Mom appears in the doorway, flour dusting her apron. "I figured as much. They'll be ready in ten minutes, sweet boy."
The domestic normalcy of it all takes my breath away. My mother baking cookies for my son in the house where I grew up fills me with a comfort that quickly sours to guilt. This is the family Warren should know he has. Every giggle, every milestone, every cookie crumb on Beckett's cheek belongs partly to him.
My phone vibrates in my hand with a text from Gemma.
Just got off 95. GPS says I'm fifteen minutes away. Need me to grab anything as I get into town? Wine? Ben & Jerry's?
Just yourself. We've got the booze and sweets covered. Mom's in full Mimi mode. There will be cookies.
Almost fifteen minutes on the dot, the front door clicks shut behind Gemma. Beckett barrels into her legs like a pint-sized linebacker. She drops her overnight bag with a laugh and scoops him up, peppering his cheeks with exaggerated kisses.
“Auntie Gemma!” he squeals, wriggling in her arms.
“You’ve grown a mile since I saw you last,” she says,holding him at arm’s length. “What are they feeding you here, Miracle-Gro cookies?”
He dissolves into giggles, and I can’t stop smiling as I watch. My son doesn’t cling to many people, but Gemma is different. She is probably the only person other than me that he's spent most of his life with up to this point.
After our hellos, an amazing dinner of laughing and catching up, telling baby Beckett stories, I let Mom tuck Beckett in at her insistence, and take Gemma to my house. Being with Mom and Dad was a great start to our whirlwind time together, but we have a lot to catch up on and only about twenty-four hours to get it done.
“Look at you, Harrelson. Homeowner. Mom Boss.” She spins on a barstool at my kitchen isn't, her eyes wide. “This is amazing. You're doing it, girl.”
“It's surreal,” I admit, sliding onto the stool beside her. “I keep expecting someone to tell me there’s been a mistake.”
“Not a mistake.” She leans forward, her chin in her hand. “This is what all those sleepless nights bought you.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I’m glad I took tomorrow off. I wanted to actually spend time with you before you have to leave. It's almost too cruel I only get you for one night.”
She nods, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “I wish I were able to stay longer instead of continuing to Miami tomorrow for that conference. I have to check in on time to be ready for dinner with the panelists tomorrow night. But I'm going to plan a time to come for a longer visit when we can both get off.”
“I'm grateful you worked it out for a pit stop. I'll take what I can get.”
“A very important pit stop.” She lifts her glass in mocksalute. “You think I’d pass through Florida without stopping to see you and my Becks? Please.”
We laugh, and the sound fills the empty corners of my house. After a while, we carry our glasses to the sofa, curling up like the old nights in Chicago, when Beckett slept in a bassinet beside us and the weight of our work and school seemed heavier than we would ever get out from under.
"To reunions," she says, raising her glass.
I clink mine against hers. "To friends who make pit stops en route to work meetings."
The first sip of wine slides cooly down my throat, loosening the stress that has lodged in my chest and made permanent residence since I moved back to Palm Beach. With Gemma, I can breathe a little easier. She knows all my parts, even the ones I hide from family.
“So,” Gemma leans forward on her elbows, chin propped in her hand. “What’s the big, mysterious thing you justhadto tell me? Because if this is about preschool waitlists, I’m leaving.”
I roll my eyes, tracing the rim of my glass. “Something happened. At the gala the other night.”
Her eyes narrow. “Please tell me you didn’t hook up with a donor. Or worse, an octogenarian trustee with wandering hands.”
I shake my head, throat tight. “Warren kissed me. I kissed Warren. We kissed.”
Gemma freezes, wine glass halfway to her mouth. “Warren. As in Blake’s best friend, Beckett's father, Warren? The man whose dick you accidentally tripped and fell on five years ago and created a whole human?”
I cover my face with both hands. “Jesus, Gemma.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me. Holy shit.” She slams her glass down and leans in closer. “Was it hot? Or complicated-hot?Because there’s a difference. And I thought you said you were trying to avoid him as much as possible?”
My stomach flips. The firelight, his hand steady at my waist, his mouth hungry and certain. Every delicious detail floods me all over again. “It wasn’t casual. It was like… five years of restraint detonated at once. Like we’d been holding our breath, and finally exhaled.”
Gemma whistles low. “So… hotandcomplicated. And definitely failing at avoiding him. Got it.”