“Beakster! Food’s up!”
A crashing noise, which sounded like the logs in the basket by the hearth, was followed by a cartoon-quality skitter and Beaker’s appearance in the kitchen. Bunsen looked up absently and returned to his food bowl. I stepped in front of him and pointed at the other one.
“That’s for you, buddy.”
Rosie had said they preferred their own bowls but that sometimes Beaker forgot and went for Bunsen’s. I hadn’t realized how much time I would spend on this kind of food-distribution nuance when I volunteered to look after the cats while she took a weekend trip to help Franky get set up in Boston.
I was surprised Franky didn’t bring them with her, but Bunsen was old—maybe twelve—while Beaker was about six, a teen in cat years. She worried that the elder statesman wouldn’t like the journey so Rosie was subletting Franky’s place to look after them, and I was the backup.
Also, Rosie knew I was the father of the kid. Franky had told her at Thanksgiving.
I was cool with that. It also gave me leave to tell my kin, though part of me held back. How would they feel about me essentially “giving up” as Lauren termed it, foregoing a shot at the regular nuclear unit? Most of my family were in real relationships, some with kids, some not yet on that road. They were doing it “conventionally,” and here I was, grasping at the first opportunity to procreate that came my way.
What I knew for sure was that I had to tell Sean, especially given the fact he was Franky’s first choice. With the cats mid-feed, I took a seat on the doc’s sofa and video-called my brother.
“Hey!” he said. “Hold on a second. Let me find a quiet spot.”
“Thought you’d be at home.” It was a Saturday morning after all.
“Mel had a brunch thing with her girlfriends, and I tagged along. This place does an amazing bread pudding, as good as M. Henry.”
“Doubt that, dude.” M. Henry did the best breakfast bread pudding in Chicago, and I was damned sure it could take all comers from Bean Town.
Sean scrunched up his eyebrows. “So, that doesn’t look like your place. Is everything okay?”
“Maybe I should call later. Let you get back to it.”
“No way. I hardly ever talk to you these days now that you’re back in Chicago.” He settled somewhere, maybe the corridor to the restrooms. “Is this about Mom?”
“No, she’s fine. We’re all fine.” I hadn’t really thought this through. “So, have you run into Franky?”
“Not yet. She’s been busy getting settled, and I think Rosie’s visiting this weekend.” He frowned. “Why?”
“Just wondered. You guys are good pals and all that.” Still frowning. When he got like that, he looked like Dad. “I have news. Franky’s pregnant.”
He blinked. Blinked some more. “She is? That’s great.”
I waited.
“Jason, why are you telling me this?”
I inhaled quickly and blew out a harried breath. “Because I’m the father.”
“No way! That’s wild! How did this happen?”
How about she was desperate enough to take me up on my offer? “After she asked you, we started talking about it. The whys, the why-the-fuck-not. I want a kid and she wants a kid and?—”
“So you’re going to be involved in the baby’s life?”
“I know it sounds strange, but we have similar viewpoints when it comes to raising children.” We had similar viewpoints about a lot of things—the ick of domestic pets in costumes, cheese first always when building a taco, that Better Call Saul is superior to Breaking Bad. You know, the important stuff.
“I’m kind of stunned here, but happy for you. If this is what you want.”
Of course it was what I wanted. But his words confirmed my suspicion: people thought it was a strange way to go about things. I’d thought so, too, when Franky first suggested it.
“I do. But we’re keeping it under the radar for now, so not a word to Mom.” The “or Dad” coda was unnecessary. “I just figured you might see Franky soon and I’d rather she didn’t feel compelled to lie to one of her oldest friends.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Said as if it was the only thing about this situation that did. “I thought you guys despised each other.”
