Page 17 of Better Than Baby (Better Than Stories #9)

thirteen

Aaron loved Christmas.

He really, really loved it.

Seriously. He decorated two trees—one for the living room and another in the great room. Our dinnerware and glasses were holiday themed. There were Santa pillows strewn on the sofa, evergreen and cinnamon candles were…everywhere, along with random Christmassy knickknacks.

He also put fresh wreaths with red bows on the windows and an extra-large one on the front door.

There were lights on the roof, a reindeer on the lawn, and poinsettias in pots on the porch.

It was a lot, but it was very pretty. Our house could have been featured in any home and garden magazine dedicated to seasonal entertaining.

And trust me, we did a ton of entertaining.

We hosted family and friends, and included Lena in almost every gathering. Aaron’s rationale was that this time next year, we’d have a little one to consider and we’d probably want to step away from big parties for a while.

It was all fun and lighthearted. Even my parents’ weeklong visit between Christmas and New Year’s Day hadn’t been so bad. My mom was over the moon about being a grandma again, and the baby was the only thing on her mind.

The biggest challenge had been ignoring her meddlesome opinions regarding the nursery.

She was convinced the colors were all wrong, the lighting was garish, and that the blinds would let in far too much light.

She didn’t realize that Aaron had purposely left the room unfinished to avoid any unnecessary clashes or bad mother-in-law juju.

His words, not mine. He told her we wanted to wait till after the baby shower, and in a twist, that ended up being a good call.

Jay and Peter went all out on the “winter wonderland” catered event.

There had to be fifty or sixty people at their house, which was decorated like Narnia, the baby-friendly version, with paper icicles and faux snow-flocked trees.

It was beautiful and heartwarming. Everyone showed up and literally showered us with enough clothing and baby goods to open our own store.

I had no idea how to use some of these things. For instance…

“Cool, thank you. Uh…is this a coffeemaker?” I’d asked, brow creased in confusion.

Aaron had snickered. “No, honey. It’s a portable baby formula maker.”

“Oh, right.”

And then there was a white-noise machine. What the actual fuck was that supposed to do?

“That, my friend, is a godsend,” Jay had gushed. “It will lull your little one to sleep and block out all kinds of pesky sounds that might disturb precious slumber. You will love this!”

Okay.

There were travel packs, bottles, nipples and brushes to clean them, toys, and pint-sized socks that fit on my thumb. And diapers, baby wash, soft towels with animal-themed hoodies, and two infant bathtubs.

We’d been overwhelmed…and touched, too. To be surrounded by loved ones who’d supported us from the very beginning and were thrilled to be part of our child’s future wasn’t something we took lightly.

It was an amazing holiday, but to be honest, I couldn’t wait to resume our usual schedules in January. We each had to wrap up a few professional obligations to prepare for paternity leave.

I finalized contracts, forwarded incoming work to my staff, and spent my spare time assembling bookshelves, strollers, and of course, the crib while Aaron sorted through the mounds of baby clothing we’d received at the shower.

He washed and organized teeny-tiny outfits, onesies, crib sheets, and receiving blankets—and somehow managed to record multiple podcasts to be sure he had content to spare.

And once the last item had been laundered and the go-bag was packed and sitting next to the door, there was nothing to do but wait.

All the fear and apprehension had been replaced by a sense of wonder and optimism.

There were no legal loopholes, no surprises on the horizon other than finding out if we were having a boy or a girl.

It was all good.

And then…this happened.

Buzz buzz

“I was going to make a salad, but there’s a lot of veg in the pot pie. Do you think we need it?”

“Salad. Good.” I squinted at the flat-screen, my gaze locked on the Steelers’ QB as he scanned the field looking for an open man. “Throw the fucking ball. Metcalf is open. Go, go, go.”

Aaron snorted. “Salad good? These endless football soirees are turning you into a caveman, Matty.”

“Sorry, I—” I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees when the ball flew toward the end zone. Terrible pass. We were down by three with one minute left on the clock. If this play blew up, the season was over. And…sure enough, the ball was intercepted at the five-yard line. “Fuck.”

Buzz buzz

“Oh, dear. Maybe next time.”

I muted the sound and slumped in defeat into the cushions, chuckling as Murphy jumped on my lap and licked my nose. “Thanks, Murph. Papa means next year. He doesn’t realize that was the divisional round. We were so close to victory, buddy. So close.”

