Silver Bush: Awkward Book Three

by Heller, JB

  “I love you too.”

  Her smile is the most beautiful thing in the world to me. And her steadily expanding belly is a close second. “You ready?” I ask.

  “As I’ll ever be.” She chuckles.

  Today is also the day when we tell the kids they’re about to be getting a couple of new siblings.

  We walk in the front door. Astrid is there, waiting for us, her arms crossed over her chest, her hip cocked to the side, and her little foot tapping against the tiles. “We need to talk,” she says.

  “Okay, but can it wait a couple of minutes, sweetheart?” Tilly asks. “We just need to have a quick chat with your grandmas, then we’re all yours.”

  Astrid nods, turns on her plastic princess heels, and walks away.

  Sailor is in the child-sized armchair I bought him a couple of weeks ago, busy reading a book on human anatomy. And Ari is having a tea party with Mr. Pickles and her dollies.

  “So?” my mother asks as we enter the kitchen.

  I grin and cast my eyes to Till. She gives me the go-ahead with a short nod, and I tell them, “Both boys.”

  “I told you,” Trudie says to Gia, who digs in her pocket and hands over a ten-dollar note.

  Tilly scoffs, “You bet on the sex of your grandbabies? What kind of grandmothers are you?”

  “The very best kind, darling, the very best.” Gia winks.

  Till shakes her head, and we laugh at their antics. Our kids are so lucky to have these strong, beautiful women in their lives.

  “Okay, we’ll go now and let you deliver the big news to the others,” Mum says, motioning towards the front door to Trudie and Gia.

  “Alright, we’re going, we’re going,” Trudie says, rolling her eyes at my mother before she gives Till a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

  When they’ve filed out, we call Astrid into the lounge where Sailor and Ari are already playing. She glides down the hall and into the room dressed in a new princess gown. “Are you ready for our talk?” she asks.

  I smother a smile and nod. “We sure are, princess. What’s up?”

  “Mummy’s getting fat, and Sailor says it’s because she’s going to give us a cousin-brother. I don’t know what that is, but I told him she ate a watermelon seed and now it’s growing in her belly,” she states.

  We sit on the couch, staring at her. Damn, I had no idea how perceptive they were.

  Sailor lays his book flat in his lap and shakes his head at his big sister. “That doesn’t really happen, Astrid,” he says, holding a hand across his forehead like he’s embarrassed his sister actually believes her watermelon theory.

  Seemingly anticipating an argument about to break out between Astrid and Sailor, Tilly says, “Okay, well, Lee and I actually wanted to talk to you guys about that.”

  Astrid gives Sailor a cocky look then sits on the couch beside Till.

  “Ari, pretty girl, come here for a sec,” I call to her. She’s lost in her own little world, pouring tea for Mr. Pickles. Her blonde head pops up, and she gives me a gut-clenchingly beautiful smile before she puts her teapot down and skips over to me.

  Once I have her on my lap, Tilly begins, “Lee and I love each other, and we love you guys so, so much.” She pauses, taking a second to look at each of her children in turn. “And we thought, you are such good kids and so loving and kind that maybe you would like a new baby to shower with all that goodness.”

  Astrid gives her a sceptical eyebrow raise, Ari frowns, and Sailor jumps out of his armchair, hurling a fist into the air. “I knew it! I’m getting a cousin-brother!”

  “Not quite, big man,” I interject. He comes to a stop mid-booty shake. “You’re getting two,” I tell him.

  His jaw goes slack, and he blinks at us. “Two?”

  Tilly and I nod, then Sailor takes off, running around the lounge, pumping his fists in the air, woo-wooing. Mr. Pickles picks up on his excitement and chases after him until they get tangled up, and they both hit the ground. Sailor rolls around with his piglet, laughing and crying out, “Two cousin-brothers!”

  “You guys, this is too much,” I tell Charlotte and Reagan when they walk into my house loaded down with gift bags.

  Reagan smiles at me and shakes her head. “Are you kidding me? We’re just getting started. I found this adorable boutique a couple of blocks from my place that has the cutest little baby shoes I’ve ever seen. I had no idea everything was cuter when it was miniaturised.”

