by Lauren Rowe
“Sarah, I harbor no misunderstanding about how much you like getting fucked by me and my big ol’ cock,” I say. “And neither does anyone within a half-mile radius of our bedroom.”
She laughs.
“We’re good, love,” I say. “We’re always good.”
“Good,” she says. She exhales. “Whew.”
“So it’s a date,” I say. “I’ll shock and awe you with a whole new brand of fuckery the minute we get the all-clear from the doctor, whenever that is.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I touch her belly. “It’ll be something to look forward to after our little monkeys arrive.” Oh shit. All of a sudden, as those last words leave my mouth, a tsunami of anxiety crashes down on me.
“Jonas?” Her face flashes with acute concern.
I clear my throat.
She puts a steadying hand on my forearm. “What are you thinking, baby?”
My heart is pounding in my ears.
“Jonas?”
“I’m thinking I can’t wait to tie you up and shove a glass dildo up your ass.”
“Jonas, talk to me.”
My stomach won’t stop twisting. I take a deep, steadying breath. “I just worry a bit sometimes, that’s all.” I try to smile at her again, though I’m sure I’m not successful.
“Oh, Jonas.” She touches my cheek. “What’s going on with you?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
She squints at me. “Come on, Jonas. I can tell you’ve been struggling a bit lately. Talk to me.”
I rub my eyes and glance over at the clock. “I haven’t been struggling.” I push her over and slap the tattoo on her delectable ass cheek. “No more talking about our fucking feelings, woman. It’s time for you to get your massive tits and juicy ass in gear. The dumber half of the Faraday clan will be here in thirty minutes.”
“Josh and Kat are coming over?”
“Yeah, I invited them for dinner.”
“Well, yeehaw! Why didn’t you say so, hubsters?”
“Because it was a surprise. Now get your delicious ass in gear, wife. It takes you five times longer to do anything these days, hauling those gigantic tits around. Chop chop.”
Chapter 3
Sarah
Jonas opens the door and Kat’s mini-me tears into the room, giggling and squealing at the top of her lungs.
“Hello, beautiful,” Jonas coos to his towheaded niece. He kneels down and she leaps into his muscled arms. “Gimme my kisses, Gracie.”
Gracie quickly begins peppering her uncle’s face with kisses, exactly the way he’s trained her to do it since she could first form a pucker with her little lips.
“Oh, thank you,” Jonas says. “Such sweet kisses. Oh, wait, I think you missed a spot.” He tilts his chin to her and she lays a wet one right on it. “Thank you, baby. Oh, whoops. Another spot.” He turns his chiseled cheek to her and she obliges him. “Oh, that was an extra good one. Thank you.”
As usual, watching Jonas with Gracie makes me swoon—I can only imagine how I’m going to melt onto the floor on a daily basis when I get to witness him with our own babies. “My turn,” I say, hauling my big-ass belly off the couch. “Come over here and gimme some of those kisses.”
Jonas puts Gracie down and she instantly barrels toward me like a rocket.
“Careful of Auntie Sarah’s belly,” Jonas calls after her.
“Oh, she’s fine, Jonas,” I say, just before Gracie slams into me like a linebacker. “My goodness, look who’s wearing her sparkly-pink cowgirl boots,” I say.
“She wants to wear those pink sparkle-boots twenty-four-seven,” Kat says, taking off her coat to reveal her petite baby bump. “Hey, girl,” Kat says, kissing my cheek.
“Hey, Kitty Kat.”
Kat flops onto the couch with a big sigh. “The minute Gracie opens her eyes in the morning, it’s ‘Sparkie boots!’ And at night, when I make her take them off for bath time, she throws a fit. ‘Sparkie boots! Sparkie boots! Grassy sparkie boots!’” Kat lets out a dinosaur-like shriek in apparent mimicry of her strong-willed child. “I’m convinced the girl’s actually a pterodactyl in a toddler suit.”
I sit down next to Kat on the couch. “I see no reason why my sweet and angelic niece can’t sleep in whatever sparkly footwear she desires.”
“Ha! I’m gonna remind you of that ridiculous comment when your own ‘sweet and angelic’ children are barreling toward their terrible twos on a one-way bullet train.”
“Aw, Gracie would never throw a fit,” I say, hugging Gracie to me like I’m shielding her from the cruel barbs of her mean mommy. “Don’t let your mommy defame you with such malicious lies.” I nibble Gracie’s neck. “Nom, nom, nom. I love me some Gracie.”
