Page 110 of Full Split
Wyatt looks adorable with baby Nila strapped to his chest, baby powder smeared on his cheek. His hand cradles the back of her head like she's the most precious thing he's ever held. Which, of course, she is. He's cooing at her under his breath, whispering nonsense about stinky diapers and how he hopes she's done for the day, because his back hurts leaning over the changing table we set up in the locker rooms. She gurgles grumpily, drool dripping from her little pink lips.
He stops in front of the trophy cases, bouncing gently while her eyes get big and round at the sight of all the shiny medals displayed, showing off the past decade of victories. National championships, world titles, and an array of medals from every competition Weston and I have won, now accompanied by awards achieved from the athletes we coach. At the very top of the case sits my Olympic gold medal for high bar, gleaming under the lights that Wyatt painstakingly installed in the display case.
Behind the medals, and along the walls of the gym, are photos of our competitions, magazine covers, and news clippings. Some show us mid-routine or up on podiums. My favorite is thepicture of my gold medal win at World's ten years ago, a perfect shot of my tear-filled eyes as I took in the crowd, and a huge trans flag in the background. My second favorite is a picture Mik Reinier-Sanders published of me jumping onto Weston's back after he'd just finished a truly badass pommel routine that landed him his first Olympic medal. Weston says I look deranged in that picture, and he's not wrong. I just remember how completely over the moon excited I was.
"Great job today, Maura," I say as I dismiss my last student for the day and jog over to kiss baby toes. "We'll keep working on those extensions, but your releases are looking strong."
"That's your daddy up there, little miss," Wyatt is murmuring to the baby, who is gnawing on one of his knuckles, seeming much happier now. "Pretty impressive, isn’t he?"
"Definitely teething, huh?" I say, giving her cheek a soft poke. Nila beams and squeals, her happy grin showing off the proof of red, swollen gums. "Poor thing. Do we have any teethers in the break room freezer? Or is your finger sufficing?"
Just then, Weston pushes through the door, muttering to himself when the double stroller he's pushing gets a wheel caught on the welcome mat. Grinning, I run over to help him, gently lifting the front of the stroller and making faces at my twin nephews.
"How was your check-up?" I ask the little ones excitedly. "I bet they couldn't believe how big you've gotten!" I glance up at my best friend, who looks exhausted. Happy, but exhausted. "Are we staying to play with Uncle Niles? Do some tumbling and give your dad a break?"
"Maybe just for a few minutes," Weston says to happy squeals of excitement. I help them escape their stroller and set them loose on the mats. "We need to pick up some dinner before Mommy gets home, but getting some energy out might mean extra-long naps so Aimee and I can get a few minutes of peace together."
"Careful, you'll end up with another one."
He scoffs, but his face turns a little pink.Wait a minute…
"How's Aimee doing, by the way?" Wyatt asks, walking over with a now sleeping Nila cradled in his arms.
"Better," he says. "That stomach bug finally passed, thank goodness. She, uh, had a doctor's appointment today, too."
There's something in his voice. Something cagey.
"I knew it!" I whisper-shout, pointing at my best friend accusingly. My eyebrows raise knowingly towards Wyatt, who rolls his eyes. "I flipping told you," I tell him, careful to watch my language around little ears. When little Wesley toddles into my shins, I look down at him and say, "I told him. I told Grandpa." I tickle him, and he giggles riotously.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Weston says. "Aren't they getting so big?" He coos, all dreamy-eyed and affectionate as he beams down at the chaos toddling around at our feet.
"I love how much you love being a dad," I say. "But damn. Then again, if you need some extra room in the house, Grandpa might try to keep that one," I say, pointing to where Wyatt is dropping little kisses on Nila's sweet, chubby cheeks.
Weston narrows his eyes and takes the sleeping infant with practiced ease. "Nice try. Get your own."
Wyatt sighs, reluctantly handing her over. "You have plenty," he grumbles.
"And no signs of stopping, apparently," I snicker.
I like giving Weston shit, but I'm happy for him and his ever-growing brood of cuteness. Wyatt and I don’t have kids together—never wanted to. But I’m glad Weston and Aimee did, because these three have us hopelessly wrapped around their tiny, chubby, sticky fingers. I love having them over, and love getting to spoil them, but it’s also nice to give them back at the end of the day. Especially because I quite enjoy taunting Wyatt by walking around our house naked at any given moment, and that’s frowned upon when little ones are present.
Weston shrugs but can't hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he says, hugging the baby close. "Ifwewereto have another, I'd be over the moon about it," he all but confirms.
Wyatt lights up, the joy on his face near blinding. I elbow him.
"Would you want another baby, Daddy? Because I can start trying real hard to?—"
"Dude," Weston makes a gagging sound and covers his eyes like I'm about to bend his dad over and breed him in front of him. "Gross!"
"Gwoss!" Little Waylon chirps.
"That's right," Weston says, carefully bending down to give him a high five. "You tell Uncle Niles and Grandpa to keep it to themselves."
"What? What did I do?" Wyatt says incredulously, hands on his hips. "I didn't say anything. After all, I got the perfect son on the first try."
My face twists, and then I look around the room. "West, I didn't know you had an older brother. Is he hot?"
Weston groans. Waylon mutters an adorable stream of adorably indecipherable gibberish that ends in a raspberry.
