by Cassia Leo
And all our things will collect dust, unless someone—me—spends all day dusting and sweeping and mopping. Then Houston will see how stressed out I am because all I have time for is Austin and the new house. I never have time to write or work at Hallie’s Hope anymore. So he’ll hire a housekeeper to do all the dusting and sweeping and mopping. And soon I’ll become just like all the other wretched “real housewives” of Lake Oswego. Just the thought turns my stomach.
At the heart of the argument is another even more important question: Do I trust that Houston knows what’s best for our family?
My gut reaction to that question would be a resounding yes. But if I sit and dwell on it just a moment, I begin to wonder if Houston understands how important this city has become to me. How important it is to us. I love that it takes Houston five minutes to drive to work and that he gets to come home for lunch almost every day. I don’t want to imagine what it would be like if his commute were to take an hour or more during heavy traffic.
The argument is dead for now, since the house Houston was coveting for months was snatched up a few weeks ago in a cash deal by an investment company. Though, I’m sure Houston will set his sights on another lake house soon.
Once Austin and I have had our lunch, I pack up the baby bag and get the stroller ready to take him for a walk outside in the August sunshine. But when I get down to the lobby, a paramedic van is parked in front of our building, its lights flashing as a small crowd forms on the sidewalk.
Libby, the concierge, smiles at Austin as I approach her desk. “Hey, Austin. How are you today?”
I push the stroller closer. “What’s going on out there?”
Libby shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’s a homeless man who passed out. Maybe heatstroke?”
I sigh as I see that at least four or five of the people crowded on the sidewalk are homeless men. I’m not afraid of homeless people. I’ve never had any negative encounters with them in all the years I’ve lived in Portland. I did have an instance where a homeless woman tried to reach for Austin in his stroller when we were standing on the corner waiting for the light to change.
It could have been an innocent gesture. Maybe she wanted to feel his soft skin. Or maybe she wanted to wipe away a bit of drool or hand him a toy he’d dropped. I don’t know, because my motherly instincts kicked in and I hurried off in the opposite direction.
I felt awful as I rounded the corner and quickly checked Austin to make sure he was okay. I don’t want to be the kind of judgmental jerk who assumes that just because someone is homeless it means they’re dangerous. Still, the sad truth is that a large percentage of homeless individuals suffer from mental illness. And some of them are a danger to themselves and others.
Staring out at the crowd of people on the sidewalk, I turn and flash Libby a tight smile as I head back to the elevator. “I guess we can go for a walk later once it’s cooled down a bit,” I say, and she smiles, knowing all too well that the heat has nothing to do with my decision to head back upstairs to the safety of our air-conditioned apartment.
A few hours later, I put Austin down for his six o’clock nap at 5:48 p.m. and Skippy plods over to lie on his dog pillow under the window, while I sit on the sofa with my laptop to take another crack at my wedding vows before my mom arrives at six. Thirty minutes later, my mom hasn’t arrived yet, but Houston walks through the door with his skin flushed and dripping sweat.
I slam the lid of my laptop shut and place it on the coffee table. “What happened to you?”
He instantly peels his sweaty T-shirt off and uses it to wipe the perspiration from his face. “I was on the fucking roof for the last three hours trying to fix some aluminum flashing on one of the steam vents.”
I leap off the sofa and head to the kitchen to get him a glass of cold water. “Why didn’t you call a roofer?”
He follows me into the kitchen and the sharp smell of his sweat fills the room as he leans in to kiss my cheek and take the glass of water from my hand. “The roofer couldn’t make it out until tomorrow, but I got the inspector to agree to come back first thing tomorrow morning. This roof permit is a fucking nightmare.”
“We can have the wedding on the second floor,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.
He guzzles the entire glass of water and chuckles as he places it in the sink. “Don’t start that. I know you want to do it on the roof and I’m going to do everything I can to make it happen. We’re not giving up yet.”
I smile as I grab the shirt out of his hand and use it to dab the sweat on his chest. “You look like you could use a cold shower.”
