Page 12 of Spicy Nick

See, it occurred to me to wonder, as I was stowing Scout’s bags in the trunk, whether we’d even be able to fit two children’s car seats in the back seat. It would be a squeeze. Especially in the beginning, when one of those seats would need to be a rear facing model.

And, looking beyond that, we definitely can’t fit five people in it—car seats or no. So… do I really want a car that’s not big enough for the whole family? Or should I be leaning into yet another potentially unpleasant fact of life? Namely, if Kate doesgo away to college in the fall, perhaps ‘a car big enough for all five of us’ won’t ever be an issue again?

But maybe I’m getting too far ahead of myself. Maybenoneof this is an issue. Maybe it’s all in my head, or in Lucy’s head…or, well, something along those lines.

A baby is kind of a big deal. And I still can’t fully believe that Scout could be pregnant, and know that she’s pregnant, and still be keeping it from me. Lucy’s lunacy aside, that’s not who we are. At least, I didn’t think it was.

We’rea block from our house when Scout’s grip on my hand suddenly tightens. She leans forward in her seat, her gaze anxious, only really relaxing when the house comes into view. “Oh, how beautiful,” she sighs, and I find myself smiling. Because she has to be admiring my handiwork, right?

“It looks nice, doesn’t it?” I inquire, chest filling with a warm sense of pride and satisfaction. It’s not quite dusk, but the Christmas lights are on timers and, from top to bottom, the house is aglow. Which, yes, not great in terms of light pollution. But at least I upgraded to LED lights a few years back, so don’t come at me with your environmental concerns.

“Yes,” Scout murmurs. “And you didn’t cut down the rosebushes.”

I side-eye her in surprise. “I did not. Was I supposed to?”

“No! No, God, of course not,” she says, then she drops my hand and scrubs her hands over her face, sighing deeply and nearly sobbing again. “It’s just…”

“Just…?” I prompt when she doesn’t seem likely to finish the thought.

“I guess I fell asleep. On the plane. And I…I had a bad dream. A nightmare. But it was a really vivid one and… And you have no idea. I’m just so happy to finally be home.”

“Exactly how late did you stay up last night?” I ask. Because, I mean, yes, Cole can fall asleep anywhere, anytime—sometimes before we’ve even pulled out of the driveway. And he must’ve inherited that from somewhere, I suppose. But the flight from LA is only about an hour. So either Scout’s suddenly developed Narcolepsy, or something else is going on.

Three guesses what that something might be. Oh, baby.

“Not that late,” she replies. And then the nickel must’ve dropped because she shakes her head and says, “It’s not a lack of sleep, okay? In fact, it’s nothing. It’s just one of those things. Let it go.”

With no other choice—other than to start an argument—I do my best. But holding my tongue isn’t easy.

And it doesn’t get any easier, either, once we’re inside the house and Scout is walking around, as though in a daze. She puts the roses in a vase, fills the vase with water, places it on a mat in the center of the dining room table. None of which is out of the ordinary, of course. But her movements are slow and robotic. And I don’t have the heart to point out the obvious—those flowers are history. They’re too busted up and bruised after being caught in the middle of our reunion. They’ll probably be dead by tomorrow.

Then she turns from the table and begins wandering around; moving from room to room, looking at everything, touching everything, stopping to stroke every cat that wanders across her path, crouching down to talk softly to each one.

“Hey, do you want a drink or something?” I ask, rejoining her in the entryway, after settling Cole—who’s still asleep—on a couch in the living room.

I’m hoping he won’t sleep through dinner because I’d bet my Porsche on what’ll happen next if he does He’ll be awake again in the middle of the night, hungry, fussy, impossible to console. And, while sometimes I don’t mind when that happens. That’slife, after all. I really, really don’t want it happening tonight. I’m long overdue for a little one-on-one adult time with my wife.

“How about some wine?” I suggest.

“No, thanks,” Scout replies straightening up. “So, I was wondering. How come we don’t have a tree up yet?”

“Oh, don’t come at me for that,” I say jokingly. “That’s on you. I wanted to get one last week, but Cole insisted that you had to be here when we trimmed it, so…”

“Oh. Sorry,” she says—looking anything but.

“No worries,” I tell her. “I asked Dan to put one aside for us, so we’re all set. We can pick it up tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

“On Christmas Eve? That’s cutting it a little close, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Sure is.” I want to say more. I want to point out that she’d cut it close, as well, coming home today instead of last week like she’d originally planned. I mean, just because the weather along the coast is generally good this time of year, doesn’t mean things couldn’t have gone wrong. Her flight could have been cancelled or delayed—and where would we all have been then? But she’s still looking semi-distraught so instead I say, “You look like you’re still upset. Is this still because of that dream you had? It must have been really bad to bother you this much.”

Scout nods. “Oh, believe me; it was.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No. Not now. Maybe someday, but…right now I just want to forget it ever happened.”

Some…day? I blink in surprise. Not later, not tomorrow, not even after Christmas? What the hell?

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