“That about sums it up.”
I never noticed romantic vibes between Doc and Red, but they did always move through the world like a family unit.
Poor Dana, walking into that.
I shake my head to myself as I eat.
“My ex got a tattoo for each of our boys,” Lucy tells Bev in response to something. “A teddy bear with their name and birthday. Cute, right? Father of the year! Well, never got up to help with the night wakings, not even once. Always cited his sacred doctor job as an excuse.”
“Well, no wonder the verb to father means to conceive a child, get a woman pregnant,” Bev says pointedly, “whereas to mother someone means to treat them with care and nurture them, fuss over them.”
“Onto lighter subjects,” Lucy declares. “Bev, how’s menopause?”
That gets a laugh.
“Kicking my ass,” Bev admits, scrunching up her nose. “Paul’s too. Poor guy."
We spend the next hour dancing and belting out the lyrics to kickass female anthems, then we work together to restore order in the family room.
“People always talk about how detrimental it is when women think they can fix men,” I hear Red tell Shroomie, who has a grim look on her face, “but it is even more dangerous to believe that we can be miraculously healed by someone else.”
“I kind of disagree with the second part,” Jameela interjects thoughtfully. “The right kind of love can be healing. Not in the sense of fixing a person who is a jerk, but rather making someone who’s been wounded feel safe and secure enough to enable them to heal and grow.”
“I learned the hard way that that’s not true. I tried everything, and I mean everything, to make Miguel feel safe and secure and to help him through his addiction, and it still wasn’t enough. What does that say about me?” Red asks bitterly, and none of us has the answer to that.
*
In the same backyard where I once stood as a scared newcomer, today Hawk and I stand as a couple, greeting the guests arriving at DJ’s birthday party.
Molly and I, with Dana’s help, turned the place into a yellow tractor wonderland. Hawk insisted on getting the cake.
“From Sullivan’s,” he said with a wink.
He doesn’t take his eyes (or hands) off me the entire party, and I love it. I am the center of his galaxy. We haven’t had a repeat of our steamy weekend encounter, but where I’d normally be overthinking and freaking out, I’m not.
It probably has something to do with the way Hawk finds a way to touch me or hold my hand whenever he’s near me: while walking, driving, or sitting on the couch. He doesn’t do it in a possessive or lustful way, but more like he needs my touch to get through the day. It makes me feel… precious.
Maybe that’s stupid. I don’t care.
“I think I’ll stay on with Cotton,” I tell Bev when she asks about my trial period coming to an end.
“So, Uncle was right when he claimed that it would be a good fit,” she muses.
Ever since I started apprenticing with Cotton, whenever I close my eyes at night, I imagine being able to carve designs as intricate as his, and that’s how I drift off to sleep every night.
“It reminds me of cross-stitching and embroidering,” I tell her. “Which I like to do after DJ’s bedtime.”
In between stealing kisses from Hawk, I add mentally.
Before Bev can respond, we hear Squid’s booming voice.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please? I’m not trying to usurp DJ’s party, don’t worry, Hawk,” he jokes, “but I would like to give a little speech, if Marissa’ll allow it.”
I nod, unsure what to expect. Hawk takes my hand in his.
“My wife always likes to say that a child’s first birthday is more about the mother surviving that first year,” our Prez says, and Bev raises a hand in the air, woohooing.
Squid waits for the laughter to die down before continuing, “That’s why I want to take a moment today to celebrate Marissa. You’ve done one of the hardest, most badass things a human being can do - you carried and birthed and cared for this child,” he points his hand at my son, who’s laughing in Molly’s arms.