He smiles as he reaches up and roughly grabs my jaw, then he kisses me hard.
I trace my fingers down his six-pack abs and undo the button of his jeans as I slide down to my knees.
Rory knows there’s no weapon more powerful in a woman’s arsenal than a well-timed blow job. She wants the wedding to take place on the roof of Barley Legal. And she’s willing to literally get down on her knees and beg me to make it happen. Not that I don’t think it’s a great idea. At night, the roof has a great view of Mount St. Helens, the downtown lights, and the river. And with the Barley Legal building taking up almost a full city block, the roof is by far the most spacious place in the building. No walls and not a whole lot of equipment to get in the way of the mingling.
Of course, when I spoke to our insurance company and the city of Portland, they both agreed I’d need a permit to make sure the roof was safe for 110-plus people. It can definitely support the weight, but we needed to get some adjustments made to the safety rails a few weeks ago, and now we have to fix some flashing around the steam vents. It doesn’t matter that we’re shutting down all the brewery equipment and there won’t be a single molecule of steam coming out of those vents on the day of the wedding. The roof has to pass inspection or not only will there be no wedding, but they’ll shut down the brewery until those flashings are up to code.
When she’s done showing her appreciation for my hard day at work, Rory takes a few minutes cleaning herself up in the bathroom while I wake up my main man, Austin. I brush my thumb over his cheek, the same method I use to wake Rory in the morning, and he responds the same way, smiling as he reaches for my hand. Rory says Austin is my mini-me, but she doesn’t realize all the small ways he’s like her. Like the fact that they both like being woken up the same way, and they both have smiles that can bring me to my knees.
I scoop him up and he giggles as I nuzzle my nose in the crook of his neck. “Is that funny, little man?” I say, nuzzling him some more until he’s squirming with laughter.
I carry him out to the kitchen and Rory is already setting up his bowl of mushy peas for dinner. I fly him around the kitchen like Superman a few times before he “lands” in his high chair. His chubby cheeks are rosy with glee as I strap him into the chair and lock the food tray in place. Rory hands me the bowl and I sit down to feed him a few spoonfuls before I let him try it on his own. Rory read an article in a baby magazine that said we need to start teaching him how to feed himself now. According to the article, the more he learns the way real food feels, the less likely he’ll be to put strange objects in his mouth later.
I try not to laugh as he very predictably chucks the baby spoon onto the floor. Bending down to pick it up, I let him have a go at the peas with his chubby fingers. Then I head over to drop the spoon into the sink.
“What kind of smoothie is this?” I ask as Rory hands me a glass. “It looks like Austin’s watery shit.”
Rory rolls her eyes as she finishes pouring the rest of the brownish-green liquid out of the blender into another glass for herself. “It’s the new hemp protein powder I just bought. It makes everything look like poop, but it tastes better than that chalky muscle-building stuff you were buying.”
I take a long drink from the smoothie then smack my lips. “That’s some damn good poop.” I lick some smoothie off the corner of my lips and cock an eyebrow. “Wait… Did you put peanut butt
er in this?”
“Why? You don’t like it?”
My eyes widen. “You’re pregnant.”
“What?” she says, her voice going up a couple octaves.
I glance at the high chair where Austin is making a mess out of his bowl of baby mushed peas. I turn back to Rory. “You stopped putting peanut butter in your smoothies after you had Austin. Now you’re doing it again. You’re pregnant.”
“Oh, please. By that logic, I should have been pregnant the first time I got a full night’s rest after Austin was born. There are a lot of things I stopped doing after I had him, and some of those things I started doing again, like sleeping and putting peanut butter in my smoothies. And some of those things I will never do again, like putting peanut butter on my hot dogs and—”
“Forcing me to have sex so you could go into labor?”
“I did not force you! And I was already four days past my due date. It was perfectly safe.”
“It’s okay, baby. I like it when you take advantage of the medicinal powers of my monster cock.”