“Murphy, you’re not supposed to be on the sofa, you naughty red ball of cuteness. We’ll skip the salad, Matty. Carbs will cure your blues,” Aaron singsonged as he bent to pick up my cell vibrating across the coffee table. “This has been going off all afternoon.”

“ Hmph . I’m not blue, I’m disappointed. Again.”

“Maybe you should root for a different team,” he suggested, dropping my cell in my lap.

I gasped in dismay. “A different team? That’s sacrilege! You don’t turn on your team. You stick with ’em…even if they break your?—”

I glanced at the caller ID and froze.

Unlike the unfamiliar number that had left intermittent messages for me last month, I recognized this one.

I half expected Aaron’s phone to go off too, but no…at the end, I’d been adamant that all contact went through me. I didn’t want anything to upset him, and that chapter had been so fucking upsetting.

We’d needed a break. I’d asked for a year-long reprieve.

And holy shit…almost a year had gone by now. We’d been so caught up in planning for the baby that I’d lost track of the time. I swiped to voice mail and pressed Play.

“Have you gone into shock, Matty? Is it unkind to say it’s just a game?

” Aaron clucked his tongue, gliding from the stove to the island with Murphy drooling at his feet.

“I’ll kiss your boo-boo better after dinner.

Or…I can probably squeeze in a quick BJ while the pot pie cools down.

A little tension relief is always a good idea and we need to get in all the spontaneous sex we possibly can before the bebé comes.

I know I’m wandering into TMI territory, but Jay told me that between his monster-in-law, the nanny, and chronic sleep deficit, sex was a distant memory after the twins were born.

Ugh , that sounds awful, but—oh, honey, you look positively shocked.

It won’t be that bad. We’ll always make time for each other and?—”

“That’s not it. I’m…” I raked my fingers through my hair, then put my phone on speaker mode and replayed the message. “You need to hear this.”

Hi, Matt, this is Gabby Fischer from Growing Tree Adoption.

Happy New Year to you and Aaron. I apologize for calling you on a weekend, but I have a rather emergent case that’s come up.

Our affiliate tried contacting you last month and asked us to act as a liaison if possible.

This is important and time sensitive, and obviously you’re under no obligation whatsoever, but I think this is something you’re going to want to hear.

Aaron had gone pale. “That’s not Lena, right? She’s okay? Our baby’s okay, right?”

“Yes.” I moved around the island and hugged him. “It’s the adoption agency.”

“Oh. Matty, I don’t think I can do it again.” His voice rose in a panicked pitch.

“We’ll call back and explain that our circumstances have changed since last year, and we’ve moved on…or something like that.” I scrubbed my hand over my face and picked up my phone. “Look, I’ll take care of it right now. You don’t have to listen.”

He nodded. “I’ll stay here. In case you need me.”

I always needed him. Always.

But I knew what he meant. We’d spent many months waiting for calls like this one. The ones we’d received were for unwanted pregnancies with contingencies, but we’d been open to immediate placement too. We’d just never been called…till now.

“Hi, this is Matt Mendez-Sullivan. May I speak to Gabby, please?”

“Matt! Thank you so much. I hate bothering you on a weekend, but as I mentioned, I have a sensitive matter at hand and?—”

“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we decided to go the surrogate route last year, and our baby is due next month.”

“Congratulations! That’s wonderful news,” Gabby gushed.

“Thanks, we appreciate it. Good luck with your placement and?—”

“It’s Cassie Mandell’s son.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a long story and frankly, a terribly sad one that’s ended with her son on the brink of foster care.”

“Foster care,” I repeated, sitting up straight. “I don’t understand. Cassie? I—what about the grandparents?”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to the paternal grandparents who were against the initial adoption to you, that is.”

“Uh…yes.”

“They never filed papers to become legal guardians. I don’t know how involved they were in the child’s life, but regardless, they were in an accident last month.

The grandfather died of his injuries, and the grandmother isn’t doing well.

Their son, the biological father, lives in California now and has never been in the picture.

Cassie has been sole provider and caretaker, a role that she never wanted in the first place.

On top of that, she’s suffering from depression and has been leaning heavily on a friend while waiting for the grandparents to file their paper work.

That isn’t going to happen now. She wanted to discuss other options for her son after ending up in ER getting her stomach pumped after overdosing on a cocktail of prescription pills. ”

“Oh, my God.”