Page 1 of Better Than Baby (Better Than Stories #9)

one

“I sustain myself with the love of family.”—Maya Angelou

The country lane stretched between evergreen trees that brushed through wispy clouds in the early spring sky.

Other than deer lurking half-hidden under low branches and the occasional bird flitting overhead, it was eerily quiet.

I couldn’t decide if it was peaceful and idyllic…

or like something straight out of a horror film.

Of course, I immediately realized that I’d only noticed because I wasn’t used to driving in complete silence with Aaron. He always had a story to tell or an observation to share.

“Shira Stevens swears bell-bottoms and culottes are going to be the rage next fall, to which I say, no chance! I’ll give her one or the other…maybe. But not both at the same time. The seventies have had their day, honey.”

Or…

“Matty, did you know that the tiny little pocket in jeans was designed to hold pocket watches? How cute is that! My jeans are far too snug for that nonsense. I could just imagine someone asking me for the time and waiting another ten minutes while I wiggled to free the poor thing from the denim-trap designer wear.”

Or even…

“I don’t think I like milk anymore. At all.

It’s so… meh . I still have nightmares where five-year-old adorable me is sitting alone with a plateful of mushy peas and a glass of tepid milk, tears streaming down my cheeks because one of my parents insisted that the horrible combination had to be consumed before I could have a popsicle.

” Insert all-body shiver. “We’re not doing that to our kids, Matty.

Eat the peas or don’t. No trauma necessary.

The world gives plenty without us adding to the mix. Am I right?”

In any of those scenarios, my input might be a grunt of agreement or an off-hand comment like, “If you ask me, mushy brussels sprouts are the stuff of childhood nightmares.”

Aaron would gasp, swivel in his seat, and launch into the story of the brussels sprouts we’d burned the hell out of last Thanksgiving.

We’d laugh, and he’d blast his music and sing to whatever playlist he’d thought best fit our travel itinerary—Latin love songs, Gaga za za—don’t ask, I have no clue what that means—or something from his Taylor era.

None of it was to my taste, but I happily put up with it ’cause Aaron loved it and I loved Aaron to utter and absolute distraction.

So, yeah…that was why today’s quiet felt a little haunting.

I understood, though. He was tapped out, cried out, angry, frustrated, and sad.

I just wasn’t sure a puppy would fill the void.

“I’m fine, Matty,” Aaron hummed as if reading my mind. “I really am. Am I disappointed? Yes, but I know you are too. It just wasn’t our turn, wasn’t our time.”

I linked our fingers across the console and brought them to my lips. “I know. Hang tight and be patient. We’ll get there.”

Aaron rubbed my forearm and sighed. “I’m trying. And just so you know…I don’t look at becoming pet parents as a placeholder for a having a child. We were always going to get a dog.”

“True.”

“And we don’t have to get one today. We’re just looking.”

I scoffed. “The thing about ‘looking’ at puppies is that you’re going to want to take one home every time…even if you’re not in the market for one. It’s hard to resist a cute little furball with stubby legs, big ears, oversized paws, and a potbelly.”

“And the sweet puppy dog eyes,” he cooed, finally twisting to face me.

“Gah! I’m going to fold like a house of cards, Matty!

If you find me on the floor under a pile of puppies, let ’em at me.

Yes, yes, I know we’re just looking, but I’ve heard animals are so good for your mental health and well-being.

They legit have puppy yoga at Om Salon. Can you even?

It’s new and it gets booked fast, but maybe I could… ”

I hummed along on cue, a soft smile on my face. This was more like it. I could listen to Aaron chatter away about anything from store-bought salad dressing to the new cast of Love Island all day long…or whatever might chase away the gloomy silence.

“This is it.” I turned left at the entrance to Yearwood Kennel and parked in front of a two-story shingle house.

“Oh, it even looks adorable! Don’t worry, my love. I promise not to fall in love with five puppies and sneak them out of the kennel in my fabulous satchel. But I might be able to fit two in here.” Aaron quirked his lips as he pulled the strap across his chest and patted the leather man-bag.

“Not so fast. If we’re doing this, we’re getting one. Only one,” I huffed. “And we can’t pick him or her up today anyway. We need to buy a crate and food and?—”

“I know, I know. This is just a visit. I’ll control myself. Let’s go!”

