Chapter 34 Annabelle
Annabelle
Four months later . . .
The thing about long-distance marriage—yes, that’s a thing and we’re doing it—is that it’s doable when one of you has to take a plane to see the other on the weekends like we’re starring in a Nicholas Sparks movie. ’Cause obviously he can afford to pay for it.
But it’s not glamorous.
There’s jet lag and delayed flights and canceled flights and turbulence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve gotten nauseous and barfed in first class . . . and not-so-fun fact: They do not take your puke bag after you’ve ralphed in it.
News flash: It’s considered hazardous waste.
So yeah. Not glamorous.
Sometimes we FaceTime. Sometimes it’s me, on the bathroom floor in my dinky Star Lake apartment, because I feel bloated and gross and my boobs hurt, while Callum is stuck in traffic on his way to practice in Phoenix, yelling at Siri to play my prenatal playlist.
That’s another thing. His name.
I call him Callum now—full stop. No nicknames. Those are for strangers and fans and people who aren’t close to him.
We’re making it work for now, Callum and I. Considering I still had contracts with brides, there were obligations I couldn’t walk away from without feeling like a complete jackass. Work, man—it’ll getcha. Flight here, flight back. Flight here, flight back.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I pack so often my suitcase and I are now on a first-name basis, even though I have a closet full of clothes at his place—we’re slowly phasing out mine. Even if we plan to call Washington our second home, it won’t be in my apartment—which is the size of his office. No joke.
Today?
Today, I’m in Arizona, in the penthouse, standing in front of a cake with way too much frosting. Gag.
It’s baby gender-reveal day.
A small gathering. Immediate family, close friends, and Lucy—who has somehow managed to turn this into a full-blown production with themed napkins and a confetti cannon that terrifies me on principle.
“You sure you don’t want to just open the envelope like normal people?” I eyeball Callum, who’s licking a knife that he’s already skimmed on the top to steal frosting.
“Babe. We are not normal.”
No, we’re not.
Lucy and Harris are placing bets with everyone here about the sex of the baby—if it’s one baby or two. Harris is Team Boy. Lucy is Team Girl. Evy and my mother? Boy.
And so it goes, the competitive crowd too much for my raging hormones.
Oh! And my belly has officially popped. Not so much that I have to buy new clothes or anything, but enough that I feel like there’s a cantaloupe under my shirt.
Ha ha. Every time I drop something, I have to weigh the emotional importance of picking it up versus letting it become part of the floor decor because I may or may not pee my pants.
“Are you ready?” Lucy calls out, holding up her phone to record.
Callum winks at me, cake knife still in hand like he’s about to perform surgery. “Ready, babe?”
Oh my God, no.
Yes!
I nod. “Ready.” Eek!
We cut.
The knife sinks in cleanly, as if Callum was a contestant on a baking show trying to impress the judges—and the cake splits down the middle.
Bright blue frosting oozes out. Blue!
Then—BAM!
A confetti cannon goes off.
A blizzard of blue paper flutters through the air like a ticker-tape parade for our unborn child as someone screams “It’s A Boy!” like we just set off fireworks at the Super Bowl.
Jeez. It’s ridiculous, and I glance down at the floors, which were glistening and clean, wondering who the heck is going to clean all this mess up.
Lucy shrieks and ducks like she’s under attack. “Who gave Harris a cannon? Who Approved This?”
My mom is sobbing.
A boy? “B-but—I had a name picked out,” I stammer, as my husband sweeps me into a hug. “I bought a onesie with a tutu!”
Not that I’m not happy—I am! But. Hello, pink?
He grins into my neck. “We can still put him in it.”
“Stop it.” I choke out a laugh, then immediately burst into tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Because you’re hormonal and beautiful,” he whispers. “And we’re having a son.”
A son.
Holy crap. I’m going to be a boy mom.
A few hours later, I’m curled up on the bed with my feet elevated, a huge glass of ginger ale in one hand and my phone in the other, FaceTiming Lucy, who is staying at a nearby luxury hotel with Harris.
She’s got a clay mask on, hair piled on top of her head, a robe—and a very full glass of red wine cradled in her palm. Lucy loves hotels and room service and plush, white robes.
“So. You’re having a boy. A mini Callum. A munchkin Maverick.”
“Please stop.” I press a finger to my temple. “I’m too tired for this.”
She laughs. “Fine. Tell me everything. How’s the name list coming? Are you going with a classic name or, like, celebrity weird? Because I saw a baby named Crouton on Instagram yesterday and honestly? He was adorable.”
“Yes, I love the name MacGyver.”
Her eyes get wide. “Are you serious?”
