Page 98 of The Trouble with Flings

When we finish the dishes, the girls are still deep in conversation on the couch, their voices hushed. I turn away so as not to interrupt and take in a wall of framed photos I somehow missed before. There are dozens of amusing pictures of Jennifer and her siblings at various ages. In one, Jennifer looks to be about fifteen years old, with over-teased hair, too much makeup, and skimpy shorts, posing on the hood of a car like she’s in a Whitesnake video. Even back then she had that fire in her eyes that dares people to challenge her.

“Welcome to our Wall of Shame,” Jace says from behind me.

“Wall of Shame?” I ask, amused.

“Our most embarrassing moments frozen in time. It’s my mother’s favorite achievement and our collective nightmare.” He motions to a picture of a young girl, maybe eight or ten years old, caught midair on the slopes, arms splayed, skis crossing, goggles askew, and her eyes wide with terror like she’s about to face-plant into the snow. “Our Olympian in the making.”

I laugh and check out the rest of the pictures. “This was a good look for you.” I point to a picture of Jace with long, bushy hair, dressed in a black T-shirt with a black-and-gray flannel overtop, black jeans with a tear in the thigh, and black army boots, the laces hanging open.

“That was my Pearl Jam phase,” Jace says. “It wasn’t pretty, but it was better than Jared’s mobster phase.” He points to a picture of Jared with a popped collar, a sports coat with quarterback-wide shoulder pads, and shiny black dress shoes. Shaggy bangs are peeking out from beneath his fedora, hiding his eyes, and his scowl makes him look like a disgruntled gangster.

“He looks mighty tough.”

Jace scoffs. “He looks ridiculous, but somehow he makes ridiculous look cool.”

Max runs up from downstairs, shouting, “Mama!” and charges down the hall at full speed as Jacob appears at the top of the stairs.

Jace steps forward and sweeps his adorable son into the air. “Mommy’s busy, buddy.” He lays him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Max shrieks with delight.

“I tried to catch him,” Jacob says. “But the little rascal’s fast.”

“No worries, Grandpa. I’ll put him in the dungeon,” Jace says, inciting more giggles from Max as they head back downstairs.

“Max is one cute kid,” I say to Jacob as he steps beside me. “They all are.”

Jacob claps a hand on my shoulder and says, “Yours will be, too. How are you holding up, kiddo? Our family can be a lot.”

“You might reassess your definition of a lot when you meet my family.”

“If your family is anything like you, we’ll get along just fine.”

“My family’s pretty great, but we don’t have a Wall of Shame. I’m thinking my parents missed out.”

He glances at the wall affectionately. “Every family should have a compilation of their children’s greatest hits. My wife and I enjoy revising the moments that helped carry them from the innocence of childhood to the questionably mature adults they’ve become.”

I chuckle, but I’m making a mental note to clear a wall for our baby’s greatest hits.

“It goes fast,” he says. “I look at these pictures and remember all the times in between, when they hated us or each other and when they laughed so hard with us, they peed their pants. All the times they were sick or scared or so happy they nearly burst with it.”

“I look forward to those times,” I say honestly. “Not when our baby’s sick, obviously, but being there for all of it.”

“Good, son, because life comes at you fast, and I’m glad I never missed a minute of it.” He nods to the wall. “I love these crazy kids. Jennifer is easy to spot, isn’t she?”

“You can’t miss those challenging eyes and the defiant set of her chin. What was going on here?” I point to a picture of Jennifer and Mia. “Some kind of funky dress-up day at school?”

Jennifer has pink streaks in her hair and thick eyeliner à la Avril Lavigne. She’s wearing a belly-baring T-shirt under a tight black vest, a hip-hugging denim miniskirt over black leggings, and sneakers. She’s got one hand planted on her hip, and her other arm is over Mia’s shoulder. Mia’s wearing low-rise flared jeans and a tight blue T-shirt and sporting what should probably be a pixie cut, but one side is longer than the other, and the top sticks straight up.

“Don’t let them hear you say that.” He glances at them in the living room. “They thought they were runway ready. Jen was in seventh grade, and she wanted to impress a boy, so Mia dressed her, and I have no idea whose idea it was to cut Mia’s hair, which was down to the middle of her back before Little Miss Scissorhands got ahold of her.”

He steps closer and lowers his voice. “When they came out of the bathroom together, I made the mistake of saying something like What the hell happened to your hair?”

I wince. “I’ve got younger sisters. I’m sure that didn’t go over well.”

“Jen laid into me like a mama bear protecting her cub. She told me I didn’t know the first thing about fashion, that Mia looked gorgeous, and if I said another word, she’d shave my head in my sleep.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “She would’ve done it, too.”

“I have no doubt,” I say. “So, did Jen get the boy?”

“My daughters have never had trouble getting boys’ attention. But about a week later the kid told her he’d call and didn’t. Jennifer told that boy exactly what she thought of him, and she did it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. That kid had to be scarred for life.”