She pats my arm. “That one just needs time to warm up.”
“Understood,” I say, meaning it. It’s a lot.
Lita smiles demurely. “But between you and me? If you’re baking my granddaughter muffins on a weekday morning and making cribs in your workshop, I’d say you’re worth adjusting to.”
“Thanks, Lita.” My throat tightens slightly around the words.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had this kind of maternal energy in my life.
It feels good. It feels like a future.
Freya catches my eye, pulling me back to yesterday—tohow good it felt to be real with her, to have her in my arms. She’s not ready to talk yet. I saw that yesterday when we walked over to the ranch offices, and I respect it. Freya doesn’t rush her words.
But when she is ready, I will be, too.
I want her. I want this.
Freya nods toward the front door. “We should get our things together.”
Lita taps my arm. “I don’t suppose you could pack some baked goods for the road?”
“You got it,” I say, and I put a couple of muffins into a plastic container while putting the other items away.
Freya comes to help, but her mom emerges from down the hall. “I got it. Catch up with your family.”
The ladies chat about the maternity clothes Faith and Lita brought for Freya, and of course, ask if we thought about names.
Eventually, everything is wrapped up in the kitchen.
I move to grab Lita’s coat and scarf from the hook by the door and help her into it. Faith slips back into her shoes. We ready ourselves for the trip to the hospital.
Lita and Faith head out before us and down the stairs to the truck so I can lock up.
Freya hangs back. “Thanks for all that.”
“Anytime,” I murmur. “You okay?”
She pauses. “Ask me after the scan.”
She didn’t seem at all worried this morning.
God must be a woman because I’ve never met a man able to think of so many epic things at once and handle them with grace.
I offer my arm for her to go down the stairs. “I’m right there with you.
She squeezes my arm. “Let’s go meet our baby.”
After checkingin at the reception desk, we all take a seat in the waiting room. The medical center isn’t a big one. But, despite being on time, we are waiting.
I sit next to Lita, who has taken a Gen X crossword out of her purse. I’m a millennial, but still potentially better poised to answer these questions. She reads out every clue.
“Flannel fashion statement, seven letters, second letter is L.” She looks at me because with most of these, Lita doesn’t even try to answer. I pause to think, and then Freya leans over. “Flannel.”
“Oh!” She talks while writing the answer. “Your Uncle Marcus gave me this, and it’s really annoying. I wasn’t paying attention in the nineties.” She reads out the next clue. “Tupac’s last name…”
I start, “Sh….”
“No!” She holds up her pencil to stop me. “I know this one because that poor boy waswaytoo handsome to die young.” She starts to write. “Is it S-H-A-K…U…?”
