The Birthday Agreement (Mom Club Confidential #2)
One
The kitchen is its own kind of loud—layered, constant. Cereal crunching The baby monitor’s faint hiss. A tablet singing something cheerful and tinny. The dishwasher finishing its last exhausted swish.
The toaster pops—heat snapping into the air like a warning.
Brielle keeps moving anyway.
Her bra strap digs into her shoulder, damp underneath. She adjusts it without thinking.
There’s no time to notice her own body. Barely even her breath.
“Bread,” Kayden demands.
“Toast,” she corrects automatically—because motherhood has turned her into the kind of person who clarifies even when it doesn’t matter.
“Breeeead,” he repeats, louder, like volume is the secret to making things appear.
“I’m working on it,” she says—soft enough to sound patient, sharp enough that she hears the edge in it and hates herself for it.
Another slice pops up. Too dark. Not burned—just a shade too far.
She scrapes at it with a knife, crumbs raining onto an already crumbed counter. The smell is cinnamon, burnt bread, and something faintly sweet—breast milk that lingers no matter how often she cleans.
Ash’s wail shifts pitch.
Brielle’s shoulders follow it.
“Okay,” she murmurs, like she’s negotiating with a tiny dictator. “Okay, okay—”
Her phone buzzes on the island. Not once. Twice. Three times—tight, insistent.
A text. Another. The group chat.
She doesn’t look.
The buzzing folds into the noise—another demand waiting its turn.
She reaches for Ash, scooping her against her chest. Coconut oil. Baby shampoo. Damp warmth.
Ash quiets instantly, like the scream was never about hunger or discomfort—just the need to be anchored.
Brielle presses her cheek to the baby’s head, eyes closing.
The softness hits so sharp it almost hurts.
The hallway creaks.
Jason appears like he’s stepping into the edge of a storm.
Half-shaved. Jaw shadowed with missed stubble. Hair damp, like he tried to fix it and gave up. The soft gray T-shirt she bought him last year clings just enough to remind her why she bought it.
His phone is in his hand, thumb moving—habit, not urgency.
His eyes lift anyway.
They always do.
Even distracted, he takes it all in.
The counter—toast, crumbs, open peanut butter. Kayden’s jam-sticky mouth. Ash’s red face buried in Brielle’s collarbone.
Brielle.
Her hair slipping from a messy clip. Hoodie hanging loose. Leggings streaked with jam she hasn’t had the bandwidth to care about.
Something shifts across his face—not dramatic. Not heavy.
Just… recalibrating.
“Hey,” he says.
Low. Steady. It doesn’t compete with the noise—it grounds it.
Brielle turns just enough. “Morning.”
He crosses to her without rushing.
Leans in.
Kisses her cheek—warm, familiar, unhurried. Not a drive-by. A real touch. The kind that says: I see you.
His hand settles at her waist. His thumb presses once—small, deliberate.
Grounding.
“You good?” he asks.
Not casual. Not really.
He’s asking the way he always does—like a check-in, like a teammate, like someone who knows there isn’t a clean answer at eight in the morning.
Brielle could tell him the truth:
I’m fine, and I’m stretched, and I can’t remember the last time I existed without something needing me.
Instead—
“Yeah,” she says. Default. Shorthand. “Just… morning.”
His mouth tugs.
He reaches past her, grabs the plate of toast. No asking. No performance.
He moves to Kayden, sets it down, nudges the cup closer with his knuckles.
“Hey, bud. Chew.”
Kayden giggles. Does the opposite.
Jason turns back.
His eyes catch on the bra strap digging into her shoulder.
He doesn’t comment.
Just brushes a finger over it—light. Questioning.
Brielle’s breath catches.
Not because it’s sexual.
Because it’s precise.
Because he still notices the things she’s stopped feeling.
His hand drops. Thumb skims her hip as he moves away.
He grabs the wipes without looking. Cleans Kayden’s hand in one efficient motion.
Brielle watches that—and something in her loosens.
Not desire.
Not longing.
Relief.
Partnership.
Jason taps the monitor, lowers the volume. Looks at her again.
“Text me if you need me to swing back.”
She blinks. “You can’t.”
“I can,” he says simply. “If you need me.”
Not romantic.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
His version of showing up.
Brielle doesn’t say she needs him.
She’s not even sure what that would mean anymore.
So she nods. “Okay.”
He kisses Ash’s head. She grabs his shirt, drools like she’s claiming him.
Jason grimaces. “Great.”
Brielle laughs—a quick, surprised exhale of something almost real.
He looks at her like that sound matters.
Like it’s something worth protecting.
His phone buzzes again. Work. The rest of the day stacking itself up.
He pockets it anyway.
Chooses one more second.
“I’ll be home around six,” he says. “I’ll do bedtime.”
Her throat tightens.
Bedtime is a war.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says. That’s the point. “I want to.”