  “I know, right?” Char agrees with her.

  I grin and shake my head. “I love you guys.”

  “We know,” they say in unison then burst out laughing. Charlotte grabs a cushion off the couch, sits on the floor, and starts upending bags while Reagan sets about making us coffees.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Char.

  She turns her eyes to me and shrugs. “You’ll take too long to open them all individually. I’m cutting out the middle man.”

  “Right,” I mutter.

  “You sit, and I’ll hold everything up for you to see. Anything you don’t like we can return.”

  I doubt I’ll be letting them return anything—these girls have good taste.

  A moment later, Reags strides back into the lounge room with a tray holding three steaming-hot mugs. Unfortunately, Mr. Pickles has developed a bit of a crush on our Reagan and dashes straight for her, tripping her up. The coffees go flying, and Reagan goes down, tray still in hand.

  “I’m okay!” she yells, her head popping up on the other side of the coffee table.

  Charlotte and I throw back our heads, laughing.

  “I can’t take you anywhere,” Char says, chuckling.

  “It wasn’t even my fault,” Reagan huffs. “It was this disgustingly cute little piggy’s fault. I wonder if Rhett would let me get a miniature pig? He can’t say no if I just bring one home, right?”

  “Only one way to find out,” I tell her as she rights herself then goes about cleaning up the spilt liquid and retrieving the mugs that luckily landed on the rug and didn’t smash.

  “Hey, you know how you said the babies are going to be identical? Well, I’ve been doing some research—”

  “Oh, here we go,” Char teases, poking her tongue out at Reagan who pokes hers right back then flips her off.

  I chuckle. They’re as bad as my children.

  “Anyway, did you know that, even though they’re identical, they won’t have the same fingerprint? How cool is that?” Reagan says, eyes filled with wonder.

  I tilt my head, not understanding. “But isn’t that the definition of identical? They’ll have the same DNA?”

  She nods then goes into what I call ‘Reagan mode.’ “So, at first it will be the same. But between six and thirteen weeks, they start moving around in there and touching the amniotic sack. That’s what creates unique little ridges and lines on their teensy-tiny little fingers.”

  “That’s actually pretty cool,” I tell her. “You’ll have to let Sailor know. He’s been looking for as many twin facts as he can get his hands on.”

  Reagan beams. “I love that kid.”

  I chuckle. “Me too.”

  Later that afternoon, I’m woken from an impromptu nap on the couch by music coming from the kitchen. I roll to my side, heave myself up, and poke my head around the corner. Lee is dancing with the kids while he cooks them dinner in nothing but a backwards baseball cap and a pair of low-slung jeans.

  My mouth waters—and not from the heavenly aroma of whatever he’s cooking, but the sight before me. He is, by far, the hottest thing I have ever seen. Throw in the fact that he’s including the kids, and my ovaries are jumping for joy. I’m having his babies. His.

  I’m the luckiest woman in the whole goddamn world.

  FIVE MONTHS LATER ...

  Dear God. I’d rather have my balls dipped in honey and be staked to an ant farm than let Tilly go through this ever again. She’s been in labour for six hours, and it’s been the longest fucking six hours of my life.

&n
bsp; I’m propped behind her on the delivery bed, supporting her as best I can while another powerful contraction rips through her. The second it’s over, she sags against my chest, and I brush my lips against her damp temple. “You’re doing so good, babe, so good. We’re almost there,” I assure her.

  She swallows then tilts her sweaty head back and looks into my eyes. “I love you,” she mumbles. “But if you even think about doing this to me again, I’ll—” Her threat is cut off by another contraction sweeping over her. She grits her teeth and bares down, pushing so hard I think she just broke my finger.

  “That’s it, Tilly. We have hair!” the midwife calls from between Till’s parted thighs.

  “Fucking finally,” I mutter as Tilly lets out a low guttural groan that I feel in my bones. “You got this, babe. One more push and you’ll be holding him.”

