Sometimes we FaceTime. Sometimes it’s me, on the bathroom floor in my dinky Star Lake apartment, because I feel bloated and gross and my boobs hurt, while Callum is stuck in traffic on his way to practice in Phoenix, yelling at Siri to play my prenatal playlist.
That’s another thing. His name.
I call him Callum now—full stop. No nicknames. Those are for strangers and fans and people who aren’t close to him.
We’re making it work for now, Callum and I. Considering I still had contracts with brides, there were obligations I couldn’t walk away from without feeling like a complete jackass. Work, man—it’ll getcha. Flight here, flight back. Flight here, flight back.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I pack so often my suitcase and I are now on a first-name basis, even though I have a closet full of clothes at his place—we’re slowly phasing out mine. Even if we plan to call Washington our second home, it won’t be in my apartment—which is the size of his office. No joke.
Today?
Today, I’m inArizona, in the penthouse, standing in front of a cake withway too muchfrosting. Gag.
It’s baby gender-reveal day.
A small gathering. Immediate family, close friends, and Lucy—who has somehow managed to turn this into a full-blown production with themed napkins and a confetti cannon that terrifies me on principle.
“You sure you don’t want to just open the envelope like normal people?” I eyeball Callum, who’s licking a knife that he’s already skimmed on the top to steal frosting.
“Babe. We are not normal.”
No, we’re not.
Lucy and Harris are placing bets with everyone here about the sex of the baby—if it’s one baby or two. Harris is Team Boy. Lucy is Team Girl. Evy and my mother? Boy.
And so it goes, the competitive crowd too much for my raging hormones. Oh! And my belly hasofficiallypopped. Not so much that I have to buy newclothesor anything, but enough that I feel like there’s a cantaloupe under my shirt. Ha ha. Every time I drop something, I have to weigh the emotional importance of picking it up versus letting it become part of the floor decor because I may or may not pee my pants.
“Are you ready?” Lucy calls out, holding up her phone to record.
Callum winks at me, cake knife still in hand like he’s about to perform surgery. “Ready, babe?”
Oh my God, no.
Yes!
I nod. “Ready.”Eek!
We cut.
The knife sinks in cleanly, as if Callum was a contestant on a baking show trying to impress the judges—and the cake splits down the middle.
Bright blue frosting oozes out. Blue!
Then—BAM!
A confetti cannon goes off.
A blizzard of blue paper flutters through the air like a ticker-tape parade for our unborn child as someone screams “It’s A Boy!” like we just set off fireworks at the Super Bowl.
Jeez. It’s ridiculous, and I glance down at the floors, which were glistening and clean, wondering who the heck is going to clean all this mess up.
Lucy shrieks and ducks like she’s under attack. “Who gave Harris a cannon?Who Approved This?”
My mom is sobbing.
A boy? “B-but—I had a name picked out,” I stammer, as my husband sweeps me into a hug. “I bought a onesie with a tutu!”
