Page 134 of Pregnant in Plaid
"See, this is why we're a good team. I pack, youoverpack, and somehow Brooklyn still ends up covered in mysterious substances."
She kisses me—quick and warm—and takes Brooklyn from my arms. "Let's go. Before Gage eats all the cookies."
The lake is perfect. Sunshine, light breeze, water so blue it looks fake. We've got a spot on the shore with a view of the mountains, and Tessa's spread out enough food to feed a small army.
"You made enough for twelve people," I tell her.
"I made enough for Gage," she corrects. "The rest is for you three."
Gage is already working through a sandwich that's roughly the size of his head. "She's not wrong."
Brooklyn is on a blanket in the shade, propped up on her stomach, investigating a leaf with the intense focus of a scientist discovering a new element. She's wearing tiny sunglasses that keep sliding down her nose. Every time they slip, she looks confused and vaguely offended.
"She's getting so big," Tessa says, settling down next to Patrice. "I swear she's grown since last week."
"She's growing out of clothes faster than I can buy them," Patrice says. "Do you know how expensive baby clothes are?"
"Do you know how much Trace spent at the baby store?" Gage asks.
"We don't talk about that," I say quickly.
"Five thousand dollars," Gage continues, because he's a traitor. "In one trip."
"It was necessary," I argue.
"You bought twenty bottles."
"Different nipple flows!"
"She only has one mouth."
Brooklyn chooses this moment to roll onto her back, lose her sunglasses completely, and start giggling at the sky. The sound is pure joy, and it hits me right in the chest like I've been tackled. I'd forgotten what pure joy even sounded like before Brooklyn.
Patrice scoops her up and blows a raspberry on her stomach. More giggling. Brooklyn grabs Patrice's hair and yanks hard enough to make her wince, but Patrice just laughs and carefully untangles the tiny fingers.
"She's got a good grip," Tessa observes.
"She's training to be a wrestler," Patrice says. "Or possibly a dictator. We're not sure yet."
"Why not both?" Gage suggests.
Brooklyn reaches for me, doing the grabby hands that mean "Dad, rescue me from this excessive affection." I take her and she immediately tries to eat my shirt collar.
"Everything's a chew toy," I explain.
"She's teething," Patrice says. "The drool situation is out of control."
"I've seen less drool on actual dogs," I agree.
We eat. Brooklyn manages to get bits of cookie in her hair despite the fact that we didn't actually give her any cookie—she's just that talented. Gage tells a story about a customer at his shop who wanted a bear carved out of a tree stump but couldn't decide which kind of bear, so Gage carved a bear that looks perpetually confused about its own species.
"I call it 'Existential Crisis Bear,'" he says.
"That's deeply philosophical," Patrice says.
"That's a guy who couldn't make up his mind and now has a four-foot-tall monument to indecision in his yard."
Brooklyn falls asleep on my chest, which is my favorite thing in the entire world. She's warm and heavy and her little hand is curled in my shirt. Her breathing is steady, peaceful. No monitors. No nurses. Just my daughter, sleeping on my chest, trusting me completely to keep her safe.
