By the time I pulled the meatloaf out of the oven, Trip had come home. He walked into the kitchen to find all his women standing there, ready to celebrate his thirty-second birthday.
Jesus. Thirty-two. Remember how old you used to think that was when you were a kid? I remember as a little girl, doing the calculations until the millennium. I figured on New Year’s Eve of 2000, I’d be twenty-six, married, and with four kids by then.
We all know how that turned out instead.
Trip had a shy smile on his face as he entered the room. He was only partially surprised to see his mother there and went over to give her a hug, before kissing Claudia, Sandy, and Skylar hello. Then he came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist as I stirred the creamed spinach at the stove. You’d think with his money, his tastes would have gotten more extensive. But when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday dinner, he immediately requested meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and the aforementioned spinach. After the diet and exercise binge I’d gone on leading up to the Oscars, I was more than happy to indulge in a little soul food. At least for one night. I still had an entire city of beautiful women to keep up with.
He nuzzled his face against my neck and said, “Mmm. Smells great.” I didn’t know if he was talking about me or the food until he asked, “Did you make everything yourself?”
“I did. Used your mom’s recipe for the meatloaf, though.”
“Perfect. Can’t wait to dive in.” At that, he bit my earlobe, and I knew he was talking about me that time.
“Okay, kids, that’s quite enough,” Claudia snarked as we laughed. “All this cute is making me a little sick to my stomach, and I haven’t even eaten Layla’s cooking yet.”
*
After dinner, we retired to the living room for dessert. Sandy had made a phenomenal brownie cheesecake, and I was only slightly annoyed that she had picked something even more fattening than Trip’s dinner selection. Et tu, Brute? Again, I tried to ignore the calories. It was my boyfriend’s birthday, and I justified the sliver of cheesecake.
I wasn’t much looking forward to the extra-intensive workout in the morning, however.
Trip and I took over the couch with the baby, and I was bouncing her on my lap, watching her beautiful, chubby face splinter with drooly smiles as she chewed on her hand. She had a great laugh, and I was pulling out every trick in my repertoire just to hear it as often as possible.
“You’re a natural,” Trip’s mom directed at me.
I chuckled and responded, “No. I’m practiced. My best friend had twins a few years ago.” A pang gripped my heart as I mentioned Caleb and Julia. God, I missed those little fuckers. “Baby number three is due this summer. And. I. Can’t. Wait,” I added, bouncing Skylar’s feet against my knees on every word. She started squealing in response. Jackpot.
“Oh! Look at her face!” Mrs. W. exclaimed. “Oh, she reminds me so much of your father when she laughs like that.”
Trip spat, “Skylar’s adopted, Ma.”
“Even still. She’s a Wilmington.” Mrs. W. leaned over from her chair toward her granddaughter. “And you know it too, don’t you, baby girl,” she added, grabbing at Skylar’s pudgy toes.
“She’s a Wilmington—Carron. And stop comparing her to that asshole.”
We all went silent at that, the room turning quiet enough that I could actually hear the hall clock ticking away the seconds. I kept my focus trained on the baby on my lap, miming happy faces in her direction, trying to downplay the awkwardness that had suddenly crept into the evening. I was well aware that it wasn’t the first confrontation Trip’s family ever had regarding Terrence C. Wilmington II. Despite the fact that their mother was their saving grace in that house, neither Claudia nor Trip had ever understood her loyalty to the man. I didn’t feel it was my place to join the conversation, so I simply placed my hand at Trip’s leg and gave an inconspicuous squeeze, just as a reminder that I was there for him.
Finally, Mrs. W. broke the silence with her calm but firm voice. “Your father was a good man, Terrence. I won’t have you speak of him that way in my presence.”
“He was a drunk, Ma.”
Trip’s mother sank back into her chair, her tone conciliatory. “Can’t you try and remember the good times? Yes, he fought his battles with the bottle, but then, so did you. What if I had given up on you?” Trip stayed silent at that. “Terrence, you never forgive. Look at you right now. You’ve got your arm around Layla, and yet you still haven’t forgiven her. I love you, but you can be stubborn as a mule sometimes.” She shook her head and looked at him earnestly before leaning forward on her chair and placing a consoling hand against his knee. “Sometimes, you just have to learn when to let go. Let it go, honey.”