Page 131 of Make the Play

The next fifteen minutes are complete, unmitigated chaos.

Meadow and I barricade ourselves behind the couch with every unicorn-themed cushion she owns. Noah and Chase, armed to the teeth with toy guns and plastic swords, take cover behind the kitchen island.

“We surrendernothing!” Meadow cries, hurling a glitter-covered ball of paper toward them. It lobs ungraciously onto the front of the couch, exploding in a shimmery dust cloud.

“You’re gonna have to vacuum that,” I choke, blinking through the sparkles and lifting my head to glare at Chase.

“Take it up with your four-year-old general!” he calls back.

A dart hits me in the forehead.

“Oh, you wanna go, Walton?”

I leap over the couch, toy gun raised, but Chase is faster.

“Wanna piece of my Nerf gun, Zo?”

I bark out a laugh at the innuendo just as he grabs me around the waist and hauls me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing. I shriek as he spins me, one arm tight around my ribs, the other blocking my pathetic flailing with a Nerf gun pressed to my hip.

“Zoe!” Meadow bellows. “GET HIM!”

Noah collapses in laughter. “GET HER!”

“Release me, you bas—buffoon!” I gasp, breathless and still laughing, far too aware of every inch of him pressed against me in a way I definitely,definitelyshouldn’t be.

“Never,” he murmurs, too close to my ear.

It’s not even sexual, not really. It’s worse.

It’sdomestic.

Eventually, we call a truce. Mostly because Meadow is laughing so hard she almost pees herself, and Noah is clutching his stomach, whining about being hungry.

Chase declares himself injured and slumps dramatically onto the couch while the kids immediately begin chantingwaffles, waffles, wafflesin horrifying unison.

“They’re monsters,” I tell him.

“They’re visionaries,” he replies, already getting up to walk to the pantry.

We find a half-used mix in the pantry, but there’s no measuring cup. I quickly realize the waffle iron may or may not be haunted, because Chase’s first attempt comes out burnt on the outside, raw in the middle, and somehow tastes like cheese.

“I love it,” Meadow says, holding up her floppy, carbonized triangle. “It’s a crunchy pancake with goo inside.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed tobend,” I mutter.

“I improvised,” Chase says proudly. “They’re fusion.”

“Of what? Breakfast and botulism?”

“I want ketchup on mine,” Noah adds.

I open my mouth to protest, then close it again.

Waffles with raw middles. Ketchup. Glitter in my bra. A crick in my neck from being body-slammed by an NHL player in front of two giggling children. I haven’t thought about how terrified I am for my best friend—who could be giving birth right this very second—for at least two hours.

And that’s kind of a miracle. This chaos is comforting. These kids, this absurd little bubble, is comforting.

Chaseis comforting.

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