Epilogue
Cormac
A Year Later
“Tell me whatever is in that box isn’t actually alive,” Charlotte hisses, pointing at the massive wrapped gift.
It shakes again.
I grimace. That was shitty timing—or perhaps ironic is a better word.
Patrick snorts, sliding his hand around her stomach from behind. “That one isn’t for you, darling. Just remember how much we love and adore you.”
“I love you too, but now I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. It’s a great surprise.” Patrick cradles her six-month pregnant belly, smirking like he always does any time he touches her growing stomach.
I don’t know why he’s so cocky.
Malachy and I have an equal chance of being the new baby’s biological father.
The world is already convinced he fathered Lucky.
We’ve done nothing to dissuade that belief, but we’ve done nothing to encourage it either.
Well, we falsified his birth certificate to include the three of us listed as his fathers.
We also had it updated to show he was born in Boston, but we haven’t advertised that fact.
We just don’t talk about it at all, and I believe the rumors have spread even more swiftly because of it. It’s for the best if the other families view him as our biological son. That way, no one will cause him any trouble when we hand off the family to him one day.
“That means it’s for me,” Lucky declares.
He’s getting so big and speaking so much more clearly. It makes me immeasurably proud and equally choked up when I think about it.
He shoves himself off the ground where he was examining the other presents under the tree and makes his way to the big one.
The entire back of the gift isn’t wrapped, it’s just pushed to the wall to make it look like it is. It was the last thing we brought in before letting Lucky come into the living room, but it probably is best that he opens it first.
“Go on, rip into it.” Malachy laughs, moving closer with his phone held up.
A soft whining fills the air, and I’m pretty sure we’re caught.
I smile tightly, checking on Charlotte.
Patrick is the one who convinced us this was a good idea. I have no problem tossing him directly under the bus and backing over him if it comes down to it.
Charlotte was extremely ill during the first four months of her pregnancy. It’s settled down a bit, but none of us dares to ask for fish, shellfish, eggs, or, strangely, mushrooms.
I didn’t even realize the latter had much of a smell.
They clearly do.
Charlotte could pick up the scent across the room when Seamus accidentally got mushrooms on his pizza. He learned that day exactly how intimidating our wife can be.
The new Mrs. O’Connor has had a fair amount of ups and downs during her pregnancy, but she’s also glowing. Well, now that the constant vomiting has ended. For a while, she looked as miserable as we all felt having to watch her experience constant sickness.
She’s been much happier the last five or six weeks, and that’s why the expression on her face is making me nervous.
A playful bark fills the air as Lucky rips through the wrapping paper covering the crate.
“Mommy! No way!” Lucky squeals. “You got me a puppy! I love him.”
He is actually a she, and the three of us were technically the gift givers, but I’m certainly not going to correct him.
“Her name is Cleo,” Malachy says, snapping pictures. “Here, let me help you get her out.”
“I’m six months pregnant, and you three thought it was a good idea to bring home a puppy?” Charlotte whisper-hisses. “I have so many words right now, but I can’t say any of them in front of my kid.”
“Our kid,” Patrick corrects her, kissing her cheek from behind. “And she’s not just a puppy. She’s a built-in best friend for Lucky. Not to mention, an added layer of security.”
“She knows better than to jump on you, but she’s excited,” Malachy says to Lucky. “Sit on your butt. That way, she won’t knock you down when she comes to say hello.”
“Okay.” Lucky falls to sit on his backside, nodding. “She loves me. I can tell.”
“Come on,” Patrick says, lifting a hand and gesturing at Lucky as Cleo runs out of the cage and right into his lap. “You cannot beat that level of cuteness.”
Charlotte doesn’t seem very impressed, and I start to panic.
“Cleo is a purebred German shepherd. She’s been through her first two rounds of personal protection training,” I say, like I’m reciting the pamphlet. “She’ll have another training series this coming spring. She’s already potty trained, and she knows sixteen commands.”
She also cost what I would consider a small fortune, but within two to three years, she’ll be fully capable of taking down a grown man.
That financial investment seems worth it to me.
“I’m not waking up in the middle of the night to take her out.
The three of you can get plenty of practice not sleeping through the night before the baby even comes.
” Charlotte laughs. “I’m not even going to feel sorry for you.
You did this to yourselves.” She steps out of Patrick’s hold, going over and kneeling down next to Lucky as she pets the pup.
“Oh my god, you are so soft.” She scratches Cleo behind the ears and smiles, but I still might shank Patrick when she’s not looking.
January in Boston is brutal, but it gives us an excuse to stay in.
Charlotte has had the strong urge to nest the last couple of weeks, and she wants us close so she knows we’re safe. Her instincts have been all over the place recently, and so have her moods.
I believe the three of us have an unspoken agreement of sorts. We don’t bring it up, and we do everything in our power to keep her calm and content.
Lucky wants no part of nesting, but he still naps on a very rare occasion. Charlotte sweet-talked him into lying with her on the circle nest. She’s snoring while he looks about as bored as can be.
Cleo is down by Lucky’s feet, also snoozing.
I find it funny how quickly Charlotte got over her ire.
She has held her ground about not waking up for middle-of-the-night potty breaks, but I think that’s only fair.
The farther along she gets into her pregnancy, the more trouble she has sleeping through the night.
It’s only fair that we manage Cleo, when we are the ones who brought her in. I’m just about to offer to take Lucky out to find Malachy or Pat, but I’m distracted. My hand rests on Charlotte’s stomach, and her skin bounces against my palm.
We’ve felt the baby move here or there, but these are violent kicks. Stretching over Charlotte, I pat Lucky’s shoulder. He rolls toward me and his mother, but I bring a finger to my lips to remind him to be quiet.
Pulling up the front of Charlotte’s maternity shirt, I grab his hand and hold it to her skin where I felt the movement.
His eyes widen, and he whispers, “That’s my baby brother?”
I chuckle. “Yes, or your baby sister.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling.
Sometimes I wonder what we did to pass the time before they came into our lives. No matter what we kept ourselves busy with, it couldn’t have been anywhere close to as fulfilling as life is with them in it.