And it turns out, when we decided to start a family and forgo birth control, lots of fucking . . . makes lots of babies. She’s four months gone with this latest one—our third.
“Come on, Declan! Jump. I’ll catch you.”
The little voice pipes up from the baby monitor on the counter.
“Like this, Declan, look!”
That would be three-year-old Finn urging one-and-a-half-year-old Declan to escape his crib.
I laugh into Ellie’s shoulder and she giggles.
A clap of thunder booms over us and I nuzzle Ellie’s neck. “It’s raining. Miss Princess Jane is going to be quite put out that she can’t ride her pony.”
We’re going to the palace today, for Henry and Sarah’s oldest daughter Jane’s fourth birthday. It’s not the public celebration; this one’s small and private—just family.
“Henry will just bring the pony inside for her,” Ellie says.
“The Queen will love that,” I say sarcastically, shaking my head. “Princess Jane has Henry wrapped around her little finger.”
“Like you wouldn’t do the same if it was Finn,” Ellie teases.
“Finn doesn’t want a pony. He wants a bazooka for Christmas—he told me so the other day. Haven’t figured out yet how Santa’s elves are going to manage that request.”
Ellie laughs, pointing at me. “He’s definitely your son.”
I rub my eyes. “Yeah, he’s mine all right. But I think the bazooka idea comes from your dad. He was playing army-man with him last week.”
Ellie’s father comes to Wessco every other month—he’s been doing it for years now. He’s still sober, still lives in New York, managing the charitable Amelia’s restaurants that bear his beloved wife’s name. I believe it’s part of how he was able to finally make peace with her passing—by honoring her, keeping a part of the quaint coffee shop that was her dream, alive and thriving.
There’s a scuffling sound from the monitor, a thud and then cheers of triumph.
“Mummy, Daddy—he did it! Declan jumped out of his crib. He jumped!”
I kiss my wife sweetly on her pretty mouth.
“And our fearless jumper Declan is all your son.”
I’m about to head up to get the boys, but the gate at the top of the stairs will keep them safely contained for a bit longer. I wait because Tommy Sullivan lumbers through our backdoor, taking a seat at the kitchen counter, looking like a sack of sad.
Like many students who take a gap year, Ellie never went back to finish her advanced psychology degree. If she ever wants to, I’ll support her 100 percent, but for now she seems content—happy—to take care of our boys and our home. And to let me take care of her.
But even without the degree, she’s a listener, a helper and a counselor to our family and friends. Ellie slides a cup of tea in front of Tommy, and hands a steaming mug to me.
“I think this might be it,” Tommy says. “It might really be over.”
He’s talking about Abigail Haddock. Doctor Abigail Haddock—the stunning, auburn-haired physician Tommy met in the hospital five years ago while he recovered from that gash on his head. The woman he stole a kiss from, while pretending to be delirious.
And it’s been a roller coaster ever since. A sordid tale of lust and love, hiding and seeking—both of them too fucking stubborn to admit they care for each other more than they’re willing to let on.
“Abby says she’s going on a date with that doctor she works with.” He looks at me. “We may have to take this guy out.”
I blow the steam from my mug and shrug.
“Okay.”
Ellie frowns back and forth between us.
“No. No, there will be no taking out of anyone.”
I flash Tommy the okay sign. Ellie spots it, then smacks my arm. And I smirk, because she’s still really cute when she’s pissy.
When I hear the boys rattling the gate, I head for the stairs, leaving my wife with her elbows on the counter, prodding my best friend to tell her all about it, so she can save him.
Like she saved me.
Like we saved each other.
Despite the rain, Princess Jane’s birthday party was lively and fun. Ellie was right—Prince Henry brought the pony inside for his daughter, and they’ll probably never get the stink out of the ballroom.
The Queen sniffed and scowled, but I could tell she enjoys the antics of her offspring more than anything in the world. She’s a wily one, hides it well—but I could still read it in the twinkle of her eye, the occasional quirk of her mouth and quick nod of her head, when she thought no one was looking.
And while Princess Jane is not Her Majesty’s twin, she is her little shadow. Even at just four years old, the girl idolizes her Great-Granny, follows her, imitates her, does her best to be as royal and regal as her. The Queen takes pride in that too.