“No, Lucy! I’m not serious!” But the look on her face is worth it. “My parents—and his—would kill us.”
“Okay, but imagine a baby named MacGyver.” She laughs again. “That’s a child who comes out fixing broken toys with duct tape and a stick of gum.”
We giggle.
I sigh, letting my head flop back against the cushions. “We had a short list of serious names, until Callum decided he wanted the baby to have a ‘strong quarterback name.’”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah. He said something about ‘legacy’ and ‘branding.’ Like our baby’s going to be born with a recruiting profile.”
Lucy gasps. “Please tell me he didn’t suggest Maverick Junior.”
“Oh, he did. He one hundred percent did.”
She howls with laughter. “You are a saint.”
“Honestly, I haven’t given much thought to it. You know how busy I’ve been planning that wedding.”
She freezes, one clay-covered brow rising like a judgmental arch. “Hold the phone—you’re planning another wedding? How many do you need?!”
“Not for me!” I defend quickly. “It’s for this couple I met through the wellness studio. They’re eloping but want a lakeside picnic slash ceremony thing with their dog as the ring bearer.”
She relaxes. “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me. Not that I don’t support more parties . . .” There’s a pause. “But I kind of don’t care about the wedding. I want to know about the nursery. What theme are we talking? Are you doing one of those rooms where the stuffed animals match the walls?”
I grin, sipping my water. “Callum’s been obsessively researching paint colors like he’s remodeling the Vatican. There’s a paint swatch taped to every wall.”
“What color?”
“Beige. ‘Cappuccino Mist,’” I say, doing air quotes. “He’s so into it, it’s not even funny.”
And I’m letting him do his thing because to me, the color of the walls doesn’t matter as much as all the other things: like the way he measured the closet four times to make sure the changing table would fit.
Or the night he sat on the floor for two hours assembling the crib—only to realize he put the legs on backward and had to start over. At midnight.
Or the tiny, personalized bookplates he ordered to glue inside every children’s book we’ve collected so far. This Book Belongs to MacGyver Maverick McBride.
I smile as Lucy blinks at me through the phone.
“Cappuccino Mist sounds like an overpriced seasonal drink, not a color for a baby’s room.” She sighs. “It would drive me crazy if Harris was peeing all over the decorating like that. How are you putting up with it?”
I shrug. “He’s doing that, I’m planning this wedding. He’s rubbing my feet and bringing home food, and I swear, he’s spent more money on stupid shit the baby doesn’t need.”
Lucy cackles. “Give me an example.”
“He bought a bottle warmer that connects to Wi-Fi.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“Exactly.” I grin. “My dad was a good dad. But this? This is like if Martha Stewart and an NFL quarterback had a baby and that baby grew up to be a nesting husband.”
Just then, Callum strolls into the room, barefoot and shirtless, but holding a color wheel in one hand.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
“Babe,” he says seriously, completely ignoring the fact that I’m mid-call. “Hear me out—what if we do an accent wall in Toasted Almond instead of Cappuccino Mist? It has more depth.”
Lucy snorts so loudly she startles Callum. “Toasted Almond? Is he planning a nursery or a coffee shop?”
He pauses when he hears her voice. He gives me a wounded look. “Are you making fun of me?”
I lift my water bottle in solidarity. “Always.” I look back at the screen. “You see what I’m dealing with.”
Lucy fans herself with one hand. “Girl, you’re not dealing—you’re thriving. That man is hotter with paint swatches and no shirt than most guys are in tuxedos.”
“I accept this compliment.” He walks over so he can stick his face in my phone camera. “Also, I ordered the six-foot stuffed giraffe you liked.”
I melt.
“Who is this man?” Lucy whispers dramatically. “And what has he done to the NFL linebacker?”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I say with a breathless sigh. “Okay, enough about my freakishly thoughtful husband. What about you and Harris? You guys are all in now, right?”
She lifts her left hand, wiggling her bare ring finger. “We are disgusting. Like, his Netflix is my Netflix and we’re like—splitting bills and stuff. It’s bonkers.”
Whoa. I watch her for a beat, then ask the question that’s been floating between us for a while. “Do you think you guys will get married?”
She goes quiet. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I used to say I didn’t care about the whole wedding thing. And honestly? I still don’t need the poofy dress or a tower of cupcakes or, like, doves.”
“Lucy. Literally no one does doves anymore.”
“But,” she continues, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes I look at Harris across the room and think—yeah. I could do forever with this guy. He’s so fun. And funny, and I just adore him.”
I grin, setting my water on the arm of the couch and curling one hand under my belly like it’s second nature now. “You picked a good one.”
Lucy hums. “You think?”