ONE MONTH LATER.
I wake up to an elbow to the ribs.
Instead of answering, I spoon Farrow from behind, fanning her hair away from my eyes.
“Babe, are you awake?”
With an exhale, I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Five-fifteen in the morning.
Am I awake?
Depends.
Am I awake to hear Octi tell me Mom begged her—again—to consider a New York wedding, though Fae clearly wants to stay in Potomac?
No. That can wait until morning.
But am I awake for a third round of taking my fiancée against the shower wall?
Why, yes.
After all, hygiene is my passion.
Farrow reaches for the nightstand and snatches her vibrating phone. Her brows furrow at the screen.
“Zach.” She elbows me harder, eliciting a small grunt. “Tell me you’re awake.”
I close my eyes, squeezing her closer to my chest. I have a good guess at what she’s about to say, and I don’t want to get out of bed for it.
In fact, I’d be happy to keep doing what we’ve been doing the past month. Not leaving the house.
Every time Dallas comes to drag Farrow to a girls’ night, I fight the urge to hook a donut to a fishing rod and shepherd her back onto the road like a sheep.
“Zach.” Octi swivels in my arms, tracing a fingertip down my nose. “Wake up.”
I keep my eyelids glued shut.
“This isn’t funny.”
No response.
“Let’s have sex.”
My eyes shoot open. I pounce on her, covering every inch of her face with kisses.
“You horn dog.” She giggles, wriggling away from my embrace. “Dallas is having the baby. We need to get to the hospital now.”
“Why? We weren’t the ones to get her pregnant.”
I kiss my way down her neck, cupping her breast and bringing the nipple to my mouth.
We sleep naked for obvious reasons. There hasn’t been a single night where we haven’t woken up—sweaty and needy—to have sex, just to remind each other that we can.
Now that I no longer fear touching, it’s my societal duty to make up for lost time.
Fae rolls away and leaps to her feet. “It’s an emergency meeting.”
I prop my head on my fist, watching her from our bed.
She plucks her underwear and bra from the floor, pausing to add, “Dallas said she wants everyone to be there, so we can finalize the name.”
“I couldn’t care less if she wants to name him after her favorite restaurant.” Farrow shoots me a warning glare. My smile drops. “No, she doesn’t.”
“She does.” She winces, striding to the walk-in closet, only to return with an oversized gray sweatshirt and a pair of mom jeans that still somehow make her look like a model. “In her defense, the restaurant’s name is Antonio’s.”
I stare at her, grinning. Just watching her exist is enough to get my rocks off.
She buttons her jeans and tilts her head sideways. “Zachary.”
“Ma’am?”
“Put your clothes on. We’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t even like Dallas,” I lie.
She’s fine, I guess.
For a human.
Farrow grabs her backpack, flinging it over her shoulder. “You like me, though.”
“I don’t like you, Farrow Ballantine. I’m fucking obsessed with you.”
The steady beep, beep, beep of the hospital machines echoes down the corridor of the maternity wing.
Fae’s sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. She clutches the box of donuts tighter to her chest, racing faster than the situation requires.
I punctuate each of her gallops with an obvious sigh, though I’ve never been happier in my entire damn life.
Farrow has already knocked on Dallas’ suite by the time I slip beside her. Per usual, Dallas and Romeo’s greeting makes me want to bleach my ears.
Octi barrels past the door before Romeo even manages to get out, “It’s open.”
“Just like my vagina, apparently.” Dallas plucks her blanket up as if we need visual confirmation. “Hey-yo, third-degree tear.”
Kill me now.
Why is this couple so obnoxiously TMI?
I can’t imagine letting anyone near Farrow so soon after giving birth to my child.
But I can imagine very vividly a situation where she gives birth to our baby.
“Here.” My fiancée deposits the box from Gwenie’s Pastries into Dallas’ eager arms. “Two dozen shakoy donuts, just like you asked. You look amazing.”
She does not look amazing. She looks like she just returned from wrestling a bear. And lost.
But I appreciate how Farrow always has a kind word to spare when it comes to the people she loves.
I bro-hug Romeo, a recent but not unwelcome development. “Congrats.”
“Thanks, man.” I shit you not, the tips of his ears turn red.
I peer around the spacious room. “Speaking of, where’s the baby?”
“The nurses took him to give me some time off.” Dallas shoves a shakoy down her throat. “He’ll be right back, so we can all see him and choose a name.” She boomerangs upright, tossing the donut into Romeo’s chest in order to clap. “I shortlisted it to thirty.”
Yay me.
This will be a long day.
Romeo goes rigid, his palm stopping mid-brush above his crumby shirt. “All?”
