“Hey,” I say. She pauses, glancing back at me, eyebrows raised. “If I bug you too much, just tell me? Like too much texting or whatever.”
She nods. “I don’t mind giving you updates, Ian. They’re your pups, too.”
Warmth spreads through me. “Thank you.”
For everything.
I message Julia every day that week. Sometimes to say good morning, others to say goodnight. I try not to do both. Her responses are usually short but informative, letting me know that her nausea is subsiding, her exhaustion forcing her to take naps. She doesn’t mention her husband, so hopefully that means all is calm on that front.
I buy another book on baby names, and she looks tired but happy to see me during the brief interaction before her manager swoops in to ring me up.
After our next check-up with Dr. MacDougal, which Julia passes with flying colors, I take her out to a fast-casual place that specializes ingimbap, the sushi-like slices served in picnic-print paper boats like an order of fries. Julia eats two boats of them. Ihave three.
“These are delicious,” she says, her cheeks chipmunked with food. “I’ve never been here before. This is such comfort food for me. Reminds me of the lunches my mom packed. I always looked forward to gimbap.”
I file that away for the future, when I’ll be packing three lunches every day. “Ahh. So like turkey legs for me.” My mouth waters at the memory of the smoky meat with its crispy, salty skin. Ripping the meat off in big chunks, gulping it down in time for recess. How satisfying it felt to gnaw on the bare bone when my adult teeth were coming in.
“Your mom packed you whole turkey legs for school lunch?”
“Pups need a lot of protein,” I remind her, nudging the tray containing her last few pieces of gimbap toward her.
She laughs, obediently eating what’s left of her rolls. “This was fun,” she says, when we’ve finished eating and chatting and are clearing our trays.
“It was.”
“Richard is gone again.”
I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I nod cautiously. “Okay.”
“That’s all,” she finishes hurriedly. “See you next week.”
But I don’t. Because the night before our next prenatal appointment, Conall and Meg’s pups are born.
Chapter 24
Julia
Ian texts me pictures of the new babies. Pictures of them swaddled in their little hospital bassinets. Pictures of a tired-looking Meg and ecstatic Conall holding them. Pictures of himself with their little bodies resting on his chest as he reclines in a hospital chair. My uterus twinges, like the three pups inside me know that very soon, they’ll be in the same arms.
“Yep, that’s your dad,” I tell them as I zoom in ontheir cousins.
Theyaresmaller than typical human infants, although maybe not smaller than typical human multiples. Two are brown and two are redheads. They have short snouts, tiny ears, and closed eyes, just like puppies of other species. The parts of wulvers that look human, the neck-down stuff, is all hidden by their blankets except one tiny, pink, smoochable hand. I wish I could hold them, too.
It makes me wonder what our babies will look like. Will they look like typical wulvers, or will they have more visible human attributes? Will their wulver family accept them even if they look different than these adorable little pups?
“They’re beautiful,” I text back. “Congrats to the new parents (and the new uncle)!”
“Thanks,” he sends back a few long minutes later. “I’m so sorry that I can’t meet you at the clinic today. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
It’s not a big deal. I always did my prenatal appointments with the girls by myself. But there is a wistful little disappointment threading through me. What’s that about? It’s not like the appointment hinges on his participation. I’m the patient, and I can send him any details Dr. MacDougal and I uncover.
In fact, the appointment goes well. Everything is normal. I’m happy to report to her that the nausea has already passed, and now I’m just hungry andtired. She jokingly writes me a prescription for naps and then offers some eating tips, and I stop by the grocery store on the way home to stock up on the beef and salmon she recommended.
And when I get home, there’s a beautiful vase of sunflowers on the porch, the florist’s tiny envelope on one of those plastic forks sticking out of it. My heartrate picks up as I carry it inside, anticipating what might be written on the card.
Before I can open it, I get a text from Heidi: “I know those aren’t from Richard.”
