Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella (4 page)

I kept that to myself though. Because I’m not a fucking idiot.

****

“So . . . I have big news.”

It’s a mild, sunny Thursday afternoon and me, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia are having lunch at a bar and grill a couple blocks from our building. Brent leans forward on his elbows as he
makes this proclamation, his mischievous baby blues landing on each of us to make sure we’re paying attention.

If Peter Pan ever decided to grow up, I imagine he’d look a lot like Brent. He’s always had this carefree, spontaneous attitude—and getting married a year and a half ago only brought that out in him more. Because now he’s got a partner in crime.

Brent and Kennedy travel a lot on the weekends: white-water rafting, skydiving,
Antiques Roadshow
hunting—they’ve done it all.

With a smile that won’t be stopped, he announces, “Kennedy’s pregnant.”

Sofia squeals, her long dark hair swaying as she pops up and pulls Brent into a bear hug. Stanton raises his glass, and I reach across the table and slap Brent on the back.

“Congratulations.”

“That’s awesome, man.”

I lean back in my chair with a smirk. “How’d your mother take the news? Did she spontaneously combust?”

Mrs. Mason has been looking forward to a grandchild since Brent hit puberty.

“We haven’t told the parents yet. I’m trying to hold off the
Fatal Attraction
stalking for as long as I can. But we’re going to have to tell them soon. You know how small Kennedy is—she’s already starting to show. If her mother makes a comment about her weight, there’s an excellent chance I’ll finally tell her to go fuck herself.” He takes a sip of his lemonade. “Could make Thanksgiving dinner awkward.”

I’m not generally a fan of the word
bitch
, but if there was ever a woman who deserved the label—it’s Kennedy’s mother, Mitzy Randolph.

“How far along is she?” Sofia asks.

“Three and a half months.” And there’s a light in Brent’s eyes that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So warm and fuzzy that even though Chelsea is still a few days shy of the end of her first trimester, I hear myself say, “Well, since we’re sharing, I guess I should tell you guys . . . Chelsea’s pregnant, too.”

There’s more squeals from Sofia, and deep, congratulatory chuckles from Stanton.

What I get from Brent is, “Dude, you are
so
screwed.”

“Hey,” I tell him, “think fast.”

Then flip him off with both hands.

He laughs, because if you can’t give your friends the finger . . .

“Why is your wife’s pregnancy the second coming but Chelsea’s screws me over?”

It’s not that I really care, but his thought process is usually entertaining.

“Because I don’t have six starters already sitting on the bench. I mean, damn, Riley’s a senior so she has half a foot out the door—and you’re already replacing her.” He holds up an open hand. “That being said, if anyone should have dozens and dozens of kids—”

“I think we’ll stop at seven,” I interrupt.

“—it’s you and Chelsea. Congratulations, big guy.”

“Thank you.”

“When is Chelsea due?” Sofia asks.

“She’ll be twelve weeks on Sunday. Due date’s in June.”

“They might end up sharing a birthday,” Brent comments. “Maybe, after they’re born, we should set them up. If they get married we’d be related.”

“They might be the same sex, genius.”

He shrugs. “That’s legal now.”

“Yeah,” I snort, “and there’s nothing creepy about an arranged marriage.”

Brent holds up his hands. “All I’m saying is if we had listened to our parents, me and Kennedy would’ve been enjoying relationship bliss a long time ago.”

“If either of you needs a babysitter, Presley’s always looking to make extra cash when she’s up here,” Stanton volunteers.

Presley is Stanton’s seventeen-year-old daughter with his high school sweetheart, Jenny. She lives most of the year in Mississippi with her mother, stepfather, and two little brothers. Between those two and Samuel, Presley could practically run her own day care at this point.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” Sofia claps her hands. Then to her husband, she says, “It’s all happening just like we talked about.”

“Talked about?” I ask.

Stanton nods. “Sure. Samuel’s out of the baby stage and we’re not having any more . . . ”

Sofia finishes his sentence—because that’s how they roll.

“. . . so we’ve been waiting for you two to get on the ball so we can get our baby fix on . . .”

“. . . and then give ’em back,” Stanton drawls.

They both nod.