  She nods, determination filling her gaze. Her hands flex over mine where I’m holding her knees, and she takes the next thirty seconds to catch her breath. Then, it’s go-time again. Her nails dig into the back of my hand, breaking the skin as she gives an almighty heave, and a cry fills the air.

  The midwife extends a tiny pink squirming baby to Till from between her legs, and my arms curve around hers as she holds our son to her bare chest. He blinks slowly then makes a little snuffling noise as he begins shaking his little head. Tears fill my eyes when he latches onto a nipple all by himself.

  That’s my boy. Ain’t nobody gotta show him how to find the boobies.

  “You did it, babe,” I tell Till, holding her against my chest, my chin resting on her shoulder. “You’re a freaking superstar.”

  She sniffles, her eyes meeting mine, and our foreheads touch. She closes her eyes and relaxes into me, but our moment doesn’t last nearly long enough. Minutes later, her body stiffens, and she gasps.

  Baby number two is on his way.

  An hour later, I’m embracing Tilly in the shower off the birthing suite—hot water sluicing over our naked bodies—and I have never been prouder of the incredible woman in my arms. Her cheek rests against my chest as I gently run the loofa over her skin.

  I rinse her off, towel her dry, then dress her. Her eyes can barely stay open, but she refused to sleep without cleaning up. The nursing staff cleaned off the bed while we were showering, and I carry her to it before placing her down with all the care in the world. She snuggles into the pillow as I tug the blankets over her, and she promptly falls asleep.

  Both extremely healthy, our boys are sleeping soundly in a little plastic bassinet. I roll it to the corner by a big comfy armchair where I pick them up, careful not to wake them, then lower myself into the chair. My chest is bare, and the boys are wearing the tiniest nappies I’ve ever seen.

  After snatching up a super-soft blanket from the arm of the chair, I tuck it in around Theo then Tyler and settle back into the cushions.

  When I lost Tilly all those years ago, I lost my heart, my soul, and my happiness. But she’s given it all back to me, tenfold.

  ONE WEEK LATER ...

  Walking into my house with my brand-new babies in my arms and Lee at my side feels surreal.

  A year ago, if you had said to me that I’d be with Lee and we’d have a baby together, I’d have been torn between laughing in your face at the preposterousness and punching you in the throat for even suggesting I would be giving birth again.

  Yet, here I am, with my other half and not one, but two babies.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat as my kids rush me before wrapping their arms around whatever part of me they can reach.

  Sailor is the first to release me. He runs to his little armchair, shuffles back, and opens his arms. “I’m ready to hold my babies,” he says.

  Astrid stomps her foot and speaks over him. “No, I’m the oldest—I’m first!”

  “No, me! I want to hold babies!” Ari throws in.

  “One at a time,” Lee speaks over their ruckus. “But not right now. Your brothers are hungry, and none of you have the required equipment to get that particular job done. So, who’s going to switch the kettle on for me while I give Mummy a hand getting Theo and Tyler latched on?”

  “Me!” they each call out, shoving one another as they all try to be the first to the kitchen.

  I take a deep breath and smile. As crazy as it is, this is my life now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I did spot a few more silver streaks in my bush this morning ...

  Thank you so much for reading Silver Bush. If you could take a moment to leave a review, I would be endlessly grateful. xoxo

  What to read next? Turn the page for the first chapter of JB’s standalone romcom The Starfish Method.

  The Starfish Method

  Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed in true love and happily-ever-afters.

  That girl was me. Notice the past tense there: was . . . Yeah, I let go of that fairy-tale kind of hope a long time ago. Don’t get me wrong; I want to believe. I really do. But there’s only so much heartbreak a girl can take before she starts to question her fundamental beliefs.

  For instance, my first boyfriend back in ninth grade, Toby Miller (insert dreamy sigh), ticked all my boxes. Handsome? Yep. Funny? Uh-huh. Charming? Yeppers. Taller than me? You bet ya. And smart? Bingo. Unfortunately for me, I was not the only girl he was wooing with his swoon-worthiness.

