet understanding that neither of us has to do this alone.
Orry's fine when we peek in. Sleeping soundly, sprawled like a starfish across his toddler bed. The helmet face-paint is thoroughly smudged across his pillow, green and silver mixing into an abstract masterpiece that I'm definitely going to have to soak in cold water tomorrow.
Mara's awake when we slip into her room, blinking up at the mobile above her crib, the one with the little felt stars that Gunther spent two hours assembling because the instructions were "inefficient and poorly labeled."
I pick her up, settling her weight against my chest, and start the gentle rocking motion that's become muscle memory. Side to side. Slow rhythm. The universal language of "please go back to sleep, tiny human."
Gunther stands beside me, one hand warm and steady on my back. Just there. Just present.
"We made this," he says softly, looking down at Mara's scrunched-up little face.
"We really did."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Mara settles, her eyes drifting closed in that gradual, flickering way babies have with lashes down, then up, then down again, fighting sleep even as it wins.
We put her down carefully, breath held, waiting to see if she'll stay asleep or immediately demand to be picked up again. She stays. Small miracle.
We tiptoe out, pulling the door nearly closed, leaving it cracked just enough to hear if she fusses.
Back to the couch. Back to the quiet.
Back to us.
"How long until she wakes up again?" Gunther asks, settling back into the cushions.
"Two hours. Maybe less if we're unlucky."
"Want to watch something?"
"Sure."
We don't turn the TV on. Don't even reach for the remote. Just sit there in the dim light, his arm around my shoulders, my hand resting on his knee.
Just sit. Together.
This family. This life.
Messy. Viral. Perfectly, impossibly ours.