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“Did I tell you I danced all the way through high school? I used to love helping with the little kids' classes.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes, and for a second I can see a younger Maggie. The way she moves through space with such confidence makes sense. Even in a boot, she holds herself like someone who understands their body.
Her eyes drop to the ground, studying the patterned carpet before she looks up, the pain I’ve seen before in her brown eyes. “Honestly? I always thought I would have my own by now. I was the kid who always wanted to play house and pretend to be the mom when we were little.” She shrugs and turns back to her machine, slipping in a quarter and dropping her ball into play. “But it hasn’t worked out yet.”
There’s something more there, but I don’t want to push, not when she seems to be so sad about it. “I’m sorry.” There’s an awkward silence I don’t know how to fill. I feel like I don’t know Maggie well enough to pry, and anything I can think to say sounds lame and unsympathetic. I have no idea how to remove my foot from my mouth, so I refocus on the pinball game in front of me. But my mind is going a mile a minute trying to find a way out of this uncomfortable mess and I lose the rhythm. My own game ends, the ball dropping into the dark, and I don’t bother starting a new one.
Maggie finishes her game in the silence that’s building between us. As the board lights up with her score, I lean in to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. She looks up, her smile gentle, then points at her score. “That’s all I get for a new personal best?”
I take her elbow and draw her close, leaning against my machine and looping my arms behind her back. Her hips are flush with mine, her hands braced against my chest as she looks up at me. I lean down and press a kiss to her waiting lips. It’s hesitant and short, both of us pulling away to look at the other.
Maggie doesn’t step away, but I feel her weight settle against me. “Sorry. It’s not you.” She takes a deep breath, eyes dropping down to the middle of my chest as she speaks again. “I was engaged once. He was my college boyfriend, and we were together for eight years before he proposed. Then two weeks before the wedding, he called it off.”
She glances up at me, and something about my history with June must show in my face because hers scrunches and the rest comes out in a rush. “We always talked about having kids, but Frank insisted that we get married first. And time just kept moving on and I wasn’t getting any younger and…I was really stressed with the wedding planning and my periods have always been irregular and then I thought maybe I was pregnant and when I told him he called the whole thing off and said he didn’t actually want kids after all.”
It takes me a moment to process the words she just vomited at me, but my hold on her doesn’t loosen. “Listen, I know we only just met, but I know you will be an amazing mom one day. You were so great with Olive, and I can hear it in your voice talking about your niece and nephew. Frank was an asshat.”
Maggie laughs and leans in to rest her head against my chest. What a douchebag move by her ex, to change his mind on the subject like that, after leading her on with promises for so many years. I may have done everything back to front with June and Olive, but at least I never once balked at the idea of being a dad. After we had Olive I even wanted more, but June wasn’t on board so I never pushed it.
June was always excited about being a mom too, it was me she was unsure of.
“So…wanna kick some ass at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” With a finger under her chin, I guide Maggie’s eyes to the video game in the corner. Her eyes light up as she spots it.
“Hell, yeah.” She grabs my hand and hauls me across the space to stand in front of the machine. “You ready?”
I know one thing, I’m ready to follow this woman just about anywhere.
Maggie
On Monday, I’m supposed to be working on Angela and Scott’s party, but I keep getting distracted by the way my ovaries are ticking loud enough to be heard next door. Even putting on my tried and true T-Swift doesn’t help me push Kel far enough from my mind to concentrate on the task at hand.
Especially the way he didn’t flinch when I talked about wanting kids. Last time I was on a first date and the subject came up—because of a crying baby in the restaurant—the guy was out the door the second the bill was paid.
My event this weekend, a small gala and silent auction fundraiser for the local animal shelter, went smoothly. Which is just as well, because I spent most of it waiting for another text from Kel. He always responds whenever I text him, but has yet to initiate a conversation. I’m trying really hard not to take it personally.
I’m halfway through my list of possible venues for the engagement party when Ophie stumbles through the door. “Hey, Mags, do we have baking soda?” She hangs her wet coat up on the hooks by the door, shaking her long hair out of her face, the ends dark with raindrops.
“I have no idea. Probably?” I swing my legs off the couch and stand up, forgetting that I took my boot off while I was sitting. A twinge runs up my foot as I step too forcefully toward the kitchen. Ophie looks up from the pantry at my hiss of pain.
“Sit down. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Where’s your boot?” She shoos me back to the couch and opens a new cabinet to peer inside.
I hobble over to the recliner instead of the couch, on principle. “If we have it, it’ll be in the fridge. What do you need it for?”
“I had a craving for chicken and biscuits for dinner. Like mom used to make.”
I gaze longingly at the laptop I left on the couch and now can’t reach without getting up. “You know mom used to use ready-made biscuit dough, right?”
Ophie freezes. “No she didn’t.” She pulls a small can from the back of the fridge. “Found it.”
I shake my head. “Mom definitely didn’t make the biscuits from scratch. Gammy did, but not mom. Mom and homemade don’t belong in the same sentence. She’s worse than me at baking.”
Ophie comes to sit on the couch, passing me my laptop as she perches on the edge. “So who taught Daisy to bake? Gammy?”
Our oldest sister makes elaborate desserts for her children’s birthdays and any party she and her husband host. Our mother loves it and makes it a point to send us both pictures every time. Living in perfect Daisy’s shadow my whole life hasn’t always been fun—especially with my tendency to act first and think later.
“Gammy. And YouTube.”
Ophie laughs at that, throwing her head back against the couch. She slumps, hands laced across her stomach, and looks me up and down. “Well, do you know how to make homemade biscuits?”
I start to say no, when an idea comes to me. “I know someone who does. Hold please, caller.”
