Page 13 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Currently auditioning for a slow-motion surf movie,” I say, rubbing the spot where Baby Mason-Lawson—okay, not the last name, but… working title—has decided to practice interpretive dance.
Asher’s voice filters faintly in the background. “Tell her to get the car seat with the steel frame.”
Charlotte: “Asher says?—”
“I heard,” I grin. “Tell Captain Safety I’m on it.”
Amelia, who thrives on actionable lists, crouches beside the closest stroller and flicks a lever. It unfolds smoother than my skincare routine. “This one steers like a dream,” she says, pushing it in a perfect figure-eight. “Parallel parks better than your SUV.”
“My SUV is a boisterous extrovert,” I argue, testing the handlebar. “It cannot be tamed.”
Charlotte hums. “How are you really?”
I glance at Amelia, who meets my eyes with her you-can-say-it look. I take a breath. “I’m… good. Weird-good. Happy-good. Panic-good.”
“That’s three goods,” Charlotte says softly. “And at least one of them is brave.”
“How’s Emory?” I ask, wishing I could have been there for the birth of Charlotte’s precious baby girl last May. By then I was in the midst of my morning sickness, and couldn’t travel for fear of puking all over… everything.
“She’s perfect. Seriously, our babies will be best of friends.” Charlotte sing-songs.
I try to picture that life. “Yeah,” I mumble, unable to picture anything but the pregnancy I’m dealing with right now.
“How are you really?” Charlotte asks.
“Fine.” I swallow. Truth: Lucas has called. Twice? Three times? Four, if you count the text that saidYou okay?—which I counted as two calls because of the punctuation. I haven’t answered. Because once upon a truck ride he said, very calmly,I don’t do complicated.And I have since turned into the dictionary definition of complicated—with ankles.
“Have you told him?” Charlotte asks, not judgmental, just Charlotte.
Amelia stands and places a tiny knit hat with bear ears on my head, which helps exactly zero. “Not yet,” I say to both of them. “He’s traveling, and the timing, and… I don’t know how to make it acoolsentence.”
“There’s no cool sentence,” Charlotte says. “Just a true one. When you’re ready.”
Baby flips again. Amelia pats my shoulder. “We’ll practice on me later. I’ll be Lucas and you be you.”
“You hate role-play,” I say.
“I’ll make flashcards,” she counters, deadly serious.
I say my goodbyes to Charlotte when Emory gets fussy, and Amelia and I try the car seats. We debate buckles like we’re choosing accessories. A very adorable accessory. I stress-sweat through a demo base install while a sales associate named Brinley demonstrates a one-finger canopy recline like she’s auditioning forQVC: The Heir Edition.I cry over a swaddle with tiny foxes. Amelia does, too. Brinley is a professional and only tears up slightly.
“Registry?” Brinley chirps, handing me a scanner gun.
I aim it at literally everything that doesn’t squeak or require a master’s degree to fold.Clickgoes the bottle brush.Clickgoes a mobile with silvery stars.Click click clickgoes my resolve.
“Let’s take a donut break,” Amelia says, because she knows my love languages and they are carbs and deflection.
We step toward the front windows where a tray of complimentary mini donuts sits like a Venus flytrap. I pop a cinnamon one, sugar dusting my sweater. I’m reaching for a second when the world tilts.
Across the street, at the Bean Flicker—our favorite coffee shop—the door swings open. A familiar silhouette steps into the winter-sun stripe on the sidewalk: tall, field jacket, beanie, that steady way of moving like he’s got internal hydraulics. He turns his head, and—yep—there they are. Blue-gray eyes I know too well.
My heart does an Olympic-level vault. “Abort,” I whisper, which is the command you never want to use in a baby store.
Amelia follows my gaze. Her mouth forms an O. “Oh.”
“Lucas,” I whisper, palms sweating. “Across the street. Coffee shop. Looking like the brochure for Tall Problems.”
Amelia’s eyes go saucer-wide. “He’s here?Herehere?”