She shakes her head, trying not to smile as I set down my smoothie on the counter and come up behind her, laying my hands flat on her abdomen.
“Maybe we should let my monster have a peek and see if he can diagnose your peanut butter craving more accurately than I can.”
I pull her back until her back is flush against me, then I brush my lips over the soft curve of her neck. I’m positive she can feel my erection growing against the top of her ass. She sets her glass down on the counter and turns her head to kiss me on the mouth as my hand slides under the waistband of her jeans. She grabs my hand and I sigh as she yanks it out.
“My mom will be here any minute,” she says, reaching for her smoothie again. “And you have to stop doing that in front of Austin. Pretty soon he’s going to understand what happens when Daddy’s hand disappears down Mommy’s pants.”
“He already understands. Don’t you, buddy?” I say, taking a seat in the chair next to Austin. “That’s why I’m your favorite. You want to be just like Daddy when you grow up. Making the girls squirm.” I glance at Rory and she shoots me a deadly look.
“Can you take a break from making the girls squirm long enough to get your son cleaned up before his grandma gets here?”
“I think I can handle that.” I grab the bowl of mushed peas off the tray and unlock it. Then I unfasten his seat belt and pull his chubby body out of the high chair. “Let’s go get you cleaned up for your grandmonster.”
“I heard that,” Rory shouts as I set off toward Austin’s room.
“Did she say why she’s late?” I shout back at her as I pull some clean pajamas out of his dresser and grab a clean diaper off the shelf, placing them both on the changing table.
“She didn’t say. She’s acting weird again,” Rory shouts back at me as I take Austin into the bathroom.
I give Austin a quick bath, then I hand him off to Rory so I can take a shower myself. By the time I come out of the bathroom with my towel wrapped around my waist, Patricia is already in the living room with Rory. I can hear her cooing and fussing over Austin. I try to make it past the hallway entrance unnoticed, but Patricia glances at me as I walk by.
“Hi, Patricia!” I call out as I keep walking toward the bedroom. Once I’m dressed in some pajama pants and a T-shirt, I come outside to greet my mother-in-law properly with a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing, Patricia?”
She shrugs. “Oh, you know. If it’s not the menopause, then it’s something else. When a woman gets to be my age, she’s lucky if she can remember to put her panties on.”
“Mom!” Rory whines. “We don’t want to hear that kind of stuff.”
I laugh as I offer to take Austin off her hands and she gladly hands him over. He’s a hefty boy, even at nine months old. He’s definitely going to grow up to be tall and strong like his dad.
“Oh, Rory,” Patricia says, waving off Rory’s embarrassment. “You’ll see when you get to be my age. You’ll begin to care less about what’s appropriate.”
Rory looks worried. Ever since her mom started experiencing menopausal symptoms earlier this year, she’s turned into a different person. The prim and proper grammarian has become a hot, sweaty mess. She and Kenny have become even closer, which Rory doesn’t like one bit. She says it limits her time with Kenny because her mom has become unbearable. On that point we agree. Menopause is no joke. If this is what I have to look forward to with Rory in twenty years, then I think I might have to start saving my pennies for a good divorce lawyer.
Well, maybe not a divorce lawyer, but a good therapist might come in handy.
“Is this yours?” I ask Patricia, pointing at the purple suitcase standing next to her.
“Yes. Do you need to borrow it for your trip?”
I smile as I grab the handle. “We’re fine, thanks. We’ve got plenty of room in our suitcases.”
“Because we haven’t packed yet,” Rory says, placing her hand on her mother’s back to lead her into the kitchen.
“Houston, you can’t let Rory slack off or she’ll never pack her suitcase,” Patricia calls to me over her shoulder. “I’ll never forget the time she forgot to pack for sixth-grade summer camp. She ended up throwing a bunch of clothes straight from the dryer into a duffel bag just so she wouldn’t miss the bus. She ended up taking two of her father’s pairs of jeans and none of her own.”
