Chapter 25
The feel of a rough, wet substance drags me out of my dream. I crack one eye open and come face–to–face with Blackie, my furry, unrepentant alarm clock.
She doesn’t stop when she sees I’m awake; no, she doubles down, like my cheek is a stubborn stain she’s determined to scrub away.
“Okay, okay, I’m up,” I groan, wrapping my arms around her warm, purring body and pulling her in for a cuddle.
For a moment, I just lie there with no thought in my head. Her sandpaper tongue is rough against my skin and oddly comforting even though it feels like I’m being scrubbed by spikes.
I take a deep breath, count to fifteen, and finally push myself upright, still holding Blackie like a furry football.
I’ve had my beautiful girl for five years now. Adopted her a year after Noah and Chloe’s wedding because I needed more comfort and companionship. I’d gone to the shelter for a dog, but halfway down the row, a tiny, judgmental meow stopped me in my tracks. Then I saw those eyes. Green, unblinking, and clearly unimpressed with me, and that was it. Instant soul bond. She’s been my little shadow ever since.
By the time we reached the kitchen, she’d moved down to my neck. I set her down, fill her bowls, and stand there staring at my fridge.
Nothing looks appealing. Not even cereal.
I settle on orange juice. Minimal effort, maximum vitamin C and at least I won’t puke my guts after. I pour a glass and perch on the counter stool.
My mind, of course, immediately jumps to the baby. I need to book a gynecologist appointment. Start vitamins. Maybe even try a healthy diet.
I have a three–bedroom house, so I could easily turn one into a nursery. And is it too early to baby–proof? Probably. But also… maybe not?
Blackie weaves around my feet, so I scoop her up again.
“What do you think about having a baby?” I ask, stroking her silky fur.
“Meow p>
“That’s an approval, right p>
Then my brain takes off at lightning speed: I’ll need baby stuff. Clothes, toys, blankets, a crib, a playpen… Should I pick a name? but it’s too early to know the gender. Besides, I’m not sure if I want to know the gender or just wait to find out once he or she is born.
I’ll also need to apply for maternity leave. Thankfully, I’m good at saving. I’m not Lilly–level rich, but I do just fine.
There were so many things to think about. I’m only one month along and already thinking about college. Is this how a mom’s brain works?
The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my spiral. Blackie and I exchange a look. Neither of us is expecting anyone.
It’s ten–something on a Wednesday morning, so it can’t be Lilly.
I answer the door and nearly fall backward.
“Surprise p>
Five women burst into my house like a SWAT team armed with shopping bags.
Before I can blink, I’m herded inside, hugged by everyone, and deposited on the couch. Lilly slips in last, looking nervous. My eyes narrow.
“Why do you look like that?” I demand.
She doesn’t answer. Just gives a nervous chuckle.
“Come sit, sweetheart,” Aunt Harper coos.
Once everyone’s settled, I glance around at my unofficial family: Aunt Ava, Harper, Corrine, Letty, and Emma. My aunties, not by blood, but by love and history.
Sometimes I look at them and feel this deep, quiet gratitude. I have aunties and uncles who love me, even if we don’t share a drop of blood. Mom never had siblings. Grandpa died when she was just four, and Grandma never remarried. She said he was her one true love and no one could ever replace him. Personally, I think Grandma might’ve just set the bar so high no one else ever compared.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” I start, “but… why are you here p>
“Well,” Aunt Ava says, her eyes sparkling, “a little birdie told us you’re going to have a baby, so we came to congratulate you!” 1
I whip my head toward Lilly. “I’m going to kill you.
Hands up. “I swear it wasn’t me! I was just as surprised as you. Mom called me, saying they were planning a surprise p>
What? Then if she’s not the one who told them, who did? I know it’s not Noah, and Gunner wouldn’t dare open his mouth, so who was it?
Then it clicks.
“It was Mom,” I say with a sigh. “Wasn’t it p>
Mom has her own circle of friends, but because I know practically everyone here, she’s been happily adopted into the fold. Now they even meet up a couple of times a month for food, usually at some gloriously greasy diner, because Aunt Ava swears fancy restaurants don’t serve real food. According to her, if your plate isn’t at least half oil stains and heart attack risk, it’s just decorative eating