Gracie squeals.
“You like the pretty sparkle boots I got you, boo?”
“Grassy luh da boots.”
“Well, that’s good because I love you.” I pucker and Gracie instantly smashes her wet lips into mine. “Mmm,” I say. “Yummalicious.”
“Yummaleesh,” Gracie repeats, and I laugh.
“Amazeballs?” I prompt.
“Mayzbilz.”
I giggle with glee. “Holy crappola,” I say slowly.
“Holuhcrup.”
I laugh again and Gracie’s face lights up. I could play the “repeat after me” game with Gracie all day long. It never gets old.
“You funny,” Gracie says to me, and I laugh. This is her recent catchphrase, and I absolutely love it.
“I funny,” I agree.
“Hey, Sarah Cruz,” Josh says, breaking away from his front-door conversation with Jonas and striding across the room toward me. “What the hell are you teaching my daughter?”
I stand up from Gracie to give Josh a hug. “Only the most important words in the English language.”
“Damn, girl, you’re fucking huge,” Josh says.
“Josh,” Kat warns.
“Sorry.” Josh glances at Gracie. “Darn, girl, you’re effing huge.”
“That’s not what I’m censoring you about. Sarah’s not huge.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Yes, I am.” I pat my massive bump. “Pretty soon, the earth’s gonna start orbiting me.”
Kat opens her mouth to refute me but then shrugs with resignation. “Well, I’m not too far behind you,” she finally says, obviously conceding the point. She pats her own belly, but it’s a ridiculous comparison.
“Ha!” I say. “My belly could swallow yours like Pacman on a little white dot.”
“So, how’s the double-incubation going for you?” Josh asks, rubbing my mammoth belly.
“Pretty good. But Jonas-Monkey right here”—I put my fingertip on what’s gotta be Crazy Monkey’s elbow (or maybe his foot?)—“has been stomping on my sciatic nerve a lot lately. This little troublemaker’s been making it awfully hard to get a good night’s sleep.”
“Like father like monkey,” Josh says, shooting his brother a smile. “Wait a second. You said he. Is it two boys?”
“No, we didn’t find out,” Jonas says. “Sarah’s just convinced she knows.”
Josh laughs. “Well, shit man, she’s Sarah Fucking Cruz. Of course, she knows.”
“Language, babe,” Kat interjects.
Josh smirks. “She’s Sarah Effing Cruz. You should never doubt mother’s intuition, bro—and that’s especially true when the mother is Sarah Effing Cruz—Sarah Effing OAP Cruz.” He winks at me.
I roll my eyes. Josh has been calling me “OAP Cruz” ever since that video of me in Thailand went viral—but to this day I have no idea what he thinks OAP stands for, since I’ve certainly never told him. As far as I know, only three people in the world know what OAP stands for, and Josh isn’t one of them. “Yeah, I told Jonas to respect mother’s intuition,” I say, “but my dear husband never listens to me. He thinks he’s the smart one in the relationship.”
“Ha!” Josh scoffs. “Hardly. Bro, listen to your wise and powerful wife.”
�
�Yeah, Jonas, listen to your wise and powerful wife,” I say. “And listen to your wise and powerful brother, too—especially when he tells you to listen to your wise and powerful wife.”
“Oh, I’m well aware Sarah’s the smart one in this relationship,” Jonas says. “Trust me.”
Josh laughs and settles himself into an armchair. “So you’re thinking it’s boys, huh? That’d be hilarious. Hey, Jonas, let’s start a baby-pool at work. I’ll put a thousand bucks into the pot to make things interesting for everyone.” He rubs his hands together. “And if I happen to win the pot, then you can pay me personally in karaoke. I’m thinking Neil Diamond, ‘Coming to America.’”
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing. “I’d pay a thousand bucks to see Jonas sing that.”
“I know, right?” Josh laughs. “Okay, my official guess is two boys, exactly five weeks from today—”
“Stop,” Jonas says, much more forcefully than necessary. “No predictions. No guessing.”
Josh’s smile vanishes.
“Just stop,” Jonas says, looking distressed.
“Okaaaay,” Josh says, shooting me a look that plainly says, What the fuck is he freaking out about now? “Looks like someone isn’t a Neil Diamond fan.”
