Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella (3 page)

After a minute, she hiccups. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

I stroke the back of her head. “You’re crying because you’re disappointed. Because, even for just a little while, you thought we were having a baby—and you were happy about it. You
want
to have a baby.” My own realization comes just a second before I say the words. “And I do, too.”

Her head jerks up, eyes darting over my face. “You do?”

I wipe at her tears with my thumb. “Well, I didn’t, up until a few minutes ago. But now . . . yeah . . . the idea of having a kid with your eyes and my bubbly personality . . .”

That gets her laughing because I’ve been called a lot of things, but
bubbly
will never be on the list.

“. . . that would be incredible, Chelsea.”

Her brows draw together. “So, what are we saying? Are we going to try and have a baby? Like, actively?”

Some guys would say I’m nuts, to add more time-sucking responsibility, more stress to our family situation. Especially now, when it finally feels like we have a handle on things.

But . . . screw it.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Let’s do it.” A thought occurs to me and I add, “I mean, if you’re sure you want to. This is going to affect you a lot more than it will me. You should consider that.”

Chelsea finished her graduate degree in art history just before our wedding. She really likes her job at a small offshoot of the Smithsonian, but even with a sitter helping out a few days a week, because of the inflexibility of my hours, she’s never been able to do more than part-time. A new baby would mean she wouldn’t even be able to do that—at least not for a while.

Chelsea wraps her long arms around my neck, reaches up on her tiptoes, and kisses me. It’s sweet, and hot at the same time. Needy, but tender, too. When she pulls back, there are still tears in her eyes—but happier ones.

“Let’s make a baby, Jake.”

Chapter 3

September

Whoever said trying for a baby is hard work is out of their mind. Our sex life was hot before, but once the effectiveness of Chelsea’s birth control wore off, it went into overdrive. My wife is creative—she’s a sketch artist as well as a curator—but the creative ways she found for us to fuck were nothing short of extraordinary.

On top of our normal, pre-dawn screwing, there was shower sex, lunch-break-on-my-desk at the office sex, on-top-of-the-washing-machine laundry-room sex, putting-away-the-groceries pantry sex. We even defiled the hall closet, which was a tight fit, and yet fantastic at the same time.

Then there was the night we had dinner with Stanton and Sofia, my best friends and partners at the firm, as well as parents to two-year-old Samuel. The four of us knocked back three bottles of wine and when we got home the kids were already fast asleep. So I nailed Chelsea, rough and dirty, over the back of the armchair in the den.

Needless to say, during the course of those weeks, I was a happy son of a bitch.

****

While Chelsea and I were busy trying to make a baby, the rest of the crew was remaining in denial about the arrival of the Best. Month. Ever. For most of my adult life, my calendar revolved around my career as a criminal defense attorney—bail hearings, arraignments, motions, trials. I was indifferent to what month it was, because every month was basically the same.

That all changed when I fell for Chelsea and the McQuaids.

Now, after a long, hot summer with a house full of needy kids, I look forward to September—the same way little ones all over the world look forward to Christmas. Back-to-
school displays are up as far as the eye can see, and childhood despair is in the air. September is a good time.

Except . . . for school-supplies shopping.

That blows.

“It’s the wrong one,” Rosaleen tells me, scrunching her nose up at the folder in my hand.

I check The List—caps intended.

“It’s green. How can it be the wrong one?”

She points at the inventory as long as my arm. “It says
lime
green. That’s
kelly
green.”

Is this school fucking serious?

Annoyed, I jam the folder back into the disaster that is the store shelf and push the cart down the aisle.

“This box has ten crayons, Mommy. The List says I need the eight box,” Regan explains to Chelsea, who looks as frustrated as I feel.

“There aren’t any eight-crayon boxes, Regan.”

The midget shrugs. “Then we have to go to a different store.”

There’s no way the person who made these lists actually has kids. They should be shot. And at this moment, I would defend the person who shoots them, pro bono. Just saying.

Rory hands me a dictionary. “This only has nineteen thousand words—I need the twenty-one-thousand-word edition.” Then he smirks. “Don’t want to start the year off on the wrong foot. I need all the right feet I can get.”