He leans in again—closer this time. A kiss near the corner of her mouth.
She turns without thinking. Meets him halfway.
His hand slides to the back of her neck. Warm. Familiar.
For a second—just a second—
Memory flickers.
Jason pressing her against this counter.
Her laughing into his mouth.
Toast burning behind them because neither of them cared.
The memory lands sharp.
Not because it’s gone.
Because it’s quiet now.
He steps back.
The kitchen crashes in again.
“Love you,” he says.
“Love you,” she answers.
Automatic.
He grabs his keys. Pauses. Looks back at her—like he’s measuring something he doesn’t name.
“You sure you’re good?” he asks again.
Different this time.
Softer. More careful.
Brielle lifts her chin.
She could say:
I miss feeling like a woman instead of a system.
Instead—
“I’m fine.”
He nods.
Accepts it without believing it.
Stores it.
“Okay. Call me.”
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks.
The noise rushes back.
Brielle stands there—Ash heavy against her chest, Kayden chewing at the table.
She watches the space Jason just left.
Feels something shift low in her stomach.
Not abandonment.
Not anger.
Just a thought—quiet enough to miss:
There was a time his presence in this room meant more than teamwork.
She shifts Ash to her other hip.
The baby sighs into her like she belongs there.
Brielle looks down at her own hands—crumbed, sticky, capable.
Useful.
She exhales.
“Okay,” she says—to the kitchen, the kids, herself.
“We’re doing it.”
?
The van is the only place that belongs to her without argument.
Brielle sits in the driver’s seat in the driveway, engine off, hands at ten and two like the steering wheel requires her full attention.
The silence isn’t pure.
The faint tick of cooling metal. A leaf blower whining somewhere down the street. A dog barking once—then nothing.
But it’s quiet enough to hear herself think.
The cup holder smells like stale coffee and old Cheerios. A crushed Goldfish is wedged beside the gear shift.
The van isn’t a sanctuary.
It’s a holding space.
A place where no one is touching her.
Brielle exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
She tilts the rearview mirror toward her face, studying herself like she might find something missing if she looks hard enough.
Lipstick, worn off at the edges. Hair still half-falling out of its clip. Bra strap twisted under her hoodie, the line of it cutting into her shoulder.
Her eyes, though.
Still sharp.
Still hers.
She doesn’t hate her life.
That’s not it.
She loves Jason.
She loves her kids.
She loves the life they built.
She just doesn’t feel inside it the way she used to.
Or maybe—
She misses wanting it with her whole body.
Or maybe she misses wanting anything that way.
Her phone lights up again. Group chat.
She flips it face down without looking.
Not because she doesn’t care.
Because she can’t hold one more voice in her head.
Instead, she lets her mind drift.
There used to be heat.
Not frantic. Not chaotic.
Specific.
The kind that lived in the space between her and Jason when they looked at each other across a room and didn’t need to say anything.
There used to be spontaneity that didn’t have to be scheduled or justified.
Mornings where he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
Nights where she thought of skin before she thought of laundry.
Now they keep a shared calendar for sex.
The same one they use for dentist appointments.
Not because they don’t want it.
Because everything in their lives runs on logistics.
Brielle closes her eyes, head resting against the seat.
She thinks of Jason last night—stepping around toys to kiss her shoulder while she loaded the dishwasher. No expectation. Just… there.
She thinks of him offering bedtime like it costs him nothing.
Jason is not absent.
Jason is steady.
And that’s what makes this feeling so inconvenient.
It has nowhere to land.
No betrayal. No anger. No clean reason to point to.
Just—
Curiosity.
Her eyes open again, catching her reflection.
Thirty-one.
Still young.
Still alive.
Still capable of wanting.
So why does it feel like desire is something she has to dig for?
Like it’s buried under everything she’s become good at.
Brielle presses her palm flat against the steering wheel, feeling the residual tension in her muscles from the morning.
Lifting.
Carrying.
Managing.
Useful.
Necessary.
Loved.
But not—
She swallows.
Not seen in the way she misses.
A quiet laugh slips out. Dry. Almost embarrassed.
“God,” she murmurs. “Get it together.”
Her phone buzzes again.
Jason
Don’t forget you’re mine.
Brielle stares at the words.
Her chest tightens—something warm, something resistant.
The text used to make her grin.
Used to make her feel chosen. Claimed in a way that thrilled her.
Now—
It lands differently.
I don’t want to be yours like a role.
I want to be yours like a choice.
Brielle
Always.
Pauses.
Deletes it.
Types it again.
Sends it anyway.
Because it’s still true.
Even if it’s not the whole truth.
The van settles back into quiet.
Brielle looks toward the house—the door, the windows, the calm, curated fa?ade of a life that is working exactly as it should.
She doesn’t want to leave it.
She just wants to feel awake inside it.
She lifts the mirror back into place.
Sets her hands on the wheel again.