Jonas looks anxious. “Sorry. I just don’t want to get too attached to one particular outcome, that’s all.” He shifts his weight. “Just... please don’t do a pool, Josh. Just... don’t.”
The hair on my arms stands on end. What the hell is going on inside my sweet husband’s (anxiety-ridden) head?
“No problem,” Josh says, sounding earnest. He stares at his brother’s intense face for a long beat, apparently trying to figure him out. “Come here, Little G,” he finally says, and Gracie crawls into her daddy’s lap. “Gracie, tell Uncle Jo Jo not to worry so much. Tell him, ‘It all works out in the end, Uncle Jo Jo.’”
“Itsouadluda end, Unkie Jo Jo.”
“You see, Jonas?” Josh says. “Listen to Gracie. She’s the wisest Faraday of us all. Right, Gracie?”
Gracie nods and sticks her finger in her mouth.
“Life happens whether you worry about it or not, bro—so you might as well not worry about it.”
Kat’s been studying Jonas during this entire exchange. “Hey, Gracie,” she says. “Have you given Uncle Jo Jo his kisses yet? I think Uncle Jo Jo could use some extra kisses today.”
“Yeah, she gave ’em to me,” Jonas says, obviously trying to smile (but failing). “And they were really good ones this time.”
“Unkie Jo Jo want kisses.” Gracie waddles over to Jonas and plants a huge kiss on his cheek. “Unkie Jo Jo.” She leans her cheek against his tattooed forearm and pats his knee. “Unkie Jo Jo,” Gracie purrs.
Jonas smiles down at Gracie and then shoots an annoyed look at Josh. “Why do you guys keep teaching her to call me Uncle Jo Jo? Can’t I please just be Uncle Jonas like a normal person?”
Josh laughs. “Be grateful you’re ‘Uncle Jo Jo’—I’ve been trying to teach her to call you ‘Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown’ for months, but it just won’t take.”
“Oh, I gotta hear that,” I say. “Gracie, say ‘Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown’ for me.”
“Unkie Jo-Jo-Dah-Kehn,” Gracie says, and everyone except Jonas laughs.
“So good, baby!” I say. “I’m gonna give you a cookie every time you say Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown, okay? Sound like a plan?”
Gracie nods.
“Say it again for me: Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown.”
“Unkie Jo-Jo-Dah-Kehn.”
“Kat, give this girl a cookie.”
Kat reaches into her diaper bag and pulls out an animal cracker.
Josh claps his hands together. “So what’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”
“Well, for starters, he’s gotta stop teaching his daughter to call me Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown,” Jonas says.
“Then I guess I won’t be drinking tonight.”
“What can I get you girls to drink?” Jonas asks. “Club soda?”
Kat and I roll our eyes at each other in shared commiseration. “Club soda,” we both say at the same time.
“Josh? You want a beer?”
“I’ll come with you and figure it out,” Josh says. “I’m feeling particularly spontaneous tonight.” He grins at Kat and her cheeks flush. “How about you, Gracie-cakes? You want some juice?”
“Joos!” Gracie says, leaping off the couch.
“No, she doesn’t need the sugar,” Kat says, holding up a sippy cup. “I’ve got her water right here.”
“No water,” Gracie says. “Joos.”
We watch the men disappear into the kitchen.
Kat reaches into her diaper bag. “You wanna read your farm-animal book?”
Gracie nods and eagerly takes the book from her mother.
“How about you drink a little water while you read?” Kat says. “Water’s good for you.”
“No,” Gracie says firmly. She settles herself onto the couch and instantly becomes enraptured by her book.
Kat shakes her head. “No. It’s her new favorite word.”
“Well, she certainly didn’t learn it from her mommy.”
Kat pats her belly. “Obviously not.”
“So how’re you feeling?” I ask.
“When I’m not barfing, you mean?”
“Sure. We’ll start there.”
“Oh, well, when I’m not barfing, I feel fan-frickin’-tastic—thanks for asking. Problem is, I’m hardly ever not barfing.”
I wince. “Still? I was hoping the barfing would have tapered off for you by now.”
“Oh, it has a little. Now it’s just mornings and evenings. Oh, and car rides.” She rolls her eyes. “Josh had to pull over for me on the way here. I’m officially the grossest person alive.”
“I’m sorry, Kat. That sucks.”