“Hang on.”

Aaron frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, but…” I raked my teeth over my bottom lip thoughtfully and continued in a rush, hoping my timing wasn’t terrible. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this and…let’s revisit the family planning agency and interview surrogates.”

He widened his eyes, then blinked as if warding off tears. “You’re sure?”

“A hundred percent. Adopting would be nice, and we can ask them to reopen our application next year, but we need a break. The red tape and bureaucratic BS have been hellish and…I don’t know…” I shoved my hand through my hair, shrugging. “I think we should go to plan B.”

Aaron rolled his lips. “It’s expensive.”

“We can afford it.”

“ Hmm .”

I cradled his chin, brushing my thumb along his smooth jaw. “Is that a yes or a no?”

He didn’t reply. Instead he catapulted from his seat into my arms and wrapped himself around me, showering my face with kisses. “Yes. Yes, Yes.”

I tickled his sides and pushed him away with a laugh. “Good. It might not be any easier than adopting, but Jay and Peter had a good experience. So did Trey and his husband and…let’s give it a shot.”

Aaron beamed at me. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“I love you, too.” So fucking much. I would move mountains for this man. “We’re going to do all the things we said we would, Aar. Every damn thing on our list. We’ve been through tough times in the past, and we always get through it. This is no different, baby.”

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “I know. I hoped it would be easier, though.”

Me too.

We’d been through hell.

Over the past year and a half, we’d either been in adoption limbo or in the final process of completing the paper work, only to have the birth parents change their minds. That had happened not once but twice. Not kidding.

The first instance wasn’t shocking, really.

The parents were an on-and-off couple with two other kids who’d called it quits for good and had decided it was best not to bring a third child into their dysfunctional relationship.

Admirable. I still hadn’t been sold, but the social worker assigned to the case hadn’t seen any red flags and Aaron was excited, so we’d gone for it.

After footing medical bills and random living expenses for two months, we’d learned that they’d reconciled and we were being taken to the cleaners.

They’d had no intention of giving up their child. Of course not.

A few weeks later, there’d been a better fit through a private agency.

Cassie, a young student at Georgetown had gotten pregnant, and a baby wasn’t on her agenda.

She wanted to go to medical school. The baby’s bio dad was more of a fuck-buddy than a real boyfriend, and neither was interested in being a parent.

Cassie was smart and driven, confident and self-aware.

She’d wanted to experience childbirth, but hadn’t wanted to be a mom.

It was important to her to know that her baby would be with good people, and she’d been more than happy to let us be part of her journey.

All in all, it had sounded too good to be true.

I’d been on alert for hidden red flags, but there hadn’t been any obvious ones.

We’d gone to doctor appointments and Lamaze classes, and…it had felt real. This bright young woman had been carrying our child. Our son.

We’d launched into baby preparation mode. We’d painted the nursery, shopped for a crib, a rocking chair, clothes, diapers, car seats…plural. We’d had a list going of all the things we’d need, but we’d superstitiously refrained from purchasing anything. Thank God.

We’d talked about names and played games, like, “If we name the baby after your favorite rock star, what’s his name?” or “Funniest comedian, what’s his name?” or “Your tenth-grade algebra teacher, what’s his name?”

One afternoon, Cassie had asked if we’d come up with a real option, and we must have both been caught off guard, because we’d answered…truthfully. “We like Xander.”

She’d smiled, agreed it was a good strong name, and that was that. Later we wondered if we’d jinxed ourselves.

In every other aspect, we’d left room for fallout, knowing without speaking the sentiment aloud that the adoption wasn’t a done deal until the final paper work was signed and we could bring our son home. It had been vital to shield ourselves from heartbreak if the worst happened.

And it had.

Mid-December, two months before the baby was due, the paternal grandparents petitioned for adoption.

A week later, their son joined the fight and asked for custody of the child.

We could have fought, but as a lawyer, I was all too aware that it would have been an expensive, emotional mess and the odds were never going to be in our favor.

Heartbroken didn’t begin to cover it. We were both devastated. Aaron, in particular, was inconsolable. I’d never seen him so upset, and I had no intention of going through it again. No fucking thank you.

We closed the door to the nursery that day, and neither of us had opened it since.

That was four months ago.