At Escher’s questioning look, Jamieson ruffled his hair. “I’ll tell you all about it. As soon as we bring Hudson inside.”
Escher’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “A baby? You come witha baby? A boy? This istotallysick! I always wanted a brother. Can I hold him? How old is he? Can he crawl? When will he walk? Dad, we need to get him a soccer ball so he can play with me.”
Jamieson chuckled as he lifted Hudson’s carrier from the middle of the seat.
“Escher likes kids—always wanted a brother. Seriously, he’s been begging since he could talk.” Jamieson winked, and my chest nearly exploded.
It was as if this man and his son were made for me, and Hudson and I for him.
When I met his gaze, I could see a future. A full one that incorporated lots of love and too many soccer games and bear hugs and laughter. So much joy and laughter.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed out on in the past year, but as Escher grabbed my hand and led me into the house, I realized I wouldnevermiss happiness again.
These Finch men wouldn’t allow it.
Epilogue
Jamieson
I wincedat the second crash as I hurried down the stairs. I’d been in my office, grading papers, but clearly, Hudson had gotten into mischief.
“I fix it, Daddy!”
“Fix what, buddy?” I asked, making my way into the living room where our fresh Noble fir lay on its side, a growing puddle of water spilling across the hardwoods.
I bit my lip to keep from cursing or laughing.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was putting Mommy’s star.” In his chubby fist was a broken, six-pointed star. We typically celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas so that Hudson and Libby had their family’s traditions incorporated into Escher’s and mine.
“But it broked.” Fast tears tumbled down his cheeks as his lip quivered. “I broked it!”
“That’s okay. We’ll make a new one,” Escher said from the kitchen door. He shot me an apologetic look—my sixteen-year-old had said he’d watch his three-year-old brother for an hour so that I could turn in my semester’s grades.
He dropped to his knees and patted Hudson’s back. The two of them had the same dark hair and light eyes—most people thought they were biological brothers. I loved that, just as I loved how easily Escher had accepted Hudson and Libby into our lives.
We’d moved back into the bungalow I owned near Penn in January, where I’d used the second half of my sabbatical year to woo Libby into marrying me. We’d had a small, private ceremony in May where Escher was my best man, and Hudson was our ring bearer.
The pictures were way cuter than the circus Hudson brought to the event. I smiled, remembering the little fiend’s ability to get into literally everything. He still did.
“I’ll get the mop,” Escher said. He must be feeling guilty. The kid still hated chores.
I sighed at the mess. “You boys go on. I’ll pick up the mess.”
“No,” Hudson attempted to steady himself. “I make a mess. I clean it up. Right, Esch?”
“That’s it, my man.” Escher fist-bumped Hudson’s much smaller fist, and I again wanted to groan and laugh, even as frustration and love blossomed bigger in my heart. Much as I loved my boys, they caused all kinds of mayhem.
After a few swipes with the mop and Hudson’s excited squeals as Escher and I straightened the tree, I got Hudson settled at the table, making a new star out of clay.
I picked up the ornaments that had tumbled off and began rehanging them, glad we’d gotten plastic and other non-breakable ones. Escher came in and took a couple from the pile.
“When’s Mom going to be home?”
I glanced at the clock. “Soon.” I still needed to finish grading and start dinner—my job on Tuesday nights.
Escher shot me a squint-eyed look when the side door to the garage slammed, and Libby called out a greeting. She set down her stuff just in time to catch the counter behind her as Hudson slammed into her knees, already talking a mile a minute about his day’s adventures.