He’s got a point there.

“Jake!” Raymond runs up to me from the end of the aisle. “Can I get this science calculator? It’s awesome!”

I glance at the calculator in his hand—it has more buttons than I’ve ever seen in my life. Only Raymond would get excited about a calculator.

“Sure, kiddo.”

“Sweet!”

I push my cart up beside my wife’s. “How we doing?”

She sighs. “Twenty items down—only about a hundred left. And that’s not counting the epic saga of backpack selection.”

I don’t remember needing so much shit when I was in school. It was a good day if I had a pencil in my pocket.

Chelsea lifts her purse and gestures to the box under it. A pregnancy test. “I picked this up for us. It says it can show results five days before my period’s due, so even though I haven’t missed it yet, we can take the test tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.”

Her eyes dance with hope. With excitement. When Sofia was pregnant with Samuel she experienced morning sickness. A lot. So I squeeze Chelsea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The way we’ve been going at it, you’ll be puking your guts out in no time.”

She smiles.

Then her lovely face straightens as she remembers something. “Speaking of which, you should talk to Riley today. You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No, I didn’t forget. Unfortunately.”

With sex and pregnancy at the forefront of our thoughts lately, Chelsea thinks it’s important that we talk to Riley about safe sex.

And by “we” she means fucking me.

She read somewhere about the positive effect a male relationship has on young girls and she thinks, coming from a guy, the information will have more of an impact.

I get it. It’s just going to be the most awkward, uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some winners, believe me.

Chelsea runs her hand over my chest. “What’s the matter? Big, tough guy like you afraid to talk to a teenage girl?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Afraid? No. Just never thought I’d think of the time I took her to a One Direction concert as the good old days.”

Chelsea laughs. Then walks over when Regan calls her to look at puppy-covered notebooks.

“I’m booored,” Ronan whines from his seat in my cart.

“We’re almost done.”

“This sucks.” He frowns.

“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” I tell him in my best “parental” voice. “It’s not a nice word.”

His devil-cute blue eyes meet mine. “But it
does
suck.”

I hold back a grin. Because I have a weakness for the pure honesty kids have at his age—before they learn to weigh their words or shadow their opinions.

I rub his head, messing up his thick blond hair. “Yeah, it does.”

****

That afternoon, I bite the bullet and stick my head through Riley’s bedroom door—she’s lying on her bed, phone in hand.

“Hey.”

She plucks an earbud from her ear. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Got a second?”

Her long-lashed eyes narrow. “I didn’t do it.”

Preemptive denial—always suspicious.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you want to talk to me about. It wasn’t me.”

“Noted.” I jerk my head toward the spare bedroom. “Come on.”

She gets up and follows, throwing her brown curly hair up into a messy bun. We walk into the yellow-walled spare bedroom a few doors down the hall, and I close the door behind us. Riley sits on the bed with a half-annoyed sigh—like I’m wasting her precious time. As if there weren’t a hundred other things I’d rather be doing—like getting a root canal without Novocain.

I cross my arms, look at her, and imagine I’m in court, talking to a witness. Calm, cool, and steady—that’s my job. And I’m fucking good at it.

“So . . . you and Peter . . . how’s that going?”

Her brow wrinkles. “Uh, fine?”

“Six months is a long time in high school years.”

“I guess.”

“Is that like a candy anniversary?”

And now she looks even more weirded out. “What are you talking about, Jake?”

“Okay, here’s the deal—your aunt and I have noticed that you and Peter seem . . . pretty serious. And . . . we want to make sure you’re being
safe
.”

The last word hangs heavy in the air. Like one of Cousin It’s rancid dog farts.

Riley’s face turns a startling shade of fire-engine red. “Oh my God. Is this really happening?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know, I know, it’s fucking awful.” Then I open my eyes and tell her the bare honest truth. “But this is important, Riley.”

Her eyes hit the floor and she breathes out a quiet, “Okay. But I’ve already had the sex talk. Like,
years ago
, with my mom. I know about being
safe
.”

