But.
I hand Carter back his phone.
The hollowness I walked out of the doctors office with is still there, that strange suspension after the result. But something has shifted inside it. Something with a purpose.
"Let's leave the celebration for later," I say. "When Sienna can join us."
William looks at me. "Adrian. She asked for time—"
"We'll give her time." I pull my phone out of my pocket. “But we also need to show her how much we love her. How sorry we are. That we want her back in our lives."
Carter's quiet for a moment. "And how do we do that?"
"With research," I say.
We start walking toward the car. The three of us moving across the sidewalk, toward a future that isn't guaranteed, toward a woman who has every reason not to take us back and sent a text this morning anyway.
I open Siri.
"Siri," I say. "What is the best way to grovel to the woman you love?"
William makes a sound. Carter drops his head. The afternoon is hot and hopeful.
42
CARTER
"That's a stupid idea."
"I don't see you contributing with something better."
William's jaw sets. Adrian crosses his arms.
They've been at this since we got back. Different versions of the same loop. William suggests something, Adrian finds the flaw. Adrian suggests something that isn’t much better, and the cycle repeats. This is the fourth iteration. Maybe the fifth.
I’m not going to deny that I also felt some sort of hope when I got Sienna’s message this morning. Just by seeing her name appear on the phone had my heart racing and holding my breath when I opened the message.
It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear from her. But it was a good start.
"What do you think, momma," I say, scratching behind the cat's ears. "Do you think she'll forgive us?"
She blinks once. The full-body indifference of a cat who has decided my problems are not relevant to her afternoon.
She’s lying in her luxurious bed, positioned at a specific angle that Adrian described, with a straight face, as optimal light exposure. She is enormous and appears unbothered by it.
"This cat," I say, "is going to pop any minute now."
Adrian comes away from the window. Kneels next to the bed and puts one hand flat against her side, careful.
"The vet said she still has a week till term," he says. "She has three beautiful kittens in her." He watches her. Then, in a baby voice, "Don't you, sweet girl?"
I look at William.
William looks at the ceiling.
The setup took three weeks to accumulate. The bed, engineered to a specific lumbar support requirement Adrian found in an article. The scratch tower in the hallway, floor-to-ceiling, taking up more wall space than most of the actual furniture. The food, ordered from a specialist supplier after a conversation with the vet about nutritional density. Everything this cat may need and then some.
But, he hasn't named her.
