Eight Years Later
A soft snow falls outside, coating the world in fairytale white. Christmas lights blink around the fireplace of our bedroom, and the light tunes of carols sound in the background. In the living room of our cozy, three-bedroom house just a few blocks away from Ryan’s parents is a Christmas tree laden with gifts.
The only gifts I need, however, I’m watching through the window. Ryan is outside skating with our two rascals. Three boys. Resting a hand on my stomach, I think and soon to be another, or maybe this time it’ll be a girl.
Today is special for a million and one reasons, not least of all because it’s our six-year anniversary. Tucker came exactly nine months after we were married; the kid was hardly a honeymoon baby—he was a night-of-the-wedding baby.
Angelo came about a year and a half after Tucker. My cousin Angela had wanted to hold out for a girl to inherit her name, but when it hadn’t happened on baby number two, she’d insisted we go with Angelo, and because he’s a saint, Ryan agreed.
Since then, we’ve been trying desperately for baby number three. It’s not for lack of trying that we haven’t been successful, that’s for sure. Ryan’s package is as hot and ready as the pizza I delivered on that fateful day years ago, but it just hasn’t been happening for us.
I’m blessed beyond belief with my two little boys and one big one, but I can’t help feeling that we are meant to have one more, to have three little Pierce children running around. Blinking back tears, I look at the pregnancy test and realize our family is about to be complete.
Ryan doesn’t know yet—I found out exactly thirty seconds ago. I’m planning to tell him tonight. It’ll be a little wine for him, and sparkling grape juice for me.
I swallow a lump in my throat—pregnancy hormones starting in again. I was a few weeks late this time, but I waited to take the test before I told him. We’ve had so many false alarms, it’s started to wear on my nerves.
I spread both hands over my stomach, joy filling my heart. This little boy or girl is the lucky one, just like me, because Ryan is the most wonderful partner, the most loving husband, and the best father to our children that I could have ever hoped for.
Mariah Carey croons in the background, and I smile as Ryan moves the puck across the icy pond in our backyard. Tucker and Angelo half-run, half-skate after him. They might be little, but they take after their father on the ice, and that’s saying a lot. This year, Ryan led his team—the Minnesota Stars—to their first ever Stanley Cup win. I was there, both boys in the seats next to me, and it was magic.
I watch as Tucker takes a tumble and lands hard on his bottom. Ryan lets the puck skid away from him and turns to pull our son up from the ice. Angelo, the feisty nugget that he is, goes after the puck without a glance at his brother and slams it into the net. He throws his stick, punches the air, and then finally decides to see if his brother is okay.
My phone rings, and I look away from the hockey game out back to answer it. “Hey Dad,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“I saw the show,” he says. “You did good, kid.”
“Thanks, Dad, it was all Lisa.” I can’t help but grin. “We have a good time.”
My dad still watches every comedy show I perform. Lisa and I have a residency on Comedy Central, and she’s married, too, to another one of the Stars players.
She and I do a joint segment, though we’re on leave now because Lisa is nine months pregnant with her first baby. We’ll resume in the summer. I’ve found the best of both worlds, truly; I have a family and a career that I love.
“I’m flying in tomorrow. Don’t forget to pick me up from the airport,” he says. “And by the way, I watered your plants. Your cactus died. Not my fault.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say. He takes care of the condo we own above Peretti’s newest location in Malibu when we’re away. “It’ll be a white Christmas here this year. Mom would’ve loved it.”
“She’d be proud of you, kid,” he says in a gruff voice. “Anyway, I’ve got some treats for Tucker and Angelo, and I’m bringing presents from your cousin, too, so have Ryan with you to help me at baggage claim.”
“You spoil them too much.”
“Damn right I do,” he says proudly. “See you tomorrow.”
“Love you, Dad.”
I hang up, startled for a moment as I look out and see the two youngest boys back on the ice hacking at the puck with their sticks. They have yet to learn the art of finesse. Ryan is nowhere to be seen.
“There you are.” His deep, husky voice rolls through the warmth of our butter-yellow bedroom, the fluffy white comforter on the bed crinkling as he pulls a James Bond-style roll across it. “God, you look beautiful with the snow falling behind you like that.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m naked.”
“Not naked enough.” He eyes my figure, my stomach mostly flat, not yet showing the signs of our newest addition. “Maybe I can help with that.”
I turn and face the window, the sheer curtain preventing the boys from seeing inside. I’m wearing only a black bra and panties, fresh from the shower. I have on no makeup, no perfume, and my hair’s still wet, yet somehow he looks at me like I’m ready to walk the red carpet. That’s one reason why I love him.
I glance toward the pregnancy test, which I’ve dropped into the trash bin. Ryan knows how much one more baby means to me, and he’s taken it upon himself to utilize every opportunity to make that happen. I won’t say no to a little more attention from him before I break the news.
“Don’t worry about them.” Ryan’s lost his shirt, his socks, and his outdoor layers somewhere between our front door and the bedroom. “I told them they could have two hot chocolates if they played a game up to a hundred points.”
“What are they on?”
“Five,” he says. “We can take our time.”
I suck in a breath as he presses against my back. My hands reach forward and grasp the windowsill. It’s been over six years, and I can’t get enough of him. Every time he walks into the room, undresses me, and works his magic, I’m convinced I’ll shatter to pieces from overwhelming ecstasy.
“I don’t know how it works, but I love you more every day we’re together,” he murmurs against my neck. “Happy anniversary, baby.”
I throw my head back as his hands slide around my front; they’re a little bit cold from being outside, and they unhook my bra in one fell swoop. It falls to the ground, and he drags his fingers over my breasts, squeezing, caressing, massaging until goose bumps skitter across my skin at the clash of warm and cool.
Then he slides his hands down my ribcage, dragging along my sides until I’m writhing with pleasure. All at once, however, he stops. He pulls me into him, his arms cradling me to his naked torso. His jeans are in the way, keeping his gorgeous self from my skin, and I whisper for him to take them off.