22. An Extremely Tiny Adversary
AN EXTREMELY TINY ADVERSARY
REESE
About thirty people mill about on the grass in Evelyn’s backyard for Jace and Mackenzie’s baby shower as I stand next to Charlie at the refreshments table, admiring our handiwork.
Especially the deviled egg baby carriages we made—I’m ridiculously proud of those.
I adjust one of the tiny carrot and pickle slices pressed into the sides of the toothpicks that form the axles for the little buggy. “I think they turned out adorable.”
Charlie tips her head a bit, looking at them. “I don’t know. Some of their faces are a little creepy.”
I gasp in mock horror. “Charlie! You never say a baby is ugly!”
But she’s not wrong. We used sliced Vienna sausages for the babies’ faces, and we made the eyes by dipping the tip of a toothpick into balsamic glaze and touching it to the sausages. And let’s just say that we weren’t so good at making the eyes exactly… symmetrical.
“Oh, I would never say it to their faces,” Charlie says, then tips her head in the other direction. “Mostly because I’m not sure which direction their eyes are looking.”
“They just want to be able to see all the rest of this,” I say, gesturing to the table.
Our Bun-in-the-Oven Sliders are arranged on two tiered trays.
Baby carrots and other vegetables surround bowls of dip.
A huge fruit platter fills the center, and beside it are teddy-bear maple shortbread cookies, miniature Bundt cakes, little cream-filled pastry bundles, and a glass dispenser of sparkling lemonade with a sign that says Baby Bubbles.
“I think we did well,” I say.
Charlie nods. “I agree.”
“We should open a catering company.”
“No. I’ve worked missions that went more smoothly than us trying to make three dozen teddy bear cookies.”
We both laugh as we turn around to the shower. My eyes immediately go to Miles. He’s talking to Jace and Mackenzie, who is sitting beneath the shade of one of the big trees with a hand resting on her stomach, and people from both sides of their family spread across the lawn.
All of the Lancasters are here, including the grandparents.
Hammy and my mom are talking with Evelyn near the patio.
And then there are the MacNeils—Mackenzie’s parents, her sisters and their husbands, two little boys who have teamed up with Heidi to make a fortress out of giant foam baby blocks, and eighteen-month-old Adelaide, who is currently toddling across the grass with a cookie clutched in one fist.
And Owen is in town and here, too. He comes up to Charlie, wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses her temple.
It’s loud. Happy. Full. I’d braced myself for this—it’s exactly the kind of backyard family gathering I thought might really hurt today. Especially after telling Miles out loud that there is a very good chance I will never have a biological baby of my own.
Honestly, I expected this to hurt a lot more than it does. Instead, I’m legitimately having fun. And I’m happy for Mackenzie.
I have spent years trying to not let myself feel grief about my infertility, as if acknowledging it would give it permission to take over everything.
But apparently grief doesn’t work that way—it and happiness can coexist. I can ache for what I may never have and still be completely happy for Mackenzie.
Miles’s eyes meet mine from across the yard, and he takes a few steps in my direction just as little Adelaide toddles up to him.
And like the softhearted man that he is, he crouches down beside her, putting a hand on the right side of his back for a moment as he does.
Adelaide holds up the remains of her shortbread cookie.
Miles studies it seriously. “What have you got there?”
Adelaide’s response isn’t quite loud enough for me to hear.
“A bear?” Miles asks.
She holds it up to his mouth, and my hand flies to mine, holding in a soft chuckle. Miles looks at the soggy cookie, then at her, and then takes the smallest possible bite. Adelaide beams.
My heart is trying to ache and melt at the same time.
Adelaide reaches both arms toward him, and he picks her up without hesitation.
Miles settles Adelaide against one hip while one of Mackenzie’s nephews races over to ask him something.
Heidi follows, carrying two foam blocks bigger than her torso.
Within thirty seconds, Miles is holding a toddler, listening to a six-year-old explain a rule he has clearly invented, and somehow helping Heidi balance the blocks against his knee.
He looks completely natural.
I’ve seen him with Heidi hundreds of times— no new information there. But everything is different because four days ago, Miles told me he still wants a future with me.
And now, apparently, my brain has decided that means it gets to picture Miles holding a baby. Miles helping a child build something in a backyard. Miles helping a kid learn how to ride a bike. Miles with kids who call him Dad.
