Page 115 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
“She’s not wrong,” Liam says. “Though Ethan does hide his charm under layers of sarcasm and caffeine addiction.”
“Layers?” Ethan echoes, stepping into the archway with a mug in each hand. “I’m practically a tiramisu.”
Lydia squeals, flinging her arms and catching a fistful of my shirt, her face lit up like she just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Ava watches all of it—me, barefoot and a little sticky with spit-up; Jake stirring cream into a mug behind her; Ethan working the French press with a furrowed brow; Liam humming softly as he tries to put a bouncer together—and presses her hand to her heart.
“You’re like…” She shakes her head. “You’re the last scene of a rom-com. Like,thelast scene. The one with the montage and the slow-motion kiss and the baby giggle that cues the end credits.”
Jake reappears, settling onto the couch with a stretch and a sigh.
“Therewasa montage,” he says seriously. “But it mostly involved diaper explosions and the time Ethan accidentally locked himself in the pantry.”
“I was looking for fruit snacks,” Ethan says, sitting beside him. “Don’t act like you haven’t done worse.”
Ava blinks. “You locked yourself in the—”
“We do not have time for that story,” Liam interrupts, deadpan, as the baby lets out a hiccupy laugh.
Ava turns to me, eyes shining.
“How is this your life?” she whispers. “How did yougethere?”
I exhale slowly, and my heart swells with a fierce, full ache.
“By falling in love,” I say softly. “And then doing the scary, hard, messy thing of staying in love. With all of them. With this life. With myself.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You deserve all of it.”
“I know,” I whisper back, and this time, I mean it.
***
Later, we sit on the back porch, weathered wood warm beneath our bare feet, still holding onto the heat of the sun. We strung up café lights weeks ago and forgot to take them down, so they flicker to life now as dusk deepens.
Mugs of lukewarm coffee rest precariously on the railing beside us, and a plate of store-bought cookies teeters on the edge of a too-small side table that wobbles every time someone laughs too hard.
Crickets have started their nightly chorus, and somewhere out in the field, a lone owl hoots into the coming dark.
The air smells like wild grass and lavender baby lotion, the kind we lather on every night without fail, even when we’re too tired to think straight.
Ava sits cross-legged beside me in one of the old porch chairs, a blanket draped over both of our knees even though it’s barely cool.
We’re laughing, full-belly and teary-eyed, over some half-remembered story involving Jake and a diaper disaster that included a lost sock, a cold bottle, and one truly betrayed expression.
“Oh my god,” she gasps between giggles, wiping her eyes. “I still can’t believe he thought talcum powder was the same as diaper cream.”
I lean into her shoulder, wheezing from laughing so hard. “He read the labelafterhe already dusted half the baby. Liam walked in and just backed right out like he’d walked into a crime scene!”
We dissolve into another fit of laughter, breathless and wheezing, until our stomachs hurt and our cheeks are sore. When the wave of it passes, Ava settles back and nudges my arm with a grin.
“You didn’t have to choose,” she says quietly. Her eyebrow lifts. “Told you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, swiping at the corner of my eye again. “You were right.”
She shrugs, proud. “I usually am.”
***
