Chapter 30
Mitch
I’m snapping the last button on Landon’s little onesie when he lets out a noise that sounds like a question. Big eyes, dark and curious, tracking me like I might have answers.
“Alright, buddy,” I murmur, adjusting the collar. “You just gotta be good for like an hour.”
He kicks his legs and smiles like he’s understanding.
Callie’s down the hall getting ready, the sound of a hair dryer cutting on and off. I scoop Landon up, press a kiss to the top of his head, then head toward her room to show her how cute he looks.
The bathroom door’s open. I stop when I see her in there, standing on the scale, hair done, dress hanging loose on her frame. She’s staring down at the number as if it actually matters.
“Callie,” I say gently. “What are you doing that for?”
She doesn’t look up right away. “Just…checking,” she says. “Seeing if my metabolism’s still decent or if I actually have to put in work to lose weight.”
I step farther into the bathroom, leaning against the counter. Landon stares at himself in the mirror. “You’re perfect. Don’t say that.”
She finally looks at me, eyes tired in a way I don’t like. “I’m not confident in my own skin.”
My chest tightens. “Since when? Where is this coming from?”
She exhales, arms crossing over herself. “Macy and Maddie look like I used to, and—”
“Macy and Maddie didn’t birth a child, Calliope,” I cut in gently.
“So what?” she pushes back. “That doesn’t mean I have to stay stuck in an overweight state.”
“You are not overweight,” I say firmly. “What are you…ten pounds heavier than you used to be? That’s barely anything, babe.”
“Well,” she mutters, eyes flicking back to the scale, “it feels like more to me.”
I watch her for a second, then lay Landon just outside the door on the carpet of her bedroom. I step closer to her, reaching out and hooking my fingers at her waist, thumbs resting easy at her sides. I look into her eyes.
“You know what I see?”
She shakes her head slightly, gaze falling.
“I see the woman I love,” I say quietly. “The woman who carried our son for nine months. The woman who feeds him, soothes him, holds everything together when she’s exhausted. And yeah”—I let my thumbs press in just enough to make her inhale—“I see small curves I didn’t get to appreciate before.”
Her lips twitch despite herself.
“You’re allowed to want to feel good in your body,” I add. “But don’t talk to yourself like that.”
She swallows, eyes shining just a little.
I lean in, forehead resting against hers. “And for the record,” I murmur, “I still struggle to keep my hands off you. That’s never gonna change.”
She smiles, blushes actually, and nods. I brush a kiss against her temple. “Now look how freakin’ cute this little man is.”
I turn around to get Landon again; he’s got drool already trickled out into the carpet. I put him up on my shoulder. He lets out a little noise—a soft coo that turns into a wet gurgle. And then—
Warmth spreads across my shoulder.
“Oh no,” I mutter, looking back just in time to see it.
Callie freezes. “Did he—”
“Yep.” I peel him away from my chest, inspecting the damage. “That’s booby milk.”
She groans, pressing her lips together. “Mitch.”
“What? That’s what it is.” I lift my shoulder toward her. “Straight from the source.”
She laughs, stepping closer. “I just fed him.”
“Well,” I shrug, “apparently he wanted to share.”
Landon beams up at us, big gummy smile like he’s real proud of himself.
“You’re being gross,” Callie tells him fondly, reaching for a wipe.
“Hey, that’s my son,” I say. “He gets it honest.”
I carry him down the hall toward his room, Callie following close behind. The sunlight through the window paints the nursery. I lay him on the changing table, stripping off the spit-up-soaked onesie while Callie wipes my shoulder with the rag.
“Go change your shirt, babe,” she says.
“In a minute. He’s happy.” I point, and as if on cue, Landon kicks his legs and lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half hiccup.
Callie leans over him, brushing her thumb over his belly. “You feel better, buddy?”
He grins at her, eyes bright, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, looking at both of us.
“He loves when we’re both here,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies quietly. “I know.”
On the way to church, my mind stays busy, thinking about what comes next.
Fourth of July weekend is less than a week away.
The lake. Fireworks. All of our friends back in one place. The ring that’s been sitting in my sock drawer for months is finally going to see the light of day.
I returned the one I used last year; felt like bad luck to use it again. This one’s better anyway. It sparkles a little more than the last one, and the shape of the diamond suits her better.
I tell myself I’m ready. We’ve talked about it, more than once.
Talked it to death, actually. About marriage.
About timing. About how last summer wasn’t a no forever, just a not yet.
I understood that. I still do. She was scared.
Everything was new. We were drowning, trying to keep our heads above water.
But now, it’s been a year.
We’ve got a baby. A house. Routines. Sleepless nights and shared calendars. We already feel married in some ways.
And she’s told me that she’s ready.
Still…the words from the other night echo louder than I want them to.
Is it love, or is it because of Landon?
She didn’t mean it like a rejection. I know that. We talked it through. The night ended okay. But okay doesn’t erase the fear.
What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve convinced myself this is the right moment because I want it to be? What if she freezes again, or panics, or realizes she still needs more time? I don’t know if I could hear no twice.
