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One morning, I’m sitting at the umbrella-covered table in the kitchen garden sipping my tea and checking the news on my iPad, enjoying the short moments of still, solitary silence I can get before everyone else wakes up around here. But before long, my two girls come up to the sliding door, knocking and giggling behind the glass to get my attention. I sigh but smile, wave at them to come out.
“Maman,” Penélope says as she and Perdita sidle up into the chairs on either side of me. “Maman, do you know if it’s a brother or a sister yet?” she continues, with more than a hint of exhaustion in her voice.
It’s been the question of note for months, and it’s not the first time she’s asked. I sit back, sip my tea and regard both of them before shaking my head. “Sweethearts, if I knew you’d know.”
Penélope sighs heavily, crossing her arms over her chest. “I knew it.”
Perdita turns in her chair, reaches over the armrest to take my hand. “It’s alright, Mumma, you can tell us,” she says sweetly, batting her lashes at me. “Please?”
“Biscuit, it’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I simply don’t know yet.”
“But Liam says you told him!” Penélope insists.
“Oh did he?” I ask, not quite believing her. “If he did say that, it’s not true.”
“See, I told you she wouldn’t believe that, Pen,” Perdita says. “William doesn’t tell secrets.”
“He doesn’t know, girls. He asked me himself about it but I couldn’t say then either.”
“Papa est au courant?”
“No, your Papa doesn’t know. Nor Papi, or any of your dads.”
“But why not?” Penélope asks.
I reach out to take one each of their hands and squeeze them gently. “Because we need to be patient this time. There’s a lot going on right now, everyone’s busy with projects, and I don’t want to put a burden of additional excitement on us as a family. So much has happened so fast, I want us to be fully comfortable as we are for a while. Does that make sense?”
Penélope holds my hand to her cheek, rubs it as she frowns up at me. “But Maman, we have so many pères, and not enough enfants.”
I blink at her, feel my soul try to leave my body for a moment. Then I sigh and shake my head. “Sweetie… you must understand by now that you and Perdita and William are extremely special. Probably after your next sibling arrives, there won’t be anymore after that. When you grow up, you might understand one day.”
Perdita leans over and rests her head on my shoulder, rubs my arm. “We will always be here to help you, Mumma.”
**************
“Are you getting tired of me?” Ryan asks, his words tumbling awkwardly over my knees as he rests his head in my lap that evening in front of the TV in the Manse living room. It’s a miracle it’s so empty, and it’s a miracle he’s even here, considering how much promo shit he’s been up to, which shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. Just sitting here with him, petting his wild blond mullet-adjacent hair while watching an episode of Mad Men is the fulfillment of a recent dream, so I internally balk at his question.
I hold my breath, cease stroking, count my own heartbeats for a moment, preparing yet another response crafted to assuage his perennial fears. I reach for the remote and pause the TV. “What are you worried about?”
He turns over onto his back, facing up at me now as he reaches for my hand and holds it to his chest. “I just thought that… maybe you’d get sick of me after weeks of constant Project Hail Mary discourse in your face.”
I stare down at his preternaturally kind eyes, how they seem genuinely clouded with concern. I loosen my hand from his and rub his chest firmly. “Ryan, I know I gently rag on people for holding up that book as one of the greatest they’ve ever read… God, I mean it was fine but do these people never read? It wasn’t even the best book I read in the last year—”
Ryan chuckles sheepishly, pats my hand. “Madam, you never fail to remind me what a serious nerd you are.”
“The audiobook was a little annoying to me, but that’s just my experience—”
“What was the best book you read last year, anyway?”
“Probably James. Yeah. That was fuckin brilliant. Or The Odyssey. Solaris. Cronenberg on Cronenberg, the collected poems of Rita Dove—”
He laughs again, kisses my knuckles. “Alright, you giant brain. Point taken.”
I smile serenely. “In all honesty, though, I couldn’t be more excited about our movie date next week. I’m very proud of you, and you continue to be as charming as ever.”
“Does that still work on you? My charm?”
“I had to make peace a long time ago with the fact that your charm is a force of nature,” I say, giving him a hard stare. “So calm down. I am still in love with you.” I sigh audibly, reach for the remote, but then pause as I stare off into space. “What I’m more concerned about is the kids.”
“Oh?” he says, grabbing my hand again. “What’s wrong?”
“The girls came to me today, essentially asking why we don’t have a lot more kids around here. I had to break it to them that their next sibling is gonna be their last.”
“Oh,” he says, his voice noticeably drooping. “Is that true or… is there wiggle room?”
My gaze falls back on his soft, open face, and I easily read the infinite hope within it. I touch his cheek, lean down to kiss his forehead. “Beanpole, I have my limits.”
He nods once. “I understand, I really do. I guess I just… always held some hope that… you and I might… try again.”
I tilt my head, feel the inevitable warmth of his effortless enchantment fill my heart. I admit to myself that his hope is as seductive as it is impossibly endless. It actually pains me to face it, in all its purity.
Ryan sits up then, wraps his arms around me, cuddling me into oblivion as he kisses my cheek. “Madam, I’m sorry to upset you, I don’t mean to put any burden on your mind—”
I close my eyes, melt into this sudden attention. “No, it’s OK, sweetie, I knew this was something sticking in your mind. It’s good to get it out in the open.”
He kisses my neck, my ear, my temple, then just holds me tightly, whispering into my hair. “Put it out of your mind right now, Clicquot, forget I brought it up,” he says, placing his palm over my chest. “Concentrate on… whomever this is in your heart. That’s most important. I love you. Denis loves you. We all love you… and our new little future kiddo.”
I savor the perfect warm softness of his angora sweater against my cheek, the strong steady beat of his heart under my palm. And I realize the most surprising thing about finally giving in to Ryan’s aura has been its luxuriance, its lush abundance. A tiny teaspoon of it delivers the punch of a four-finger pour of whisky. And I don’t quite understand it.
“Ryan,” I mumble, his name like a talismanic spell in my mouth, “Ryan, Ryan… my dearest good boy.”