I laugh softly. I’ve heard this story at least twice before and I know how much it annoys Rory when her mom tells the story because she insists Patricia doesn’t remember it accurately. But Rory doesn’t try to correct her. She just leads her mother to the kitchen table and begins making a pot of tea.
I carry the suitcase into Austin’s room, then I push the rollaway bed out of Austin’s walk-in closet into the bedroom. I set him down in the crib while I set up the bed, then I take him back to the kitchen with me. Rory and Patricia are sitting with their cups of tea, Patricia wearing a smug grin as I enter.
“Did I interrupt something?” I say, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of breast milk.
I place it in the bottle-warmer machine and press the on button, then I reach into the drawer for one of the nipples.
“My mom is dating someone,” Rory says, sounding almost bored.
“I’m not dating anyone. I’m too old to date,” Patricia insists.
“Then what do you call it when old people have sex?” Rory replies, though she cringes a little in anticipation of her mother’s reply.
“Oh, Rory, don’t give me that look. You can’t expect me to be alone forever. I’ve told you before, we all have needs.”
Rory scrunches up her face as if she’s in physical pain. “Please, not the needs discussion.”
Patricia rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’m screwing someone.”
“Ew. No, that’s not the appropriate response, Mom.”
Patricia pushes her cup of tea away and begins fanning her face. “You know where you can stick your appropriate response.”
I try not to laugh as Rory hangs her head in shame. “You need some ice water, Patricia?”
“Yes, please. Thank you, Houston.”
I grab her a glass of water, then I grab Austin’s bottle out of the warmer and screw the nipple on. He reaches for the bottle as I sit down at the table with them. Cradling him in my arms, I lean down to kiss his forehead and draw in a long breath of his clean baby scent. His cheeks perk up, smiling even as he sucks on the bottle.
Rory watches us for a minute before a guilty look comes over her. “I want to take the laptop with me on the trip.”
I stare at her, taking deep breaths to calm myself so I don’t blow up. “We agreed you’d leave the laptop at home. It’s our f—It’s our honeymoon. You can’t—” I’m about to say that she can’t work on our honeymoon, but a small voice in my head questions who I am to say what she can and can’t do on our honeymoon. It’s our honeymoon, not just mine.
I glance at Patricia and sh
e’s absentmindedly tracing her finger in circles over the whorl in the top of the walnut dining table. I sigh as I realize Rory brought this up in front of her mom so I would be outnumbered.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I mutter, and she rolls her eyes.
When I look down at Austin, his eyelids are becoming heavy. Rory gets me a baby bottle filled with water and I switch it for the bottle of milk. He continues sucking, rinsing away the sugars in his mouth with the water, until a few minutes later he’s fast asleep.
I think the most beautiful thing about babies is the way they look when they’re asleep. Part of that beauty comes from the knowledge that they’re not lying awake at night or tossing and turning with nightmares about weddings or honeymoons or in-laws. When you watch a baby sleeping, you know he’s truly at peace. You know you’re seeing someone at the most perfect time of their lives, before the smolder of the world has cured their heart into a breakable mold.
I know I should trust Rory to do the right thing. If she thinks she needs to bring the laptop with her on the honeymoon, she must have a good reason for it. Still, there has to be some compromise. For instance, if she can bring the laptop, I can buy a lake house.
Sounds fair to me.
It’s 2:30 a.m. and my mom is standing in front of the open refrigerator, fanning herself with the door. I’m annoyed. Not only did she wake Austin up when she got out of bed to cool herself down, but now she’s standing between me and the pitcher of water I need to pour myself a glass.
I clear my throat softly. “You okay, Mom?”
She whips her head around. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No, it was Austin, but I settled him down.”
I don’t mention that it was her who woke him. No need to rub it in. Still, it’s hard to feel like my mom is here to help when her presence is already disturbing the delicate balance of Austin’s routine. He just started sleeping through the night five weeks ago and it’s been pure bliss. The first night it happened, I woke up at six a.m. feeling confused and out of sorts. It took me a few minutes to realize this was because I’d just had my first full night’s rest in almost eight months.