I’d understand it. I’d respect it. I’d still love her. But it would hurt like hell.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, adjusting her dress, checking Landon’s diaper bag again, and all I can think is how badly I want to give her something solid. A promise that doesn’t feel rushed or forced or born out of obligation.
I want her to choose me because she wants to—because she wakes up every day and still decides I’m her person.
Not because of pressure. Not because of a baby. Not because everyone’s waiting.
I just don’t want to get this wrong.
Next weekend.
I swallow my fear.
She has to say yes.
* * *
Mom and Dad show up right on time, a clear plastic container of a salad balanced in Mom’s hands.
We don’t do dinner together much. If we do, it’s usually at their house. But Callie was feeling ambitious, wanted to host, so here we are. And I’m fine with it.
“Smells good,” Mom says as she steps inside, glancing around. “Oh, it’s very clean.”
“Thanks,” Callie replies easily, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
She’s been cooking since we got home from church. Chicken in the oven, potatoes roasting, carrots simmering on the back burner. I had Landon most of the time; we watched, and I helped where I could, but she had it handled. Calm. In control. Not stressed.
Dad trails in behind Mom and claps me once on the shoulder. “Smells like we’re eating good tonight.”
Callie smiles at that. “I hope so.”
“Oh, look at him,” Mom says immediately, her attention zeroing in on Landon in the bouncy seat by the table. “Oh my gosh—he is just so your twin, Mitch. Identical.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, arms loosely crossed as I scratch at my forearm. I glance at Callie. She’s smiling too. Like she agrees.
“Don’t you think, hon?” Mom lightly smacks Dad’s shoulder.
He hums. “Yeah, yeah. I see it.” Then his attention shifts to the sliding glass door. “Deck looks like it’s holding up good, huh?”
He steps closer to inspect it through the glass, and I follow him out of habit. Callie says something to Mom behind us, but I’m focused on Dad.
“So far, so good,” I say. “Luke knows what he’s doing.”
“Yeah. Good.”
We sit down to eat within a couple minutes. I pray over our meal.
It’s something that’s become normal with Callie. Easy, even. But saying it in front of my parents feels different. Exposed. Like I’m doing something slightly wrong even though I know I’m not.
I keep my eyes closed, but I’m suddenly very aware of them sitting across the table from me.
Growing up, prayer in our house was…scripted.
Always the same words. God is great, God is good.
Quick. Efficient. Something you did before you passed the rolls and started eating.
I can’t remember a single time I heard either of my parents pray in their own words.
Not at the table. Not in the car. Not…ever.
I don’t think they meant it to be that way. I think praying like that—out loud, unscripted—felt too uncomfortable for them. It did for me too, at first, but I just kept doing it and now it comes easy.
After I say amen, I feel it, that clear line between how I grew up and how I’m trying to do things now. Just…different.
We pass food right away, filling our plates, steam rolling off the bowls and up toward the light fixture hanging above the table.
Mom talks to Landon, using that soft voice people use with babies.
Dad asks me about work. Talks about his.
Gas prices. How hot it’s already been this year.
I chime in where I can. Callie listens, nodding, passing food, making sure everyone has everything they need.
She checks Landon’s diaper when he starts getting restless, giving him a different toy to hold, which buys a little time.
Mom doesn’t ignore Callie. She compliments the chicken. Says the potatoes are cooked just right. Asks where we found green beans this fresh. Callie answers easily, like she enjoys the questions.
Mom offers to hold Landon when he gets fussy again, insisting she can still eat with one hand and that she doesn’t mind at all.
Callie passes him over without hesitation, and Mom settles him into her lap like she’s done it a thousand times. Which…she probably has.
“Now imagine having two this size at the same time,” she says with wide eyes and a light laugh, glancing at Dad like he’s the reason they had twins.
“Oh, I can’t imagine that,” Callie laughs, picking up her fork again.
“It was a trip,” Mom says.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Callie replies. “Reminds me of how it is when I have Holland and Nash on top of Landon.” She laughs.
“Well, they’re way older,” Mom adds. “I’m saying—imagine two the same age as Landon, like this.”
“No, yeah, yeah, I know,” Callie says gently. “I was just saying, dealing with three kids under six can be a lot, in general.”
“Right. I wouldn’t know,” Mom says, shaking her head. “Mitch and Macy crawled, walked, talked—all at the same time. It wasn’t like one was ahead of the other. It was all or nothing.” She sighs, like she still can’t believe she survived it.
Callie laughs softly. “Yeah. That’s a lot. I think I’d need Macy to move in and help.” She laughs—half serious, half joking.
“Yeah, in a perfect world,” Mom says. “My sister was in Florida for college, my parents lived there too. So, it was all me.”
“Right, right,” Callie says, sipping her water.
The conversation fizzles out when Landon starts fussing. Mom tries to settle him, but he doesn’t give up, so Callie takes over, heading to the couch to feed him.
We finish eating a few minutes later. Mom and Dad both help me clear the table. Callie insists they don’t have to, that she’ll get it later, but Mom waves her off.
“I know how it is,” she says. “If it’s done now, you don’t have to worry about it when people leave.”