With perfect timing, Oliver and Franklin burst through the door without knocking. They wear matching states of dishevelment. Messy hair. Wrinkled clothes. A streak of red lipstick runs down to Frankie’s chin.
My first assumption, of course, is the horizontal tango.
My second is the more unhinged—and therefore, probably correct—option.
And surely enough, a chirp blasts through the air.
No, they did not.
Dallas shovels donuts into her mouth, too busy to notice the state of her two visitors. “Hey, guys. Thanks for coming.”
Ollie tucks his shirt into his slacks, clearing his throat. “Pleasure’s mine.”
Nobody other than Dallas misses that innuendo.
Farrow sends me a horrified WTF look. For good reason.
Oliver and Frankie are a bad idea. Not only is she scandalously younger than him, but they also both have zero morals or principles.
These two fiends would set the entire world on fire if they feel like frying a steak.
Luckily, it’s as I expected, and Frankie produces a jar filled with holes from behind her back, setting it on a coffee table across the room. “Sorry, we’re late. We caught these all by ourselves.”
Oliver flicks grass off his shoulder. “Almost died wrestling one of them.”
Frankie collapses onto the sofa, hand over her forehead. “Zach told us crickets are a symbol of luck and a good omen for lots and lots of children.”
“I didn’t say to catch them.” I push Ollie away with a single index finger when his mud-crusted ass weasels by a little too close for comfort.
See? Passionate about hygiene.
Oliver peeks under the hospital bed. “Where’s the little addition to the family?”
Romeo dusts crumbs from his shirt with one hand and strokes Dallas’ head with the other. “On his way.”
Frankie rushes to the mini fridge in the corner, plucking two water bottles from inside.
She waves at her face. “My gosh. Am I the only one who’s super hot?”
Ollie pops his head up from beneath the bed like a groundhog. “To a nuclear point, baby.”
She hands him a Voss, and they chug them down.
“It’s pretty chilly.” Dallas screws her nose. “Then again, maybe that’s because I tore the skin between my vagina and rectum, so basically, I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey about to be filled with onions, sweet potatoes, and herbs.” She frowns. “God, that sounds delicious.”
Once Oliver collapses onto the sofa, the entire room descends into chaos. I sit in the corner, scrolling through my phone as everyone fusses and bickers, hovering over Dallas like she just came back from a fourteen-month trip to Mars.
“More painkillers?”
“Have you had water? You need water, Dal.”
“Are you craving a Thanksgiving feast? I’m sure February is pumpkin season, too.”
A knock stops the madness.
I peer up from my phone in time to spot a nurse wheeling in a see-through hatch. Oliver, Frankie, and Farrow crowd around it, holding their breaths.
I trudge over, figuring I’d see what the fuss is all about.
I’m not a fan of babies. They’re loud and entirely useless, even by human standards.
I do, however, have to admit that the baby Dallas and Romeo produced is a good-looking one. Unlike the majority of newborns, he doesn’t resemble a bitter politician berating a lowly staffer.
He turns his head just a tad, offering me a better view. Dallas and Romeo’s best features war across his face.
From Dallas—a button nose and prominent red lips the shape of a strawberry.
And from Romeo—a shock of black hair matting his tiny head and enough lashes to warm a herd of llamas.
“My God.” Frankie slaps a hand to her chest, sticking her whole body in the hatch. “Sissy, he’s gorgeous!”
“I know.” Dallas slips off the bed with a grin and wheels the hatch to Romeo’s side. “He’s going to break a lot of hearts.”
The baby is fast asleep, just as I should be at this hour.
“And baseball bats.” Oliver mocks a swing. “Those dads won’t know how to handle Baby Costa.”
Romeo and Dallas grin down at their son. A sudden feral desire to produce an heir with Farrow slams into me.
I don’t want to wait for tomorrow.
I want to do it today.
“Let’s go over the thirty names.” Dallas clears her throat, unraveling a list that is very obviously longer than thirty.
Farrow shakes her head, eyes clinging to the child. “Luca.”
“Huh?” Dallas’ head snaps up, her mouth ajar. “No, that’s…that’s not even on my list.” She waves the note roller in her hand, paper flapping in the wind.
“Think about it.” Farrow meets her gaze, a small smile on her lips. “Luca.”
“Luca.” Romeo toys with the name, mouthing it a few times. He caresses a knuckle over his son’s cheek. “I like the sound of it. Strong. Italian.”
“Means bringer of light.” Dallas holds up her Google search. “He did bring a lot of light into my life, even before he was born.”