And there goes the eye roll—it was only a matter of time.

I nod. “Knowing isn’t the same as doing. Especially when you’re in high school.” I open the nightstand drawer and pull out the box of condoms inside it. “So, this is always going to be in here. For you to use. No questions asked. Me or your aunt will replace the box as needed—again, no questions asked, Riley.”

Trust me—those are answers I do not want to hear.

“Just to be clear, this isn’t us saying we’re okay with you having sex. This is us being realistic and wanting you to protect yourself . . . if and when you do.”

I put the condoms back in the drawer and lean against the wall, crossing my arms again, as Riley watches me.

“Some guys may try and give you a hard time about using condoms. And as a guy, I’m telling you straight up—
screw them
.”

The echo of my own words penetrates.

“I mean, don’t! Don’t screw them. Ever.”

Shit, I’m bad at this.

A quick, awkward chuckle pops out of Riley’s mouth.

I rub the scruff on my chin, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite and tell you to wait until you’re married . . .”

Though it’s very tempting.

“I just want you to remember . . . people can get hurt when they have sex before they’re ready. No one’s ever been hurt by waiting.”

She doesn’t say anything and I don’t really expect her to—but the contemplative look she’s wearing tells me everything she doesn’t say. She’s hearing me.

“And if anyone ever pressures you or hurts you . . .”

I will tie them to a tree and burn them alive.

“. . . if you ever have any questions or you’re wondering about something . . . you can talk to us. Me or your aunt—there’s nothing you can’t tell us. Got it?”

She nods. “Got it.”

I dip my chin. “Good.”

Riley stands up and we walk to the door. Halfway there, she pauses. “This was really open-minded of you, Jake. And I appreciate you and Aunt Chelsea, you know, swapping gender roles in this situation.”

Is that what we did?

“But . . . let’s never speak of this conversation again. Sound good?”

All the air rushes out of my lungs. “Jesus Christ, yes. Sounds great.”

She gives me a thumbs-up and a smile. It’s small and still really embarrassed, but it’s a smile.

“Awesome.”

****

The next morning, Chelsea and I are right back where we were a few weeks ago, sequestered in our bedroom, counting down the three-minute wait time to read the pee test. Chelsea’s more subdued this time, keeping a tight rein on her anticipation.

I sit on the bed, tapping out “Iron Man” on my legs. Anxiety is an uncommon feeling for me—but I’m feeling it now. Because, I want this. For her. Because it’ll make her so happy.

And I want it for me, too.

Chelsea pushes a reddish-brown lock behind her ear and stands before me. “It’s time. You want me to look?”

I grasp her hips and pull her between my legs, planting a kiss against her sternum.

“I’ll do it.”

This time around, when I step out of the bathroom, I do it smiling. Big and proud. Actually fucking giddy.

Chelsea doesn’t wait for me to say the words. She takes one look at my smile and throws herself straight into my arms.

Because we are well and truly knocked up.

Chapter 4

November

It’s a good thing the sex was so abundant before Chelsea got pregnant. It made the weeks that followed—when the pussy party came to a sad, screeching halt—a lot easier to bear. It was the exhaustion that got to her first. It hit Chelsea like a freight train—not even my mouth between her legs could wake her up.

I didn’t take it personally.

Then the puking started. Morning sickness would strike in the afternoon, which—big-picture-wise—was for the best. Because most afternoons she was at the museum, which made keeping the news from the kids a lot easier. Not telling them, until after we were sure everything was up and running, was a decision Chelsea and I made together. One in five pregnancies ends in miscarriage during the first trimester—and if that tragedy happened to us, and the kids knew, we’d be opening a whole can of ugly worms that we didn’t want to go anywhere near.

So, for the first few months, we didn’t tell anyone. I went with her to the first doctor’s appointment. Chelsea cried when she heard the heartbeat, and cried harder during the first ultrasound.

I didn’t. Seeing a gray blob on a screen and hearing a whoosh-whoosh sound didn’t do anything to me. Didn’t make any of it
real
.