The picture comes so easily that I have to look away. There’s no way he doesn’t want all of that.
Charlie bumps my shoulder with hers. “You okay?”
I glance at her. “I’m good.” She waits, so I add, “I really am.”
She’s still looking at me, probably trying to tell if I’m telling the truth.
Then Adelaide tries to put the rest of the cookie into Miles’s mouth, and I laugh. “I might need to rescue him.”
“He can handle international criminals. He can handle a squishy cookie.”
“Somehow, I doubt this uses that same skill set.”
When I get to Miles, Heidi has taken off again, Mackenzie’s nephew is arguing with his brother about how to make their fort strong, and Adelaide has her head tucked against Miles’s shoulder.
Miles is not Adelaide’s uncle. I’m not even sure if she has met Miles before today, yet she feels comfortable enough with him to snuggle right in.
It makes me think all kinds of thoughts and feel all kinds of emotions, and I don’t even know what to do with them all.
“You’ve been captured,” I say.
Miles smiles at Adelaide. “She’s very persuasive.”
“I see she offered you a partially dissolved cookie in exchange for picking her up.”
“It was a strong opening negotiation.”
Adelaide looks at me, and when I tell her, “Hi,” she tucks her face back into Miles’s shoulder. I’m right there with you, Adelaide. I’ve tucked myself into that shoulder quite a few times myself. I know it’s a good one.
Miles smiles at me, and apparently knowing what that mouth feels like against mine has permanently altered the effect of his smiles. I really want to kiss him right now.
Miles shifts Adelaide slightly, then his free hand goes to his right side, pressing against the back of his shirt just above his hip.
“What’s wrong?”
His hand drops. “Nothing.”
“Miles. You’ve done that several times since we’ve been here. I saw you doing it several times last night, too.”
“My back is just bothering me a bit. It’s no big deal.”
“Did you get injured during a mission?”
“Nope. Not doing training, either.”
“From some made-up game with your brothers? Foot volley, perhaps?”
“No—I didn’t do anything to it. My back never hurts there. It just feels wrong.”
Wrong? What does that mean? I’m studying him, trying to figure him out, when he says, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Sometimes backs just hurt. Then they get over it.”
He looks fine. Maybe a little tired, but fine. Adelaide begins wriggling, so Miles sets her down, and she toddles toward her mother.
Miles puts his hand to his back again, and I eye him suspiciously. “That doesn’t seem like nothing.”
He drops his hand. “Better?”
“No. Now you’re just hiding evidence.”
Before he can respond, Charlie calls everyone toward the far side of the lawn for the next game.
Miles leans close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “Saved by baby-related competition.”
“You underestimate how persistent I am.”
“I would never,” he says, then kisses my temple before putting his hand in mine and walking with me to Charlie.
If anyone is ever looking for a way to bring out the competitiveness of a Lancaster, creating a baby-carrier obstacle course is definitely a way to do it.
There is a course set up across a section of the lawn using cones, folding chairs, hula hoops, balls, and pool noodles used in rather creative ways.
When it’s each person’s turn, they have to strap a baby doll to them in a carrier, and then go through the course without the baby falling, before placing the baby in a portable crib at the end.
Somewhere between when Jace starts us off with a time no one has managed to beat yet and Emerson nearly dumping his doll right out of the carrier when he ducks beneath a pool noodle, I notice Miles has been shifting his weight.
For a long while, Jace’s time remains the fastest. Then Mackenzie’s sister Mari—the one with the two boys—comes in with the fastest time.
If I had to put money on it, I’d bet that this obstacle course is going to remain up after the party is over, and Miles and his brothers will run the course as many times as it takes to beat Mari’s time.
The kids start running their own version of the course while carrying foam blocks. One of Mackenzie’s nephews does a somersault over a pool noodle. I’m no spy expert, but I’m pretty sure it could qualify as a tactical roll.
Miles shifts the way he’s standing again and presses the heel of his hand into his right lower back.
I go over to him. “Is it getting worse?” He nods, so I say, “You should sit.”
“I was—I just can’t get comfortable.”
Miles isn’t one to complain about discomfort. He barely even acknowledges actual injuries. If he can’t find a position that doesn’t hurt, that worries me. But Charlie announces the next game, and everyone is called to tables where piles of baby dolls, diapers, tiny clothes, and socks are waiting.
“Come on,” Miles says. “We’ve got baby things to do.”