And so, Luca Salvatore Costa was introduced to the world, surrounded by family.
Later, I manage to make it to the parking lot before I can’t help myself anymore. “I want one, too.”
“What? A Toyota Camry?” Farrow glances at the nearest car, which happens to be a rusty vehicle that has seen better days. In the eighties. “I’m sure we can afford it.”
“A baby.”
I stop by her Prius. Because, yes, Farrow still drives her stupid Prius, which she loves to no end and also named Priscilla.
Another annoying remnant from her pre-engaged life—the apartment. Once she moved back in, she converted the studio into an office for business meetings.
Fine. I love her fierce independence.
“You want a baby?” She staggers against her car. “Zach, it’s illegal to just take one—”
“Not from the maternity ward. Christ.” I chuckle, loving that she messes with me. “One of our own.”
“We’re not even married yet.” She furrows her brows. “In fact, we cannot even come up with a date or a state for the wedding.”
True stuff.
A problem courtesy of my overbearingly enthusiastic mother.
We managed to patch things up quickly after our showdown in Thailand. Mainly because she showed up on my doorstep her first day back, promised to process her grief with a therapist, and even helped me hunt down my wedding ring.
A stunning emerald bracketed by sparkling rubies.
It belonged to Mom’s family for generations.
Rare. Just like Octi.
I snatch the keys from Farrow’s hands. “We can have a baby without being married.”
She hides a giggle with her fingertips. “Your mother would have another heart attack if we have a baby out of wedlock.”
“True.” I stroke my chin. I now live life on my own terms, but that doesn’t mean I’ll piss all over Mom’s wishes if they don’t interfere with my happiness.
“How about Vegas?”
“Vegas?” Farrow’s eyes light up. “Like, elope?”
I nod. “No catering, no arguments over venue, no floral arrangement you need to book three years in advance. You can wear your favorite sneakers and fencing gear, and no one would flinch.”
Lies.
Mom would.
But I don’t care. A small price to pay. Plus, we’ll still hold the traditional tea ceremony.
Farrow bites down on her lower lip. “What about Ari? I was single when she started planning her wedding.”
I shrug. “You snooze, you lose.”
Also, she’ll probably be the first to show up—and with a truckload of champagne.
“You really want to marry this bad, huh?” Farrow scrunches her nose. “Look a little desperate to me.”
“Baby.” I hook a finger into the collar of her sweatshirt, yanking her to me for a kiss. “I’m past desperate when it comes to you.”
Farrow
THREE WEEKS LATER.
“And do you, Farrow Talia Ballantine, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The Elvis impersonator turns to me, holding a book I’m ninety percent sure is an alien romance I once caught Dallas reading.
Mysterious stains litter the chapel’s red carpet. Plastic flowers spurt from dusty Dollar Tree vases. A flamingo-pink ceiling towers above our heads, overseeing the whole ceremony.
Elegant? Nope.
Perfect? Absolutely.
I grin at Zach. “I do.”
He can’t see me in my fencing mask. In fact, we’re both dressed in head-to-toe fencing gear.
Truly, we meant to, at the very least, pick out a proper dress and suit, but we ended up spending the past three weeks in bed, distracted by something much, much larger.
Neither of us care.
I wanted all my dear friends to watch us make complete fools of ourselves, and Zach made that wish come true.
Elvis turns to Zach, peering at him behind oversized sunglasses. “And do you, Zachary Yibo Sun, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
We both take off our masks, sweaty and grinning.
He slips a glove off, tosses it behind him, and dives his fingers into my hair, kissing me to the soundtrack of our family’s hoots and hollers.
Constance throws flowers at us.
Celeste twirls in her fancy seventeen-thousand-dollar ballgown.
Dallas and Frankie hurl candy at me.
Ari and her fiancé grin at each other.
When we finally break off the kiss—mainly not to embarrass our family—I find myself breathless still.
My heart beats too fast, too loudly. I feel like jelly, too warm to stand. Zach catches my elbow when my knees wobble.
I expect him to swoop me up bridal style.
Instead, he loops an arm around my waist and smashes me to his chest, carrying me with my legs wrapped around his torso. Perks of the fencing uniform.
I throw my head back, warm and fuzzy and, I realize, so truly, unabashedly, utterly happy.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, striding down the aisle with ease. I relax into my husband’s arms. The only true home I’ve ever known.
“Zach?”
“Yes, Wife?”
“Tell me something about the octopus.”
“I’ll give you something better.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“My father’s last words.”
I freeze.
He presses a kiss to my temple before leaning into my ear, whispering them for only me to hear.
The pendants unite two souls. Fate knows what we don’t.
