Read Online Family Affair by Caprice Crane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caprice Crane
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your husband?
So I add, “I mean, more than usual. He’s all sensitive and edgy.Honestly, since when does he care if I go to his games? I mean, I understand that I should be there, but it’s unlike him to get all upset about it.”
“He’s Brett,” Trish offers.
“Yeah, but he’s also doing that sleep thing.”
Ginny puts her fork down and does a trademark Ginny reveal: the leg cross-uncross, which tells you she’s just become uncomfortable times two. “He’s sleep-coaching?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Brett coaches an imaginary team in his sleep when he’s worried about something or about to make a change. It’s sleepwalking but with an extra movement or two, so it’s harmless if a little weird—though he’s woken me up once or twice with shouts for tighter pass coverage. He does this especially toward the end of football season, when the important games come around. He crouched by make-believe sidelines for weeks before we bought our house, and from what I understand he nearly wore a path in the carpet at his parents’ place, flailing his arms and celebrating fantasy touchdowns, before he proposed to me.
But what’s he nervous about now? What momentous occasion could be on the horizon?
“Do you think … No, I shouldn’t say,” Ginny says.
“Spill it,” I growl.
“I know what she’s thinking,” Trish says. “And you know, she could be right….”
“Can we cut the cryptic crap and let Layla in on the lightbulb?” I say to the pair, who seem to have discovered a new continent they don’t want anyone to know about.
“She’s talking in third person,” Trish says to Ginny. “Nice alliteration, though. Tell her, Mom.”
Ginny inches her chair toward mine, and I start to get nervous. She takes my hand in hers and smiles at me, which only magnifies the tension. “Honey?” she says.
“Yeah?” I reply, eyebrows raised. And then she inches closer and hugs me.
“Oh my God, Mom, can you
be
more annoying?” Trish spouts. Then she turns to me and suggests, “Brett wants to have a baby.”
He does?
“He does? Did he tell you that?” I ask, as I try to process what they’re saying—and yes, it does kind of make sense. Before he proposed to me he
was
extra-sensitive and almost snappy, though not in a mean way, just tense. The fact that he’s become an almost unbearable ass now could simply be a reprise of that otherwise joyous time. After all, a baby’s a new beginning.
“I think so, sweetheart,” Ginny says. “He’s probably thinking about starting a family of your own, and he’s gathering the courage to bring it up.”
“Wow,” I say.
“I’m gonna be an aunt!” Trish cheers.
“Easy there, Tee,” I say. “Let’s not put the crib before the epidural.”
“No wallpaper borders,” Trish remarks darkly. “We can stencil, maybe.”
“Oh!” Ginny squeals, eyes watery. “You and Brett will have the most beautiful children.”
“Children,” she said. Plural. Little baby Fosters. Little Bretts and Laylas. The more I think about it, the more I like it. It’s weird, I never was one of those girls who thought about her biological clock; in fact, maybe mine’s broken since I am… nearing thirty, but my alarm hasn’t rung. Yet now that they bring it up, it feels right. Coming from such a small family—if I can even call our party of two that—I always knew I’d want to marry into a big family and probably have kids, but I never knew it would happen. I just got lucky with the Fosters. And making a baby with Brett would be the first real blood tie I had to my last name.
As if on cue, the moment I really start to settle into the glorious thought of Brett and me and baby makes three, an infant at the next table starts wailing.
brett
Two things I hate: people who don’t just come out and say what they mean, and strawberry anything. And also when something that’s supposed to be simple and a break from the grind becomes a clusterfuck. So that’s three.
Each year
So I add, “I mean, more than usual. He’s all sensitive and edgy.Honestly, since when does he care if I go to his games? I mean, I understand that I should be there, but it’s unlike him to get all upset about it.”
“He’s Brett,” Trish offers.
“Yeah, but he’s also doing that sleep thing.”
Ginny puts her fork down and does a trademark Ginny reveal: the leg cross-uncross, which tells you she’s just become uncomfortable times two. “He’s sleep-coaching?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Brett coaches an imaginary team in his sleep when he’s worried about something or about to make a change. It’s sleepwalking but with an extra movement or two, so it’s harmless if a little weird—though he’s woken me up once or twice with shouts for tighter pass coverage. He does this especially toward the end of football season, when the important games come around. He crouched by make-believe sidelines for weeks before we bought our house, and from what I understand he nearly wore a path in the carpet at his parents’ place, flailing his arms and celebrating fantasy touchdowns, before he proposed to me.
But what’s he nervous about now? What momentous occasion could be on the horizon?
“Do you think … No, I shouldn’t say,” Ginny says.
“Spill it,” I growl.
“I know what she’s thinking,” Trish says. “And you know, she could be right….”
“Can we cut the cryptic crap and let Layla in on the lightbulb?” I say to the pair, who seem to have discovered a new continent they don’t want anyone to know about.
“She’s talking in third person,” Trish says to Ginny. “Nice alliteration, though. Tell her, Mom.”
Ginny inches her chair toward mine, and I start to get nervous. She takes my hand in hers and smiles at me, which only magnifies the tension. “Honey?” she says.
“Yeah?” I reply, eyebrows raised. And then she inches closer and hugs me.
“Oh my God, Mom, can you
be
more annoying?” Trish spouts. Then she turns to me and suggests, “Brett wants to have a baby.”
He does?
“He does? Did he tell you that?” I ask, as I try to process what they’re saying—and yes, it does kind of make sense. Before he proposed to me he
was
extra-sensitive and almost snappy, though not in a mean way, just tense. The fact that he’s become an almost unbearable ass now could simply be a reprise of that otherwise joyous time. After all, a baby’s a new beginning.
“I think so, sweetheart,” Ginny says. “He’s probably thinking about starting a family of your own, and he’s gathering the courage to bring it up.”
“Wow,” I say.
“I’m gonna be an aunt!” Trish cheers.
“Easy there, Tee,” I say. “Let’s not put the crib before the epidural.”
“No wallpaper borders,” Trish remarks darkly. “We can stencil, maybe.”
“Oh!” Ginny squeals, eyes watery. “You and Brett will have the most beautiful children.”
“Children,” she said. Plural. Little baby Fosters. Little Bretts and Laylas. The more I think about it, the more I like it. It’s weird, I never was one of those girls who thought about her biological clock; in fact, maybe mine’s broken since I am… nearing thirty, but my alarm hasn’t rung. Yet now that they bring it up, it feels right. Coming from such a small family—if I can even call our party of two that—I always knew I’d want to marry into a big family and probably have kids, but I never knew it would happen. I just got lucky with the Fosters. And making a baby with Brett would be the first real blood tie I had to my last name.
As if on cue, the moment I really start to settle into the glorious thought of Brett and me and baby makes three, an infant at the next table starts wailing.
brett
Two things I hate: people who don’t just come out and say what they mean, and strawberry anything. And also when something that’s supposed to be simple and a break from the grind becomes a clusterfuck. So that’s three.
Each year
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