Sofia raises her glass. “To our next generation—may they be smart, talented, and beautiful, just like their parents.”

We all drink to that.

Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag, it’s time Chelsea and I tell the kids.

This should be interesting.

****

The six of them sit around the table . . . looking guilty.
Why?
They remind me of inmates lined up in cell block B, hoping the COs don’t find the contraband taped under the toilet. My eyes narrow at each of them, and I wonder what it is I don’t know.

“So, we wanted to talk to you tonight because we have some exciting news,” Chelsea says, taking my hand on top of the table.

Interrogations will have to wait for another time.

“Are we going on vacation to Aruba?” Riley asks, wide-eyed.

“No,” I tell her.

“Florida?” Rory tries.

“It’s not a vacation, guys,” Chelsea says, much to their disappointment.

“Are we getting another dog?” Regan hopes.

“
No
,” Chelsea and I say at exactly the same time.

“Guys—shut up and listen.” Raymond always was the helpful one.

Chelsea’s eyes dance from child to child, and you can almost feel their anticipation. “Jake and I are having a baby!”

At first, no one speaks. Or moves.

Then Raymond ventures, “Are you, like, adopting?”

“No, honey,” Chelsea answers. “I’m pregnant.”

Riley’s the first to pop up from her chair and hug us. “Congratulations, guys, that’s awesome.”

“I really wanted another dog,” Regan says, gravely disappointed.

Rosaleen leans forward. “Did you guys go to the doctor’s to get pregnant? Like Jackie Barbacoa’s two moms?”

“No . . .”

She thinks on that. While Rory wants more clarification.

“Then how did this happen?”

Chelsea glances at me, then shrugs at the kids. “The old-fashioned way.”

Rory’s hand goes to his stomach. “I’m gonna puke.”

That’s when they all start talking at once—except for Raymond, who sits back silently. Dazed.

“What’s the old-fashioned way?” Regan asks.

“Wow,” Rosaleen comments.

“No, I’m seriously gonna puke.”

“What’s
old-fashioned
mean?”

Ronan stands on his chair. “I’m not gonna be the littlest anymore? I get to be the boss of someone?”

“That’s right,” I tell him.

He pumps his fist. “Yes!” Then he starts marching around the table chanting, “
I’m gonna be a boss, I’m gonna be a boss
. . .”

While Rory sprints to the umbrella stand in the corner—gagging.

“Huhhh, huhhh . . .”

“Somebody tell me the old-fashioned way!” Regan yells.

And Rosaleen gets fed up. “It’s when the man and woman fall in love and the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina and nine months later a baby comes out of it.”

Regan looks at me like I’m a monster.

“You put your
penis
in Mommy’s
vagina
?”

Christ, this went downhill quick.

“Why would you
do
that?”

“
. . . I’m gonna be a boss
. . .”

“We’ll talk about that when you’re older.”

“
Huhhh, huhhh
. . .”

“And now a baby’s gonna crawl out of you?!”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re so immature, Regan.”

“Shut up, Rosaleen.”

“
Huhh
. . .”

Ronan puts the icing on the cake. “How big
is
your vagina, Mommy?”

And I try to be helpful.

“It’s not that big.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Chelsea’s head whips to me. And we both crack the fuck up.

She covers her eyes with one hand, waving at the kids. “You’re crazy. You guys are all crazy.”

But they’re not even listening to her.

As the chaos continues to erupt, I put my arm around Chelsea’s shoulders and pull her against me, kissing her temple. “I think that went well.”

Chapter 5

December

By the first week in December, Chelsea’s sporting a small, firm baby bump. Her morning sickness has abated and she says she feels better than ever. Well enough to accept the extra work her boss has been sending her way at the museum—she’s been going in early and staying late whenever she can.

She’s also slightly obsessed over what she eats—determined to stay away from anything processed or non-organic, but with some coaxing, she gives in to her craving for Double Stuf Oreos dunked in a glass of whole milk.

Around the same time, I get a big case—that’s getting national media coverage. It’s a string of bank robberies, and despite my client’s alibi, the prosecutor has rock-solid DNA evidence on a ski mask that was worn during the crimes. It’s the kind of case I craved back in the day—a challenge. A gauntlet with the promise of legal glory at the finish line. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy digging into it, burying myself in motions and maneuvers to outsmart my opponent. It’s easy to do during the day, at the office, but when night creeps in and the sky turns black outside my window, the case feels more like a nuisance.