“Okay,” she whispers.
And this time, it doesn’t sound like resignation.
It sounds like the beginning of something she doesn’t understand yet.
She opens the door.
Steps out.
Back into her life.
?
By the time the house finally settles, the day feels wrung out and hung up to dry.
The kids’ TV murmurs faintly through the wall—some cartoon lullaby, the last sliver of noise before sleep. The hallway nightlight casts a soft glow across the baseboards.
Brielle pads down the hall in socks, shoulders aching the way they always do at the end of a day spent holding other bodies.
The bedroom smells like lavender lotion and clean detergent.
Jason is already there, folding laundry—neat stacks lined across the bed like he’s trying to impose order on something bigger than shirts and tiny leggings.
Brielle lingers in the doorway.
Watches him a second too long.
Jason isn’t sexy in the way he used to be.
Not loud. Not obvious.
It’s quieter now.
Broad shoulders. Steady hands. The way he folds like it matters.
Like he’s taking care of something that matters.
Something in her tightens before she can decide what to do with it.
Her throat follows.
She doesn’t want to feel grateful tonight.
She wants to feel wanted.
And she doesn’t want to have to ask for it.
She slips into the bathroom, brushing her teeth. The electric buzz fills the space—loud enough to drown out the silence she doesn’t want to sit in.
Her reflection stares back at her—cheeks flushed, hair finally down.
For a second—
She looks like someone who might be wanted.
The thought lands and disappears just as fast.
Fabric shifts in the other room.
Steady. Familiar.
Brielle spits, rinses, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
Then she just… stands there.
Palms flat against the counter.
Still.
She could go back in.
Cross the room.
Slide her hands under Jason’s shirt.
Press her mouth to his neck.
See what happens.
See if he’d meet her there.
She doesn’t move.
Not because she doesn’t want him.
Because she doesn’t know how to start something that already feels finished.
Safe.
Predictable.
Nothing urgent.
Nothing at risk.
She changes into an old T-shirt instead—soft, worn, invisible.
She hates that she chooses it.
Hates that he won’t notice either way.
Hates that she doesn’t choose something that makes her feel like a woman.
Jason looks up when she climbs into bed.
His eyes move over her—slow, quiet.
She feels it anyway.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He sets the last folded shirt aside and joins her. The mattress dips.
Brielle stays on her back, staring at the ceiling.
The sheets are cool against her skin.
Jason’s presence is warm beside her.
Close.
He leans down, kisses her forehead.
Gentle.
Familiar.
It makes her chest ache.
Too soft.
Too known.
Not what she suddenly wants.
His hand rests on her shoulder, thumb brushing once—like he knows there’s tension there.
Just not where.
“You okay?” he asks.
Not you good.
Not this time.
Brielle turns her head.
Their eyes meet in the dim light.
Jason is looking at her.
Really looking.
He always does.
“I’m just tired,” she says.
He nods.
Like he understands that tired can mean everything.
He doesn’t push.
Just lies beside her—close, but not pressing in. Like he’s leaving space for her to choose him.
Brielle turns onto her side.
Away.
Automatic.
She hates herself for it.
Jason’s hand finds her hip under the fabric of her shirt.
Warm.
Still.
Not demanding.
Just there.
Somehow worse because of it.
Her body reacts anyway.
Small.
Uninvited.
A tightening low in her stomach.
A breath she didn’t mean to take.
Jason feels it.
She knows he does.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t take it further.
Just lets the contact exist.
“You know,” he says quietly into the dark, voice low enough to feel like truth, not conversation, “I miss you.”
Not her body.
Her.
Brielle’s throat tightens.
“I’m right here,” she whispers.
It sounds like an offering.
Like she’s not sure it will be enough.
“I know,” Jason says.
A beat.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Silence settles between them.
Soft.
Heavy.
Brielle wants to turn over.
Wants to kiss him.
Wants to feel him want her the way she remembers.
She also wants to sleep for twelve uninterrupted hours and wake up as someone simpler.
Jason’s thumb drags once across her hip.
“Bedtime tomorrow,” he says. “I meant it.”
It’s practical.
Small.
It lands anyway.
“Okay,” she whispers.
He leans in, kisses the back of her shoulder through the thin cotton.
Brielle closes her eyes.
Not asleep.
Just still.
Listening to his breathing.
Feeling his hand like a marker—
I’m still here.
Her thoughts drift.
Not to leaving.
Not to cheating.
Not to anything dramatic.
Just—
Something inside her shifting.
Slow.
Unfamiliar.
A little dangerous.
Not because anything is broken.
Because she finally has the space to notice what she wants.
Jason murmurs, half-asleep, “Night, Bri.”
“Goodnight.”
She lies there in the lavender-dark and thinks:
He’s right here.
So am I.
I’m not gone.
Just—
quiet.
Like something waiting to be named.
Like something that won’t stay quiet much longer.