I crumple into myself with a pathetic whine. “Do you really think he looks at me like that? You’d truly bet—”
“I do, Win. I do, and I love it so much.” Sarah reaches out, untangling my arms folded tight against my chest. She grips both of my hands and holds them. “You deserve this!” she says, shaking me a little until I smile for her, as forced as it may feel. “And I know this is also a pregnant thing, but you’re glowing. You seem so much lighter. When you two stepped in here together, it wasn’t like it was a few months ago. Then, it was like two people with chemistry and a sexy secret. Now, you look like the real deal.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper, crinkling my nose as we hold eye contact lightly.
“I know,” Sarah says, brushing her thumb over the back of my hand. “But I think if you ask him, he’ll be gentle with your heart.”
I nod, inhaling deeply.
“I also think you’re not that girl with the silver platter anymore. You’ve grown past that version of yourself. And I think assholes like Jack would take anyone as kind as you and try to twist them into something ugly. That’s what people like him do. It isn’t your fault you tried to see the best in him. Or that you didn’t want to be alone. You’ve gotta forgive yourself for that.”
I roll my eyes up, feeling a tear slip out. “Fucking hell,” I whimper, half laughing.
“Too much?” Sarah asks, laughing softly at me.
I shake my head, lifting off the couch and throwing my arms around her shoulders. “I love you,” I say.
“I love you,” she repeats back to me. “And that’s never going to change.”
When I sit again, neither of us moves or speaks. We just let the moment linger, encouraging smiles reflected back at one another. “I’m gonna try,” I say, sniffling. “I’m not sure when, because doing it sober will be a challenge and a half. But I’m going to tell him how I feel. Eventually. Soon, if I can.”
“And I’ll be there to say I told you so when that man tries to get you knocked up all over again.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but grin, all the while imagining what could be. The best-case scenario, for once.
The version of life where Bo and I walk hand in hand into something new for us both. Slow, assured, and delicate with one another. Where maybe we would do this on purpose. Maybe a few times—if we’re any good at the parenting side of things.
And I can see it, clear as any memory. We’d build our kid a treehouse in the spring and drink wine on unhurried summer evenings on the back porch. Our limbs intertwined as we sit on a swinging bench, watching them play. A life where we’d make love as many times as we find each other with teeth and force and passion. Years and years spent still getting to know one another, unlearning and relearning each other as the decades go by. Uncovering the intricate layers and deepest spots until every darkened corner is found. The mess and the chaos and the beauty of a life well lived—a life shared.
I’d like it very much.
So much it scares me even more.
But not enough to not try.
“Maybe you could tell Bo how you feel on his birthday? Tie a bow around your tits and let him unwrap you. You must be dying to fog up those glasses of his.” And she’s back.
“I need your help with that, actually.” Sarah gapes. “No,” I say sharply, silencing her. “Not that. A party. I’m going to ask Bo’s dad to keep him busy during the day so I can set up and have a few of Bo’s friends over. He deserves something to celebrate him. Will you help me?”
“Obviously! Bo’s one of us now. I can’t be caught slacking on a birthday.”
I smile up at her before looking around the room absently, then to the door on a steadying inhale. “Should we get back out there?”
“Nah, let them miss us.” She smiles mischievously. “Oh, I forgot in all the chaos… Did you want to take a bath while you’re here? I picked up your favourite stuff, just in case.”
“I could kiss you right now,” I say to her, reaching to gently pat her cheek.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, pushing off her knees to stand. “And save the kissing for Bo.” She snickers, walking toward the door.
CHAPTER 26
Twenty Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a banana.
I’m frozen, standing on the front step. I’ve been here for enough time that a child riding their bike outside has now passed behind me twice.
It is deceptively nice for March—a fool’s spring, if you will. Fellow Canadians will ditch the heavy winter jackets and boots and inevitably fall into a deep, dark depression when the snow returns someday next week. Every year, we’re shocked by such a thing—as if the collective memory develops amnesia. But I like that about us humans. How willfully blind we can be to the gloomy realities ahead.
In reality, we aren’t safe until April. Or maybe even until after my birthday, in May.
Still, at least I’m not literally frozen on the front step—dreading meeting Bo’s dad.
While I was at work today, Bo picked his dad up from the airport. He’s staying with us for four days before he goes back to France, enough time to see his son ring in his thirtieth birthday. Bo, on the night we met, called his father, Robert, his best friend. He’s also his only living family member. So zero pressure to impress the guy. Nope, none whatsoever.
He’s going to love you.
Damn, I sure hope so.
When the little girl on her bike passes a third time, eyeing me suspiciously, I decide enough is enough.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside the front entryway.
I hear music coming from the dining room and the electric whirl of some sort of machine from the kitchen. A stand mixer, I think. Do we even own one of those? God, I should probably offer to cook some time.
I shrug off my jacket and shoes and follow the sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen.
“Hi, just me,” I say, turning the corner. In the kitchen is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen… and his son.
Holy mother of—No, actually. Holy father of Bo.
“Hey!” Bo says, circling the counter to stand next to me, smiling brightly as always. “Win, this is my dad, Robert. Dad, this is Win.” Bo pronounces Robert with a French accent, and I nearly swoon. There’s not enough oxygen in this room. He should have prepared me. I should have requested family photos.
“It is so good to meet you, Winnifred,” Robert says in a thick accent, lifting his flour-and dough-covered hands in the air. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been kneading bread.”
“Dad went to make himself a sandwich and saw we were out of bread,” Bo says, bending to speak into my ear. “I did offer to go to the store.”
Robert has all of Bo’s similarities in height, natural charm, and build, but his hair and beard are peppered black and grey and trimmed shorter. They also have different eyes in shape and colour—Bo’s wide hazel eyes to Robert’s smaller deep brown. The deep lines and creases around Robert’s lips and eyes speak to a man, like his son, who loves to laugh. If this is a sneak preview of what Bo will look like in thirty-ish years, then I better get to work locking that shit down.