  Next, we have Bryan Godfrey. After being burned by Toby and his Lothario ways, I added honest to my list of requirements. And Bryan, bless him, was honest to a fault. So honest he felt the need to inform me of every failing I possessed. But don’t worry. He did it in a very charming way. So charmingly, in fact, that it took me a while to realize he was actually insulting me.

  Then there was Grey Mathers, Will Carson, Aiden Fairmont, Alex Norman, and the list goes on. You get where I’m going with this, right? A string of unsuccessful relationships left me jaded and—for lack of a better word—hopeless.

  So, I devised a plan to keep my banged-up heart safe from all the douche-canoes in the world. I call it The Starfish Method. It’s really quite genius. You see, I still have needs as a woman, and I very much like companionship, so dropping out of the dating game altogether just wasn’t an option for me.

  In order to continue reaping the benefits of a relationship without becoming too invested, I only date each man for four months. Then, I give myself a month or two break before diving back into the dating pool again.

  The tricky part is getting rid of the current boytoy without him knowing I’m trying to get rid of him. That’s where The Starfish Method comes into play. At the three-month mark, I take a step back in being an active participant in the sex department and implement my secret weapon: I lie there like a starfish, limbs spread so the deed can successfully be done and mostly enjoyed by both parties. But it’s not great, you know?

  It’s so simple, it’s genius.

  After a couple of weeks of this, he (the current lover) will become bored and ultimately invent a reason to break it off within my four-month time frame. It hasn’t failed me yet, and I’ve been employing this method for four years.

  “You’re insane. You know that, right?” Amy, my BFF since our diaper days, says as I pop another fry into my mouth.

  I shrug as I chew. “So you keep telling me.”

  She snatches the bowl out of my grasp as I reach for another stick of potatoey goodness. I glare. “Dude, is there a reason you’re taking your life into your hands right now?”

  Her brows bunch in a frown. “This is serious. Taking away the carbs is the only way to make you listen.”

  I blow my bangs out of my eyes and look to the heavens, silently begging for patience. When I level her with my stare again, she’s clutching the bowl of fries to her chest. “Give them back and we can talk. There’s no need to hold my food hostage.”

  She snorts. “Right. I’m not falling for that again. We talk first, then I’ll return your precious grease sticks.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I retort
, “Well, get on with it then. I’m hungry.”

  Amy clears her throat then straightens her shoulders. “I think you should have held on to Brent. He’s so nice, and he treated you like a damn princess. Don’t even get me started on the way he looked at you like you were the most amazing thing on this Earth.”

  I drop my head to the tabletop. “You should date him if you like him so much,” I grumble.

  “Maybe if I’d met him first, I would have. But that’s just gross. I don’t want a bar of his pork sword after it’s already impaled my bestie.” She dry heaves then shakes her head. “Besides, he was crazy about you. Can’t you give him a chance? Like, a real one this time?”

  Sitting forward, I let my bravado go and get real. “I don’t think I have it in me to give anyone more of myself than I already do. My system works for me. It keeps my heart safe while still meeting all my needs. Brent is a great guy, otherwise I wouldn’t have hooked up with him in the first place. But you and I both know there’s always an expiration date on the ‘perfect guy’ routine. I get out before I get hurt.”

  Amy’s frown deepens. “But what if it’s not a routine? I think he’s genuine.”

  I grin. “That’s where my system comes in. If he was truly crazy about me, not just the great sex, he wouldn’t have broken it off with me. But he did. You can’t fault The Starfish Method. In the last four years, not one of the guys I’ve dated has stuck around to try to work things out.”

  “Life isn’t only about sex, you know,” she grumbles.

  “Ames.” I sigh. “I know that. But think about it; if Brent really liked me, for more than a good lay, he would have stuck around.”

  After a full minute of silence, Amy finally nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just really liked this one. I thought for sure he’d blow your stupid starfish out of the water.”

  I chuckle and reach across the space between us, snatching my bowl of fries out of her arms. “Maybe one day I’ll meet the unicorn of men, and he’ll stick it to me so good it won’t matter what position we’re in as long as we’re boning.”