Page 128 of Wistful Whispers
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I merely look at her, take in the curve of her mouth, the light in her eyes, the soft curl of Elias’s hand peeking out of the blanket tucked against her chest—and I let myself feel it.
All of it.
The fullness. The noise. The warmth.
The knowing there’s no going back.
Dessert appears with no warning. Aromas bloom from the kitchen and Rosa steps back in with a tray ofBasquecheesecake, a bowl of sherry whipped cream, and a look saying,don’t you dare ask for substitutions. Ma brings in her annual apple tart, with a lattice top and crust so flaky it’s almost delicate.
“Small pieces,” Rosa says as she starts slicing. “A suggestion, not a request.”
“Too late,” Lucas calls, already helping himself to a giant helping.
I cut a piece of each for Marcella and I to share. Elias stirs in Marcella’s arms but doesn’t wake.
Marcella smiles and kisses the top of his head. “If he sleeps through dessert, he’s officially invited back next year.”
Eventually, people start peeling away from the table—some toward the living room, some toward the kitchen to “help” clean up (which really means snacking until Ma kicks them out). Rosa collects plates with military efficiency. Connor’s kids run laps around the coffee table.
I slip outside.
For a breath.
The porch light spills onto the steps. It’s cold—sharp and clean—quiet in a way the inside never is. My lungs stretch. My thoughts ease. I hear the door creak behind me. Marcella.
She wraps my coat around her shoulders and steps onto the porch beside me, Elias tucked against her chest, his breath fogging lightly against the fleece of the wrap. The cold is sharp, not cruel.
“I’ve been thinking about next year,” she says softly.
I glance over.
“I rescheduled the egg retrieval. January.”
I nod once. “Okay. Seems about right.”
“I need to know you’re still in this.” She shifts her weight, watching me. “Do you still want more kids? It’ll get harder.”
I reach over and brush my thumb over my son’s tiny forehead. “I’m going to finish this thing, Residency. Research. All of it.”
“I know.”
“I want to keep going. Past R7. Full-time.” I continue, “I want to stay in it. Teach. Build something lasting.”
“I figured.” She leans against me. “It’s why I’m asking.”
“None of it will mean anything without you—and our children. Retrieve the eggs. We’re adding to our family one way or another, there’s no question in my mind.” I pull her against me.
We stand there for a long moment—our son sleeping between us, my parents’ house glowing behind us, the quiet finally catching up.
We’re about to head back inside when we hear footsteps.
Not rushed. Just steady. Confident, even. All the way up the stone steps like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
Marcella shifts beside me and she appears.
Stevie.
Bounding toward the door, her coat unzipped, hair swept up, face bare. Her expression is unreadable. Her presence is too familiar to be strange. She’s been in and out of this house since we were kids. Padraig’s best friend. His once-girlfriend. The one we all thought would always be around.