“It’s okay. I was the exact same way with Gracie.” She rustles Gracie’s platinum hair. “It’s all worth it in the end.”
I pinch Gracie’s knee. “Gracie, say, ‘Uncle Jo Jo the Dancing Clown.’”
“Unkie Jo-Jo-Dah-Kehn.”
“Kat, give that girl a cookie.”
Kat laughs and reaches into her diaper bag. “Paybacks are gonna be a bleep, my sister-friend. Just wait.”
Jonas and Josh return from the kitchen with everyone’s drinks and Kat feigns indignation. “You boys aren’t drinking club soda in solidarity with your poor pregnant wives?”
“Actually, Jonas suggested we do exactly that,” Josh says, taking a sip of whatever’s in his tumbler. “But I told him to stop trying to make me look like a total prick.”
Kat laughs. “Go ahead and drink, babe. And you, too, Jonas. Seriously. There’s no reason for everyone to suffer.”
“See?” Josh says to Jonas. “That’s exactly what I said.” He takes a big swig of his drink.
“Gimme a little taste, Playboy,” Kat purrs to Josh, and he bounds over to her. He takes another huge sip of his drink and sticks his alcohol-laden tongue in her mouth.
“Mmm, gin and tonic,” Kat coos. “Unexpected.”
“I told you—I’m feeling spontaneous tonight,” Josh says, his tone laden with sexual innuendo. He takes another huge swig of his drink and immediately leans into Kat.
I glance over at Jonas, wanting to share a look of extreme repulsion about Josh and Kat and their never-ending grossness—those two make Jonas and me look like we’re middle schoolers—but Jonas is lost in his thoughts, sipping on his beer.
“Okay, guys, a toast,” Josh says, pulling away from Kat.
We all raise our drinks and give Josh our undivided attention, even though we know what he’s about to say (since Josh gives the same toast every time).
“Hang on a second,” Josh says. “Gracie-cakes, where’s your sippy cup, honey?”
Gracie looks up from her animal book.
“We’re gonna clink glasses, sweetie,” he says. “Get your sippy so you can clink with us.�
��
Gracie’s face lights up. “Sippy, Mommy?” she asks. “Where my sippy?”
Kat shakes her head. “Oh, sure, now she wants her water, now that her handsome daddy suggested it.” Kat pulls the cup from her diaper bag and hands it to Gracie. “You could sell ice to an Eskimo, Josh,” she says.
Josh winks at Kat. “Watch this. Hey, Little G, before we clink glasses, I want you to take a big sip of water for me, okay?” Gracie dutifully complies, sucking down three massive gulps of water, and Josh flashes Kat a huge, smart-ass grin. “Well, gosh, Kat. You keep telling me our daughter is pig-headed like you, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s just like me—easy-going and reasonable.” He flashes a grin that makes even me swoon a little bit. “Anything else you want me to get Gracie to do for you, while I’m at it, babe? Anything at all?” Kat blinks slowly at him, shooting daggers at him, and he laughs. “Okay, let’s have a toast, people.” He raises his glass. “Hold up your cup, Little G.”
Gracie holds up her cup, her eyes gleaming.
I glance at Jonas, hoping to share a wide smile about Gracie’s off-the-charts adorableness, or maybe about Josh’s cocky charm, or maybe simply about how happy and lucky we are to be sitting in this room with these incredible people right now, but the strained look on Jonas’ face makes my stomach drop. What the hell is going on inside that labyrinth otherwise known as Jonas’ brain?
“Okay, so, a toast,” Josh says. He swoops Gracie off the couch with one fluid motion of his muscled arm and holds his drink out with the other. “To the Faradays,” he says.
It’s the same toast he always gives, so the rest of us begin to chime in with our usual reply: “Here, here! To the Fara—”
“Hang on a second, guys,” Josh interrupts. “I’m in a particularly verbose mood tonight. Indulge me for a minute.” He tilts his head toward his brother. “To Jo Jo the Dancing Clown—may your future babies teach you to relax once in a while, bro.” He grins. “Wow. You look like a serial killer right now, Uncle Jo Jo.”
Jonas takes a defiant swig of his beer but doesn’t respond.
Josh shifts his gaze to me. “To OAP Cruz, our fearless leader, our George Clooney, the fucking genius who—”
“Language.” Kat says, glaring at him.
