Several years later
It’s the tickling on my face that wakes me up. I glance over at Francesca’s form as she sleeps splayed out on her side of the bed, hogging the covers. She snores loudly. I turn back and see my son standing next to the bed. Cherry sits at his feet, wagging her tail.
I check the clock. Four in the morning. Jesus.
Franco peers at me, his four-year-old face scrunched in concentration. It’s the same look he gets when he plays checkers with Darden. He inherited Francesca’s widow’s peak and artistic intelligence. From me, he got his tall frame and kind nature—or that’s what Francesca says. I never would have described myself as kind, but she believes in me. I’m definitely mellow, living my best life at forty. Funny how I always worried about what came after football, and you know what? Happiness came. Oh, it’s not always perfect. There’s always a dab of chaos here and there, but it’s the way you handle it that makes life beautiful.
Franco’s tawny hair is mussed, his football pajamas wrinkled from sleep.
“Hey, little dude. Did you wake up too early? Wanna crawl in with me?” My voice is groggy with sleep as I tug the duvet down for him to get in the bed. He sleeps with us sometimes. After a bad dream or during a storm. Cherry too.
He shakes his head.
“Okay, did something happen? You all right?” I scrub my jawline as I sit up. He had a stomach bug last month. Vomit. Diarrhea. Crying. Record-breaking awful. Francesca and I got it next. That whole week feels like a blur. See, chaos.
He smirks, an expression straight from Francesca.
I glance at his hand—the one he just put behind his back. “Is that a Sharpie?” I grunt. “Ah, so that was the tickling. What did you draw on me?”
“A smiley face. A race car.”
He doodles on everything. His body, his toys, his closet wall.
Getting out of the bed, I grab my plaid pajama bottoms and slide them on. I take his hand, and we tiptoe out of the bedroom so we don’t wake Francesca. His feet pad softly against the marble as I stop in front of the mirror in the master bath.
I sigh. I can’t even be mad about it. I mean, yeah, it’s in permanent marker and will be a bitch to get off, but the detail and clean lines are damn good. The car is on my forehead, complete with him inside of it, his hands on the wheel. Like me, he loves fast cars. There’s a tiny smiley face on my nose.
I ruffle his hair. “You’re gonna help me get this off later when I’m awake. You ready to go back to sleep?”
He pauses, his lips quivering. “I got up to pee, then heard something in the house. So I made art.”
I ease down and rub his back. “Hey. I’m here. It’s okay. I like your art, just not on my skin.”
“Can I draw on Mama’s?”
A conspiratorial laugh comes from me. “I’d love to see it, but best to ask first. Go ahead and pee.”
He slips onto my toilet, does his business, and then comes back out and gazes up at me with adoration in his aquamarine eyes. “Will you check the house, Daddy?”
Daddy. I take a deep breath. That word never gets old and still gets to me emotionally, especially in his sweet voice.
“Sure thing. Let’s walk it together, yeah? We can figure out what woke you up. Big-boy stuff.”
Holding his small hand in mine, I walk through the modern-style two-story house, our beach home in the Hamptons. With most of the walls made of heavy glass and concrete, the space is about three thousand square feet, with a small cottage and a heated pool. I bought it for Francesca’s birthday four years ago, right after we got married. It came with ten acres of land and 250 feet of private beachfront. It’s an oasis. Manhattan is her true love, but this is our escape from me running the nonprofit and her gallery. Plus, it’s bigger than the yacht. It’s become the hub for our get-togethers with the family. We throw a Christmas party, celebrate our birthdays, and have a huge spring event, complete with an egg hunt and me as the Easter Bunny. Cece and Lewis come in from California, Darden sits in a chair and points his cane at us—well, except for the kids who attend. He adores those. Brogan and his current love interest attend, and Ronan and Nova and their brood come.
With Cherry on our heels, we stroll the state-of-the-art kitchen. I check each pantry and closet, then turn on ambient lights as we walk into the den. Everything is quiet—just the lulling sound of the ocean in the distance. Invariably, my gaze goes to Francesca’s painting of our family over the fireplace. My heart swells. I married her a few months after Franco was born in a small ceremony in Central Park. We stood in front of each other on Bow Bridge and made vows. Mine was to always love her and put her first, to support and lift her up, to be the shoulder she needs if she cries. I promised to be her family, to take her people into mine and build something beautiful.
