“So . . . I have big news.”
It’s a mild, sunny Thursday afternoon and me, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia are having lunch at a bar and grill a couple blocks from our building. Brent leans forward on his elbows as he makes this proclamation, his mischievous baby blues landing on each of us to make sure we’re paying attention.
If Peter Pan ever decided to grow up, I imagine he’d look a lot like Brent. He’s always had this carefree, spontaneous attitude—and getting married a year and a half ago only brought that out in him more. Because now he’s got a partner in crime.
Brent and Kennedy travel a lot on the weekends: white-water rafting, skydiving, Antiques Roadshow hunting—they’ve done it all.
With a smile that won’t be stopped, he announces, “Kennedy’s pregnant.”
Sofia squeals, her long dark hair swaying as she pops up and pulls Brent into a bear hug. Stanton raises his glass, and I reach across the table and slap Brent on the back.
“Congratulations.”
“That’s awesome, man.”
I lean back in my chair with a smirk. “How’d your mother take the news? Did she spontaneously combust?”
Mrs. Mason has been looking forward to a grandchild since Brent hit puberty.
“We haven’t told the parents yet. I’m trying to hold off the Fatal Attraction stalking for as long as I can. But we’re going to have to tell them soon. You know how small Kennedy is—she’s already starting to show. If her mother makes a comment about her weight, there’s an excellent chance I’ll finally tell her to go fuck herself.” He takes a sip of his lemonade. “Could make Thanksgiving dinner awkward.”
I’m not generally a fan of the word bitch, but if there was ever a woman who deserved the label—it’s Kennedy’s mother, Mitzy Randolph.
“How far along is she?” Sofia asks.
“Three and a half months.” And there’s a light in Brent’s eyes that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
So warm and fuzzy that even though Chelsea is still a few days shy of the end of her first trimester, I hear myself say, “Well, since we’re sharing, I guess I should tell you guys . . . Chelsea’s pregnant, too.”
There’s more squeals from Sofia, and deep, congratulatory chuckles from Stanton.
What I get from Brent is, “Dude, you are so screwed.”
“Hey,” I tell him, “think fast.”
Then flip him off with both hands.
He laughs, because if you can’t give your friends the finger . . .
“Why is your wife’s pregnancy the second coming but Chelsea’s screws me over?”
It’s not that I really care, but his thought process is usually entertaining.
“Because I don’t have six starters already sitting on the bench. I mean, damn, Riley’s a senior so she has half a foot out the door—and you’re already replacing her.” He holds up an open hand. “That being said, if anyone should have dozens and dozens of kids—”
“I think we’ll stop at seven,” I interrupt.
“—it’s you and Chelsea. Congratulations, big guy.”
“Thank you.”
“When is Chelsea due?” Sofia asks.
“She’ll be twelve weeks on Sunday. Due date’s in June.”
“They might end up sharing a birthday,” Brent comments. “Maybe, after they’re born, we should set them up. If they get married we’d be related.”
“They might be the same sex, genius.”
He shrugs. “That’s legal now.”
“Yeah,” I snort, “and there’s nothing creepy about an arranged marriage.”
Brent holds up his hands. “All I’m saying is if we had listened to our parents, me and Kennedy would’ve been enjoying relationship bliss a long time ago.”
“If either of you needs a babysitter, Presley’s always looking to make extra cash when she’s up here,” Stanton volunteers.
Presley is Stanton’s seventeen-year-old daughter with his high school sweetheart, Jenny. She lives most of the year in Mississippi with her mother, stepfather, and two little brothers. Between those two and Samuel, Presley could practically run her own day care at this point.
“Oh, I’m so excited!” Sofia claps her hands. Then to her husband, she says, “It’s all happening just like we talked about.”
“Talked about?” I ask.
Stanton nods. “Sure. Samuel’s out of the baby stage and we’re not having any more . . . ”
Sofia finishes his sentence—because that’s how they roll.
“. . . so we’ve been waiting for you two to get on the ball so we can get our baby fix on . . .”
“. . . and then give ’em back,” Stanton drawls.
They both nod.
Sofia raises her glass. “To our next generation—may they be smart, talented, and beautiful, just like their parents.”
We all drink to that.
Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag, it’s time Chelsea and I tell the kids.
This should be interesting.
****