Page 40 of Yours, Now and Always
“Strategic surrender is still a win in his book,” Kristen says.
Ethan nods at her. “Yeah, that’s more like it. He values winning. Which is why he’s starting to get unbearable now that fantasy playoffs are rolling around.”
“He’sunbearable?” Callan says. “You lost one game and rage-dropped your entire bench. Except the undroppables, because the app wouldn’t let you be as dramatic as you wanted.”
“I had six injured players,” Ethan mutters. “And a baby who thinks sleep is negotiable.”
“Sounds like excuses,” Hayden murmurs from beside me, not bothering to look up from his phone where he’s tapping out a message.
“Sounds like facts,” Ethan retorts.
Kristen steals a grape from the board while eyeing Callan. “Careful, Callan, or we’ll bring up the time you lost a playoff game because you started a backup tight end ‘for the vibes’, even when Liv told you not to.”
Ethan grins. Bradford gives his wife a look that saysthat’s my woman. And Hayden chuckles next to me.
Gage, who is now slicing bread, just slides in with, “He played the vibes. He lost. Liv warned him. Seems fair.”
Maddie appears in the doorway as he says this, Annalise curled against her chest, asleep. She’s wearing a rust-colored linen dress that cinches at the waist and dips low at the neckline. The hem sways around her boots, soft and slow, and the folded leopard print cuffs make the whole outfit look even more unintentionally badass.
Her hair’s down, wild, golden, and beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed. And somehow, five months postpartum, holding a sleeping baby, she stops people in their tracks simply by existing.
Ethan’s whole face changes when he sees her. Grin gone. Banter forgotten. He looks at his wife with that wrecked softness that only shows when you’re looking at your reason for breathing.
Maddie sees it. Smiles. And walks straight to him.
She holds Annalise like she was made to hold a baby. Like mothering isn’t something she’s ever had to learn. Which I know isn’t true, because I’ve seen the tears and heard the calls to Ethan where she sounds like she’s breaking in half. But right now, she makes it look effortless. Which is something I never managed to do.
I wanted to. God, I tried. I read the books. Took the classes. I made the schedules and tracked milestones and still cried in the bathroom late at night because I couldn’t figure out how to get Sarah to sleep. I felt like I was failing and that my failure would be permanent.
I didn’t wear dresses like that. I wore spit-up stained hoodies and fear.
And maybe my situation was different because of the support I didn’t have. And because I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed, but I still look at Maddie sometimes and wonder if I missed a class. If there was a secret meeting where everyone else got handed a manual I never found.
Callan shoots Ethan a look, half-smug, half-amused. “Huh. Could’ve sworn you just said Lissy was boycotting sleep. She looks very much asleep now.”
Kristen rolls her eyes at him before looking at Madeline with a smile. “Maddie’s a baby whisperer.”
Ethan takes Annalise into his arms, cradling her while gently brushing his thumb across her cheek. Ignoring Callan’s smartass comment, he glances at Maddie with love and says, “Yeah, she is. I’d be screwed if I had to get The Sleep Thief to bed every night.”
Tim, who left the kitchen for a minute to take a phone call wanders back in as Ethan is speaking, a breadstick in his mouth that he got from god knows where. With zero regard for the moment, he stares at Madeline and throws out, “Okay, but like, can you explain why you get to look like a literal blessing from the gods? I’ve had three espresso shots, two meltdowns, andone existential crisis today, while you just walk in looking like—” he gestures wildly toward her with his breadstick “—that. It’s actually offensive how good your skin looks. You’re glowing. I look like I just got pulled out of a vending machine.”
Madeline laughs. “I’m taking that as a compliment, Tim.”
I just shake my head at my brother.
Tim Sinclair, emotionally spiraling about beauty and skincare since puberty.
Gage gives him the kind of look you reserve for people you’d die for but only after telling them to sit the fuck down first. “You’ve sent at least six skincare crises to the group chat this week. I never want to hear about exfoliants again.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “To be fair, your skin’s never looked better. Whatever panic routine you’re on, keep it.”
Tim grins like he just got knighted. “Thank you. I call it ‘moisturize and emotionally unravel.’”
Everyone laughs.
Not me, though. I just look at Gage. My intense, controlled, emotionally regulated husband. The only person I’ve ever known who can balance the line with Tim between “I love you” and “I’m begging you to shut the fuck up about this.” And do it in a way that gives my brother the kind of backhanded praise I know he’ll treasure forever.
God, I love this man.
His phone buzzes from the kitchen counter behind him and he turns to read the text. After thumbing out a reply, he looks back at everyone. “Mom and Dad are running late. They said to go ahead and eat.”