Because I just want to go home. Pet my dog, see my kids, and screw my wife.

One night, about a week before Christmas, I pack it in fairly early—about seven thirty. When I walk through the front door, Cousin It attacks my shoes, and the house smells of the fire burning in the den fireplace and warm gingerbread cookies. There’s loud laughs and shouting coming from the dining room, so I put my briefcase down and head in. The kids are all there around the table, and so are Stanton, Sofia, Presley, Samuel, Brent, and Kennedy.

There’s bowls of white icing, and colorful candies, white-and-red-striped peppermint sparkles, scattered all over the table. And about two dozen rectangular pieces of brown cookie.

“Honey, you’re home!” Brent greets me, then he sucks one of Kennedy’s icing-covered fingers into his mouth.

Regan, Ronan, and Rosaleen attack me at once, talking at the same time, showing me what they’re doing. I can only make out every other word. Then Chelsea walks in, wearing a red-and-green apron and carrying a tray of more brown cookie rectangles.

“Hey!” she says with excitement, putting the tray down and reaching up to peck my lips.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She glances around the table. “I went overboard with the gingerbread. So instead of building a house, we’re building a town.”

Stanton passes me a cold beer from the ice bucket on the end of the table. “Welcome to the party.”

Two-year-old Samuel squeals as Sofia tickles him, murmuring something in Portuguese. Then he pops a candy in his mother’s mouth.

“Check it out, Jake.” Rory motions to the half-constructed building in front of him. “Me and Brent are making the law firm. Becker, Mason, Santos, Shaw and
McQuaid
—has a pretty nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Kennedy answers before I can. “You should think about being a prosecutor, Rory. We have a great office building.”

Brent scoffs. “Don’t listen to her—she lies. Her office is shit small.”

Kennedy plops a glob of icing on Brent’s nose.

But he’s not bothered at all. “Now you have to lick that off, Wife.”

She adds a red M&M to the center of the icing. Taking the cue, Regan screeches, “Food fight!”

“Noooo!” Chelsea laughs. “No food fighting.”

Brent shakes his head at his wife. “You’re such a bad example.”

Kennedy just sticks her tongue out at him.

“Presley and I are making the capitol building,” Raymond tells me from the other end of the table. “Together.”

Then, behind the seventeen-year-old’s back, he gives me a thumbs-up and wiggles his eyebrows. That crush is still going strong.

Chelsea takes my hand. “Come on, grab a chair. What should we make?”

Sometimes I look around and wonder, how the hell did I get here? How is this my life? It all changed so fast. But then I stop wondering. Because how this life became mine doesn’t really fucking matter. I’m just crazy-happy that it is.

“Let’s make our house,” I tell Chelsea.

Her eyes flare. “Good one. Let’s do it.”

****

On Christmas morning the kids converge on our bedroom at 4 a.m.—it’s the one day they’re allowed to come in without knocking. When wrapping paper covers every inch of the floor, and the dog and the kids are busy figuring out their new toys, I set Chelsea up with a cup of tea on the couch, while Rosaleen and I start making enough strawberry-and-blueberry pancakes to feed an army.

Rosaleen whisks a huge bowl of batter while I slice the strawberries.

And out of nowhere, she asks, “Do you think you’ll like the baby more than us?”

The knife in my hand freezes. “What?”

She shrugs, blond curls jiggling. “We’ll understand if you do.”

It takes me a second to come up with an adequate response.

“You know how in school they tell you, ‘there are no stupid questions’?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re lying to you.”

She snorts but doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing hard on her bowl.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Well . . . the baby will be yours. Yours and Aunt Chelsea’s.”

I put the knife on the counter, wipe my hands, and crouch down to her eye level. When those sweet blue eyes are on me, I give her the firm, irrefutable truth.

“
You
are mine. Mine and Aunt Chelsea’s. Never doubt that.”

The words sink in . . . and then, slowly, she smiles. And her grin is brighter than all the Christmas lights on this street put together.