After checking the entire first floor, we head upstairs and walk the hall. We stop outside one of the bedrooms. I hear a soft clicking sound.
“Maybe it was that?” I ask. “The room is right next to yours.”
He looks up at me. “Should we check?”
Gladly. We ease into the pink nursery, then peer into the baby bed. Darryn (for Darden) Cecelia Ivy is over a year old, with dark hair and a Cupid’s bow mouth. She sleeps on her stomach with her butt in the air, her face to the side. Her hand is wrapped around her pacifier. In her sleep, she alternates between putting it in her mouth, then knocking it against the rail of her bed.
“Is that the noise?” I whisper to Franco.
“It’s just the paci.” He blinks up at me, all innocence. “I like her better when she’s sleeping.”
I smother a laugh. Since she started walking, she has turned into a little tornado on feet. She rushes headlong into each room, discovering new things, chasing the dog, begging Franco to let her play trains with him. “She’s fun to have around, though, right?”
He sighs, his expression softening as he looks at her. “She’s all right.”
“Think you can go back to sleep, little dude?” I heave him up in my arms, and his head goes to my shoulder. He nods, soft air brushing against my ear as he breathes.
“All right.” I carry him to his room next to hers and put him in his big-boy bed. His favorite sleeping partners are lined up on the pillow next to his. A small bear in a Pythons outfit from Darden, a yellow duck in an elaborate white dress from Cece and Brogan, and a plush clown from Jasper—yes, I allowed it—plus a stuffed unicorn from the Russo girls.
Cherry jumps up to crawl under the covers with him.
“When it’s time to get up, I’ll make you waffles, yeah? Then we’ll hit the beach and play.”
He nods, his eyes already fluttering closed.
I kiss his forehead, my heart full of love for him, for Darryn, for Francesca. Sometimes I feel so grateful that I’m terrified, like something awful might whisk them away from me. I know the root of that fear, leftover trauma that may never disappear. And when that happens, I remind myself that Francesca and I aren’t my parents. We’re special. We’re, well, fated, written in the stars. And I’ll cherish each moment we share.
I walk back to my bedroom and slide back in the bed as I grab my phone from the nightstand.
“Francesca,” I sing softly. “I’m recording you snoring. The kids will laugh for days. Hell, I’m already laughing.”
She grumbles under her breath and flops over to face me.
“Franco woke me up, and now I’m wide awake,” I murmur, mostly to myself. I tap my fingers on the duvet. I could get up and work out, but . . . “Ugh. No.”
Francesca grumbles under her breath. “Tuck, you’re talking in your sleep, darling . . .”
She flips back over, and I snuggle in behind her, my hand curling around her waist. “No, I’m talking while I’m awake. Long story, but you should see my face. There’s a race car on it. He’s gonna be good, Fran, like incredible in art—”
“If you wanna have sex, boo, just roll me over . . . ,” she says around a yawn as she turns to snuggle into my arms.
“Sex wasn’t what I had in mind, but . . .” My voice trails off as she melts closer to me, brushing against the tent in my boxers.
“Do that thing with your lips,” she says, her voice still lulled with sleep as her hands go to my hair, carding through the strands.
“What thing?”
“You know . . .”
“Yes?” I tease.
“Where you kiss me like I’m your everything. You want me to brush my teeth first?”
I chuckle. “No, Mrs. Avery. You always taste like fresh dew in the morning.”
She grunts. “Funny.”
I kiss her softly, then smile against her lips. “You are, you know. My everything. Always will be.”
“Mmm, I love your dirty talk.”
“Oh, I can get dirtier.” Easing on top and straddling her on my knees, I wrap the covers over us like a cocoon. “I love you, Princess,” I tell her. Moments pass into slow, languid minutes as I express with my body how deeply she’s ingrained in my soul.
She tells me she loves me back, and the world—ah, it’s the perfect chaos.
