Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, prodromal labor could last several days. The doctor recommended reducing stress and distracting myself with music, television, or a warm bath if the contractions started again.
When Hale returned home, he was a mess. I was certain he spent the entire flight home researching false labor. He kept stuffing pillows around me like I might break, and he made me drink copious amounts of water to stay hydrated.
“Why were you at my dad’s?” he finally asked.
“I was returning his packages.”
He held back his words because he didn’t want to stress me out, but I knew he had plenty to say by the twitch in his jaw.
“It’s not your father’s fault, Hale. It was mine. I shouldn’t have gotten myself all worked up. And I shouldn’t have lifted so many boxes.”
His expression could have been carved from stone. “Quitting was supposed to lower your stress.”
“Well, what can I say? I work best under pressure.”
“This isn’t funny, Rayne. What if you went into actual labor? You’re only in your sixth month.”
“Prodromal labor doesn’t lead to real labor.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“You shouldn’t have been over there.”
“Avoiding him forever is not the solution, Hale. Your dad—”
“My dad is a chronic source of stress in our life!”
I sighed. It frustrated Hale to no end that, after everything, I still defended Remington. “Hale, we can’t stay mad at your father for the rest of his life. I miss him. Elara needs a grandfather. And I want things to go back to normal.”
“Normal.” He scoffed. “That word doesn’t exist in this family.”
“Well, it does in mine. We Meyers might be weird and quirky and a little scatter-brained at times, but at our core we’re just boring, normal people. Christmas is next week, and I want us all together at one table. No strangers. No business colleagues. Just family—and that includes Marta, Raoul, and Alphonse.”
“Rayne, the staff—”
“The staff is family, Hale. We did Thanksgiving the Davenport way, but I’m claiming Christmas. I want cranberries from a can and green beans with those crispy fried onions and a basic bitch honey-baked ham. The. End.” I shoved myself off the couch because I had to pee.
“I’m fine with that. But I can’t guarantee the guestlist.”
I shot him a threatening look. “Then figure out a way to fix it. I’m off stress. This has officially become your problem—doctor’s orders.” I waddled to the bathroom.
That’s Not a Red Rider BB Gun
My mom and I did all the Christmas cooking, which meant the food would be mediocre at best. But dinner tasted like childhood and brought back memories. And, for that, I was happy.
I wasn’t sure what Hale said to Remington, but he was there. He came over Christmas morning with a reasonable amount of gifts that didn’t outshine Santa, and managed to keep his commentary to a minimum.
I wanted to avoid a tit-for-tat gift-off in which the men tried to outdo each other. I would not let my daughter’s personality pay the price for their competitive spoiling. She already lived the life of a toddler princess in extreme privilege. As her mother, I felt it was my job to set boundaries and keep her grounded.
Hale didn’t hold the same concern I did about things like that. He simply accepted that it was the top one percent’s right to live a life built entirely around excessive luxury. But I stood my ground because I didn’t want my kids to grow up as an entitled little assholes.
Some privilege I’d allow, but I still wanted Elara’s upbringing to resemble mine. There could be a car when they turned sixteen, but nothing over the top. She would only need something dependable and safe to get her to work, because my kid was going to have a job. I didn’t care how big her trust fund was. Employment gave a person a greater purpose, and I wanted her to learn the value of a hard day’s work.
Birthdays would be reserved for the family unless it was a milestone year—double digits, turning into a teen, sweet sixteen, eighteen, and of course, twenty-one. Filler years would be reserved for classroom cupcakes, random sleepovers, and casual picnics around the pool. There would be no private chefs, yacht galas, island excursions, or ski resorts in Aspen. Not for my babies.
These were not pressing concerns of Hale’s, but they were the thoughts that kept me up at night while I was growing a human in my womb. Other mothers in Davenport’s social circle were already whispering about waiting lists for private pre-K academies and middle-grade prep-schools.
One woman at a function mentioned her son’s private tutor. She expected him to be multilingual in four languages and fluent before age five. I told her that Elara figured out Blue’s clue almost every single time.
She wasn’t impressed. But I was.
As I carried out a tray of mangled sugar cookies Elara and I made, I walked them around the table to each guest so Elara could hand them out. She was so proud of her work and happy to share her cookies with those she loved.