Page 86 of The Trouble with Flings

Harrison’s grabby hands shoot out as Jamison hands him the ball, which is bigger around than he is. I run toward the hoop, holding Harrison up to reach the net, his giggles ringing out.

The guys cheer him on, but when we reach the net, Harrison hunches over the ball, clinging to it.

“Put the ball in the net, Harrison!” Hadley urges.

Harrison shakes his head.

“Make a basket, Harry!” Ritchie cheers.

Harrison sets his jaw and shakes his head again.

“Ball!” Hank shouts, and Wells carries him over to Harrison.

“Mine!” Harrison declares.

“Mine!” Hank hollers.

“How about we share the ball?” Daphne urges.

“Put the ball in the net, buddy,” Jock says, heading over.

“No!” Harrison hollers.

Suddenly the twins are arguing, Hadley is yelling at them to share, Ritchie is pleading with Harrison to make a basket, and the guys are trying to reason and joke him out of hoarding the ball. Jock and Daphne are as calm as can be, like they’re used to this level of mayhem, while I’m holding on to a squirming, adamant Harrison and taking it all in.

For the first time since finding out I’m going to be a father, I let myself imagine a future with my child in the middle of all this, growing up with cousins and friends and the chaos and laughter I grew up with, surrounded by people who love fiercely and unconditionally.

As Daphne slides her arm around Jock and he kisses her smiling lips, I take that future further, imagining the pinnacle of it all—Jennifer here with us, trusting, happy, and all in.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jennifer

The Long Island Expressway is as miserable late Saturday afternoon as it has always been. We’ve been inching toward my parents’ exit for fifteen minutes, the cake box in my lap, a bouquet of peonies for my mother on the back seat of Fitz’s car, which he brought over on the ferry last night, and my heart jackhammering in my chest.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed Fitz until I opened the door and saw him standing there, flashing that sexy smile and reaching for me like he could hardly wait, either. I swear we kissed like we hadn’t seen each other for a year rather than five days. Maybe it’s because we’re doing the dating thing and refraining from having sex.

Or maybe I just miss him because he’s spent months sneaking under my skin, being there even when I tried to push him away, and now he’s here, showing up for me and our baby without hesitation. The truth is, I don’t need to know why I missed him. It’s enough that I do. That’s how I know all these feelings I’ve been having are taking root.

He reaches for my hand from behind the wheel. “How nervous are you?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” I glance out the window and don’t even try to cover up my anxiety. “Eleven.”

He runs his thumb soothingly across my knuckles, a touch I’ve come to appreciate. “Eleven is a big number. Want to talk about what’s worrying you the most?”

“I’m just nervous about how they’ll react.”

“How did they react when you told them I was coming?”

“They don’t know yet,” I admit. “I didn’t want to give them too much time to interrogate me, but I’m handling it.” I pull out my phone to send a group text.

He glances over, arching a brow. “Jen, it’s a special night for your parents. You probably should’ve mentioned it just in case they’re looking forward to a family-only celebration.”

“You’re the one who wanted to be here,” I remind him too strongly, and immediately chide myself for it. “I’m sorry. I want you here, too, but trust me, I’m saving myself two days of headaches by telling them now.”

I open a group text and type, I forgot to mention I’m bringing a friend. See you soon, and hit send.

My phone chimes in rapid succession.