He didn’t want to talk about the past anymore. “It’s okay,” he said, reaching out to envelop her in a hug. “It’s really okay. I’m glad I came. I’m going to be an uncle, you know.”
This time, when Becca picked up a onesie, she blew her nose right into it before tossing it into a hamper in the corner. “What?” she said, catching his look. “It’s going to be nonstop laundry around here anyway.”
“You excited?”
“Sure, and nervous, scared . . . it’s hard to imagine they’re going to just let Stephen and me bring a kid home and take care of her all by ourselves.”
“I guess now isn’t the best time to bring up what happened with the crickets.”
She swatted him. “I was eight! And those were destined to be your turtle’s food, so I saved them from a worse fate.”
“I’d rather take my place in the food chain than death by a child sitting on a baggie filled with me and my friends five seconds after we left the store.”
She shot him a dubious look, but at least she seemed back in control. He was already on such a thin edge, he didn’t know that he could deal with Becca if she got too warm and fuzzy on him. That was why he didn’t know how to respond to her next comment.
“I think they wanted to see you, too,” she said. “Mom especially. I think she pressured Dad to skip church so they could come, in hopes that you’d be here.”
He made a humming noise in the barest acknowledgment, but he knew it was time he faced his parents. “I should probably head back, check on Lauren. She doesn’t know anyone else here, so I don’t want to leave her alone too long.”
“Right. Of course.” Becca rubbed her stomach, her eyes widening a little. “Maddie’s really doing somersaults—want to feel?”
Before Asa could answer, Becca grabbed his hand and set it on her stomach. Immediately, there was a distinct rolling sensation, and he couldn’t help but think of old cartoons he’d watched as a kid, the roadrunner running into the ground until eventually all you could see was the mound of dirt traveling quickly away from the coyote. It was a little freaky, if he was being honest with himself. But it was awe-inspiring, too, and he was grateful she’d invited him to experience it.
“Does she do that a lot?” he asked once he’d pulled his hand away.
“Oh yeah, especially if I drink something sweet. I had a bunch of orange juice earlier, which is probably what woke her up.” Becca tilted her head, as if considering her next question before deciding to just go for it. “What about you and Lauren? Is she . . .”
“God, no. I mean, we’ve only just—and we used protection, so—” He felt the tips of his ears go red hot when he realized that she hadn’t been asking if Lauren was pregnant. Maybe he’d been too quick to consider his brain unscrambled. Between all the baby talk and being with Lauren only a few hours ago, he was having trouble thinking straight.
But Becca just laughed, seeming to enjoy his discomfiture in the way only an older sister could.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “It’s very new,” he amended. “Whatever it is.”
Her arched eyebrow seemed to say And you brought her to this?, but thankfully she didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t feel like he could adequately explain himself.
And yet he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “We’ve worked together for a while,” he said. “So I’ve known her for years, technically. But we only recently started . . . well, whatever. Dating.”
It wasn’t lost on him that he and Lauren had yet to go on an official date. If he and Becca had a closer relationship, if they didn’t have the awkwardness of all those lost years between them, this might’ve been where he would’ve asked her advice. I’m crazy about her, he would’ve said. But how do I know if she feels the same way? How do I tell her without freaking her out?
Maybe that had been the true mistake in inviting Lauren to this fraught family event. He’d been so focused on how good it would be to have her support that he hadn’t thought about what it might do to their burgeoning relationship, throwing her straight into the deep end of this swimming pool of adolescent trauma.
And he’d just left her in the living room, where his parents had probably cornered her by now. Who knew what they’d say. He’d be lucky if she didn’t jump in her car and drive away, tires squealing.
He rubbed at his chest, at the sudden burn of panic. This time, he really did need to get back out there.
Instead, as if conjured by his thoughts, his mother appeared in the doorway to the nursery, peering in uncertainly like she was waiting to be invited. Standing behind her was his dad, and once they’d entered the room, Lauren followed close behind.
Sorry, she mouthed, but he only shook his head in confusion. What did she have to be sorry for? Not stalling them longer? He hadn’t meant to put her in that position.
“I still don’t know why you didn’t go with pink,” his mother said, a quaver in her voice. She was looking at him, although the observation was clearly directed at Becca.
“I like the yellow,” Asa said. “It’s a very happy color.”
“Are you happy?” his mother asked, taking a step forward but not reaching for him. The room was way too small for the five of them. The way she’d phrased her question, it sounded like a genuine expression of interest in his well-being, but at the same time he couldn’t help reacting to it like an attack. “Lauren says you’re still working at that winter place . . . the one with the ice skating rink. And you’re happy?”
Maybe that was what Lauren had been apologizing for—giving up information about him to his parents. But he’d already figured they knew basic stuff like where he worked. Becca would’ve told them that, and his mother’s use of the word still seemed to confirm some prior knowledge.
He tugged at the left sleeve of his shirt, his gaze sliding to his dad’s.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
It was the truth, but it also felt like a tiny fuck you, a nuance that he knew wasn’t lost on his father. Even if, as usual, his dad’s expression gave nothing away.
He wanted so badly to break the tension by just saying aloud all the things that had built up over the years, all the pain and anger and misery and hurt. To ask why they hadn’t reached out to him before now, to tell them that they didn’t deserve to know if he was happy when they’d actively worked against that very happiness. But he also felt trapped by the situation, conscious of it being Becca’s event and not wanting to cause a scene, aware that for whatever reason everyone seemed to want to play it like this reunion wasn’t that big a deal.
He was still messing with his sleeve when he felt Lauren’s hand nudge against his, her fingers sliding over his wrist and resting against his pulse. It only took a slight shift for their palms to press together, and he linked his fingers with hers and gave a squeeze.
“Maybe . . . you could come for dinner sometime?” his mother said. “I’ll make that potato soup you always liked. And of course you can bring Lauren.”
At his side, he could sense Lauren’s attention turn to him, as if caught by something his mother had said. Maybe it was the dinner invitation—he couldn’t blame her if she wouldn’t want to go. He didn’t particularly want to go. But he also somehow didn’t have it in him to reject his mother right to her face.
Or maybe it was the way his mother kept referring to Lauren as though she weren’t standing right there, brandishing her name like some kind of olive branch, or more of a shield.
“We’ll see,” he said.