36. Holden #3
The answer comes without a joke.
Sage sighs and settles back against my chest. “I understand why you did it. That doesn’t make it okay that none of you told me.”
“Okay,” Milo says. “We’ll have a surveillance summit. All six of us. I’ll prepare slides.”
“No slides. We sit down and talk about what you can see, when you’re checking it, and what requires my permission.”
“Fine. But only if you promise to keep wearing the choker whenever you leave the house.”
“You don’t get to make the conversation conditional.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you not to make my brain eat itself before we can have it.”
She looks at me.
“I’m asking too,” I say.
Her eyes close.
“Fine. I promise I’ll wear it. But from now on, you tell me when you put surveillance on me. I shouldn’t have to find out from Eli after the fact.”
Milo studies her for a moment, then nods.
“You won’t have to find out from Eli again.
” His grin returns. “But if you think the tracking is crazy, you probably don’t want to know what I had planned just in case things went the other way.
” He glances between us. “We’ve been going at it like bunnies for weeks and I was starting to think we made a poly-baby.
” He pops a green bear into his mouth and chews.
“I think I’d be one of five really great dads. ”
Sage gives Milo a look. “You created a pregnancy plan?”
“It was less of a plan and more of a Google doc I kept adding to every time I had a new thought,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at her.
“All the logistical hurdles—crib placement, stroller storage, which brand of car seat is least likely to explode during a collision, that sort of thing. Also, I emailed Holden a short list of approved middle names.”
“That’s what that email was about?” I say, unable to stop the smile curving my mouth. “I thought you were sending me a hit list.”
Milo shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
Sage snorts. “If I was actually pregnant—”
“I’d have proposed before the stick dried, so don’t even joke.
” He holds up a finger, the top half of a yellow gummy bear stuck to the tip.
“My plan had a ring already picked out—one for all of us because inclusivity is important. I was also toying with blending all our surnames into one. You know—Adams, Ward, Mehlar, Cross, Raine, and Hart. I ran some combinations.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter.
“Option one: Wardams-Crossmehlar-Hartraine. Sounds like a law firm that exclusively handles divorce.”
“No,” Sage says.
“Option two: Mehlraine-Adamscrosshart. Very bold.” He drops into a soft pharmaceutical baritone. “Ask your doctor if Mehlraine-Adamscrosshart is right for you. Side effects may include nausea, dry mouth, and five husbands.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Option three—and this is the one I’m most proud of—Adamehlar-Wardcross-Rainehart. Double hyphenated. Distinguished. The kind of name that gets embroidered on a tennis bag.”
“Milo, we are not naming a hypothetical baby after a tennis bag.”
“Okay, then we go with Option four, Hart. Simple. Clean.”
“Why your name?”
He scoffs. “I’m obviously the biological father.”
“Based on what?” I ask.
“Based on the fact that I’m the most genetically gifted person in this room and that’s not even debatable.” He pops another gummy bear. “Also I looked it up, and the odds of a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby with my bone structure are—”
“There is no baby, Milo,” Sage says.
“And neither you nor Sage is blond,” I add.
“Semantics.” He winks at Sage. “But the Google doc is ready when you are, kitten.”
Sage presses her face into my chest and makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “I hate all of you.”
“You love all of us.”
“Same thing.”
Milo opens the pamphlet and clears his throat. “Chapter one: Understanding Her Flow. Did you know that the average menstrual cycle—”
“Out,” I order.
“I’m educating myself, Holden. This is growth.”
“Out!”
“Fine.” He snaps the pamphlet shut and gathers his gummy bears with wounded dignity. “But I’m leaving the uterus plushie. She needs a comfort object and I refuse to let that be you.”
He drops the stuffed uterus on the pillow beside Sage’s head, kisses her temple, and shuffles out of the room. I hear him announce to the kitchen, “I’ve been banished. Someone make me toast. I’m processing rejection and I need carbs.”
The door clicks shut.
Sage tilts her head up. Her eyes are tired and warm and a little glassy, but she’s looking at me the way she does when the noise falls away and it’s just us.
“I love this—the quiet. Us,” she says, tipping her chin up until I bring my mouth to meet hers. The kiss is slow and lazy, and she sighs against my mouth, so I wrap my hand around the back of her head and deepen it.
“Do you know what else helps with cramps?” I murmur, my mouth trailing along her jaw.
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Holden.”
“Medically proven. I looked it up.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“And?”
“It’s a crime scene down there.”
“Wildcat.” I brush the hair off her forehead and look her dead in the eye. “I’m a detective. Crime scenes are my specialty.”