Page 125 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“A couple of days ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He wished us every blessing and suggested the next time it rains, we dance naked under the storm clouds and pay homage to the showers that nourish the planet.”
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. “Do we have the strangest life ever?”
He rubbed her arm, then touched the charm bracelet, gazing at the little shit shovel.
“Yes, we’re probably in contention for the couple living the strangest life ever. What do you think, Faby?” he said, turning to the baby doll seated in the center of the table.
They may have failed every Battle of the Births challenge, but they’d done a damn good job keeping track of that fake baby.
Georgie opened her eyes and chuckled. “We should probably add a Faby charm,” she said, brushing her fingers over the bracelet. “And thank God you got me a bracelet and not an anklet. Look at my ankles! Wait, I can’t even see them,” she added, trying to get a glimpse over her belly.
What she didn’t know was that he’d already ordered not one but two surprise charms.
He took her feet into his lap and massaged her arches. “Your ankles look all right to me.”
“Good, because last time I could see them, it wasn’t pretty,” she replied, then blew out a tight breath. “How about we walk to the bookshop?”
He wasn’t expecting that.
“Are you up for it?”
“I think it would do me good,” she replied, then sucked in a tight breath.
“Are you having another Stevie Nicks?” he asked, feeling his heart rate kick up.
“Braxton Hicks, you giant asshat,” she replied, half laughing half trying to breathe through what joyless Joyce had explained were practice contractions that Georgie needed to “put on her big girl panties and tough out.”
Ah, Joyce! The answer to the question, name something that doesn’t grow sweeter over time.
“I think it’s over,” she said, relaxing into the chair.
“Are you sure you want to walk to the shop today?”
She nodded. “It’s not that far, and I’d like some air.”
“All right, team! We’re walking!” he announced to their dog and fake baby.
He helped his wife to her feet, corralled and leashed the dog who had started running insane loops around his legs at the mention of a walk, then scooped up their baby doll.
Perhaps Georgie was right. They really were a bunch of freaks.
“Oh, Birkenstocks! You’ve never failed me,” she said on a dreamy exhale as she slid on her sandals, and they headed out the door.
He took her hand as they strolled at a pregnant snail’s pace down the street toward the shop.
“Do you remember chasing Mr. Tuesday when he snagged Faby and made a break for it?” he asked.
“Do I remember? That was the fastest I’ve ever run. And I was eight weeks pregnant at the time.”
He glanced at her. “Back then, it seemed like we had all this time before we were going to become parents, and now, here we are.”
“Here we are,” she repeated with a pat to her belly.
They turned the corner, and Georgie hummed a sweet sound.
