Bonus Scene
ELOISE
"Moana! Moana! Moana!" The chant comes from two identical voices, perfectly synchronized in that eerie way only twins can manage.
Mason and Mia sit cross-legged on the living room floor, their light brown curls bouncing with every emphatic shout.
At four and a half, they've already mastered the art of the coordinated tantrum, and they're deploying their full arsenal tonight.
"Star Wars!" Jess counters, standing on the couch with her hands on her hips, looking every inch the confident seven-year-old who knows exactly what she wants. "I want to watch Rey. She's the best."
"Moana has a boat!" Mason argues.
"Rey has a lightsaber!" Jess shoots back.
"Moana has Maui!" Mia cuts in.
"Rey has BB-8!" Jess huffs, glaring back and forth between her siblings.
"Moana has—" Jess and Mason synchronize their next argument.
"Okay, okay!" I hold up my hands, trying to referee before this escalates into World War Three. "Everyone, take a breath."
Three sets of eyes turn to me, each pair brimming with the absolute certainty that their choice is the only correct one. Right now, I’m kinda dreading having to sit through either movie. I really just want to watch something without singing crabs or exploding Death Stars.
I look over at Atlas, who's been suspiciously quiet during this whole exchange.
He's leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips.
The same smile that used to make me want to throw things at him back when we were roommates.
The same smile that still makes me want to throw things at him, though now for entirely different reasons.
"Atlas," I say, my voice carrying the particular tone that every mother develops—a mix of question and accusation. "Who let our seven-year-old watch Star Wars?"
He shrugs, completely unbothered by the maternal inquisition. "Jess has good taste in movies, and she’s brilliant, so she can handle PG movies."
I stare at him. "She's seven. And that movie is PG-13."
"Not all the movies. Some are PG. And our daughter appreciates quality cinema.
" He pushes off the doorframe and strolls into the living room, scooping Mason up under one arm and Mia under the other.
Both twins immediately dissolve into giggles, their Moana campaign temporarily forgotten as their father swings them around like sacks of potatoes.
"What? You want her watching that princess who needs a prince to save her? "
"Moana doesn't need a prince," Jess points out. "She saves herself. And her island. And her demigod sidekick." God. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to having a child who’s smarter than both her parents combined. It’s a little unnerving.
"Exactly," Atlas agrees, depositing the twins back on the floor and dropping onto the couch next to Jess, who immediately sits next to him.
"Moana's a solid choice. Independence, determination, way-finding skills. But Star Wars has Rey. Luke. The Force," Jess says as he looks down at her with something approaching reverence.
"Jess identified with Rey immediately. Said she wants to be a Jedi when she grows up." Atlas glances over at me and shrugs.
"Last week, she wanted to be a doctor," I remind him.
"That was Tuesday," Jess informs me solemnly. "Today I'm going to be a Jedi. Tomorrow I'll probably be a teacher like you were, Mommy."
The casual mention of my former career hits me in the chest, soft and sweet. I left teaching when Jess was little, and some days I miss it with an ache that surprises me. But then I look at these three perfect, chaotic, demanding little humans, and I know I made the right choice. For now.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do," I announce, taking charge before this descends further into chaos. "We're going to vote. Democratically. Like civilized people."
"We're not people," Jess informs me. "We're kids."
"Kids can be civilized," I tell her.
"No, we can't," Mason adds helpfully. "Uncle Ian says we're savages." I’m going to kick my brother-in-law’s ass for saying that in front of our little sponges.
"Uncle Ian says a lot of things," I mutter.
"Most of which he shouldn't." I rub my temples, feeling a headache brewing.
This is what my life has become—negotiating treaties between animated Polynesian heroines and space wizards while my husband looks on with amusement.
Eight years ago, I was a single woman with a neat apartment and a predictable life.
Now, I'm surrounded by tiny humans who have somehow inherited their father's stubbornness and their mother's temper.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
"Okay, voting time," I announce, clapping my hands together. "Everyone who wants to watch Moana, raise your hand."
Two small hands shoot up immediately. Mason and Mia exchange triumphant looks, already celebrating their victory.
"Everyone who wants to watch Star Wars?"
Two hands go up, Jess and Atlas with matching smirks.
I guess I’m the deciding vote. I glance back and forth between my two eager twins and Jess and my smug husband.
"Your turn, Mom," Jess says, looking between us with a look that screams I know I'm going to get what I want, I'm just waiting for you adults to catch up.
I look at my family. The twins are still chanting "Moana" at increasingly deafening volumes. Jess sits next to her father, confident in her victory. Atlas, watching me with those blue eyes that still make my stomach flip, waiting to see what I'll do next.
This is my life. Beautiful, chaotic, ridiculous.
"Compromise," I announce. "I'll watch Moana with the twins in my bedroom. And—" I hold up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests, "Jess and Dad can watch Star Wars in here. Deal?"
Three small faces consider this. I can practically see the calculations happening: Do we hold out for total victory, or do we take the guaranteed popcorn?
"Deal," Jess says finally, extending her hand for a shake. She's been doing this since she was three, this formal agreement-making. I have no idea where she picked it up, though I suspect it involves Uncle Dawson’s influence.
"Deal," the twins echo, less formally but with equal enthusiasm. Mostly, I suspect, because they love to snuggle up in our king-size bed.
"Deal," Atlas agrees, but he's looking at me, not the kids. Looking at me with that expression that means he's thinking about later, when the kids are in bed, the house is quiet, and it's just the two of us.
I feel my cheeks warm. Eight years, two pregnancies, three kids, and this man can still make me blush with a look.
"It’s settled," I say, perhaps a little too brightly. "Atlas, you get the popcorn started. Jess, help your brother and sister get settled into my bed."
As the kids scramble off, I follow Atlas to the kitchen. He's already got the popcorn going, the familiar popping sound filling the kitchen.
"You're good at this," he says quietly, nodding toward the kids.
"At what? Negotiating with the munchkins?”
"At being their mom." He reaches over and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. "At being my wife. At making this—" he gestures at the chaos of our living room, the blankets and toys and half-finished art projects scattered everywhere, "—into a home."
I squeeze his hand. "You're pretty good at this, too, you know. For a guy who used to live in a house under construction and eat cereal for dinner."
"I have a very sophisticated palate," he protests. "Fruity Pebbles are a delicacy."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful."
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him—soap and cedar and something uniquely Atlas.
This is my life. It isn’t perfect, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.