Langston stepped onto the stage, breaking his own rule about staying in the background during my events. His hand found the small of my back, a warm anchor as cameras flashed andquestions came at me rapidly. The security professional was replaced by the expectant father, unable to maintain distance when our future was being discussed.
“We’re delighted.” His deep voice carried without the microphone. I smiled, classic Langston, saying everything necessary and nothing more.
As the questions continued, Langston’s touch reminded me that no matter how many people watched, how many books were sold, how far we traveled, our connection mattered the most.
“Your sister almost fell out of her chair.” Langston chuckled as we entered the small café down the street from the bookstore. Inside, the warmth was a welcome relief from Paris’s October chill. Rich espresso and pastries made my stomach growl immediately. Baby girl was hungry. I spotted Raina already claiming a corner table, her children circling like satellites as Mike tried to corral them into chairs.
“She’s going to rip me a new one. Five, four, three, two…” I counted, watching my sister’s face as she caught sight of us.
“Five months!” Raina exclaimed the moment we were within earshot, loud enough that several French patrons turned to stare. “You’re five whole months pregnant and didn’t tell me? Your own sister?”
“Inside voice, Rain,” Mike reminded her gently, though his eyes crinkled with amusement as he stood to shake Langston’s hand. “Congratulations, man. That’s incredible news.”
My nieces and nephews swarmed me as I gave all of them hugs and kisses. I was happy to see Junior visiting from college.
Langston’s hand remained at my lower back as we navigated around the table; that subtle protective gesture had become so natural, neither of us noticed it anymore.
“Thanks. We wanted to wait until we were past the first trimester, and then Aven thought it would be special to announce it here.”
“Special. That’s one word for it. Dramatic is another,” Raina repeated, eyebrows arched so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Before I responded, Raina was on her feet, wrapping her arms around me in a hug so tight it stole my breath. Her familiar scent, the expensive perfume she saved for special occasions, enveloped me as she squeezed harder.
“You always did have to do everything dramatically. I can’t believe my baby sister’s having a baby,” she murmured against my ear, but the words held more affection than accusation. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
I blinked fast; my pregnancy hormones amplified emotions I’d usually keep in check. “Believe it. She’s kicking my ass with this morning sickness.”
“Language,” Raina said automatically, glancing at her children, who were too busy arguing over who got to sit next to Uncle Langston to pay attention to adult conversation.
We settled around the table, Langston pulling out my chair before taking the seat beside me. The waiter appeared with menus.
“We brought something to show y’all,” Langston said once our drinks were ordered, reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve the envelope of ultrasound photos we’d gotten at our last appointment.
The children immediately swarmed; Raina’s youngest practically climbed into Langston’s lap to get a better look. For a man who once claimed to dislike kids, my husband handled the invasion of his personal space with remarkable grace, shifting to accommodate the smaller bodies.
“That’s your baby cousin. See her nose here? And those are her little hands,” Lang explained, pointing to the grainy black and white image where our daughter’s profile was clearly visible.
“She looks like an alien,” eight-year-old Brandon observed, squinting at the photo.
“Brandon!” Raina scolded, but I just laughed.
“She kinda does, but a cute alien,” I agreed, leaning closer to Langston to look at the image.
Mike peered over his children’s heads at the images. “Technology’s amazing. With our first, the ultrasound looked like static on an old TV. You couldn’t tell head from feet.”
“Do you have a name yet?” Fifteen-year-old Zena asked, her eyes wide with the important question.
“Not yet. We have a few ideas, but we’re still deciding,” Langston answered, his voice softening in a way it only did around family.
“You should name her Paris,” Zena suggested, chocolate croissant crumbs dotting her chin.
Langston’s eyes found mine over the child’s head, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. We discussed that name last night, though I wasn’t about to give a kid the satisfaction of knowing she’d nailed it.
As the children returned to their seats, momentarily satisfied with seeing the ultrasound, Raina reached across the table to take my hand. Her expression had shifted, the initial shock giving way to something more vulnerable.
“I was wrong about you. For years, I thought you were running away, that all your traveling was avoiding responsibility,” she said, her fingers squeezing mine.
“It was… at first anyway,” I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.
