Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Still asleep, Maxie clenches her hand, one of her knuckles brushing the keyboard.
L.
I send it.
L? Alice replies.
That was Maxie. I held the phone near her hand. L… I bet she meant love, as in she loves you. So much.
Stop it. You’re going to make me cry. Tell Maxie I love her too and I’ll see her very soon. Tell her Mommy’s sorry she’s not there with her now.
There’s no need to be sorry, I reply. We’re lucky. We’ve got the money and the flexibility, so one of us can always be with her. We’re not just lucky… we’re blessed. We love you very much.
Can you send me a photo?
I grin, taking a selfie, looking at it for a moment, me with my light silver beard and my hair, grown a little longer, making me look more like a dad, and Maxie’s bald head, her soft smile, her cherubic cheeks.
Oh. God. I’m going to cry. I know I am. How is she so adorable? How is it even possible?
It defies all laws of physics, I reply. She’s the best, isn’t she?
The. Best. Right, I have to go. You’ll see me soon. Did you remember to bring her earmuffs? It shouldn’t be too loud, but….
My smile widens my woman’s maternal instinct clear through her words, reminding me – not that I needed it – of what an incredible mother she is.
Yes, I’ve got her earmuffs. And her pacifier. I’ve even plotted an escape route if she starts wailing, but she’s so peaceful right now I doubt that will happen.
She loves sleeping when her daddy’s carrying her. That’s why. Okay. Last text. I have to go. I love you.
We love you too.
I place my phone down, holding both my daughter’s tiny hands, and simply exist in this moment. I can feel her tiny heart beating against my chest, in time with mine, and I think about the future.
All the laughter, all the love, all the adventures, all the life.
“I can’t wait for you to grow up to see who you’ll be,” I tell her. “But at the same time, I want you to stay like this forever. Does that make Daddy crazy?”
She murmurs in her sleep.
I grin.
It’s like she’s telling me yes, Daddy, you’re crazy.
EPILOGUE
EIGHT YEARS LATER
Alice
“Mommy, look,” Maxie says, doing a cartwheel on the back lawn of our Colorado holiday home.
She lands in the snow on her second attempt, laughing, her black hair spilling out of her winter cap.
Beyond her, Weston and the boys are having a snowball fight, our four and six year olds giving my husband a real war.
Seb leaps up from behind the trampoline, two big snowballs in his hand, throwing them overarm. They crash into Weston’s chest, and he laughs, a big booming laugh that travels across the yard to Maxie and me, and then Weston spins as Ryan approaches, another ball raised.
“You’ve got me cornered, boys,” he says, laughing.
They run toward him, and Weston suddenly leaps onto the trampoline. He’s wearing a hoodie, sweatpants, and gloves, but despite the thick clothes, nothing can hide the tautness of his body, his movements quick and powerful, like a big cat leaping into action.
The boys laugh in delight as he leaps up and down, sending settled snow everywhere.
“You said no trampoline!” Ryan yells, his brown hair flecked with snow.
“Different rules for Daddy,” Weston yells back, laughing.
“What do you think?” I ask Maxie. “Shall we show them how it’s done?”
Maxie nods, a secretive smile on her face, and then, together, we kneel and start packing snow. I’m conscious not to move too fast since my baby bump is beginning to show, and a fourth child on the way is another gift.
As I pack the snow – and Weston and the boys laugh and wage a beautiful snowy war – I think about these past eight years.
The Oscar Weston won for directing this time, not acting.
The company I started.
Natasha’s marriage, her kids, cousins to mine.
I think about all the precious moments, and maybe, weirdly, I think about the countless times my husband and I have texted. Phones can be a bad thing, I get that, but texting will always hold something special for me.
Despite all the success, love, and joy I experience every day, a tiny part of me is still Miss Mystery, the woman whose phone malfunctioned and sent that text.
Sometimes, I wonder if it wasn’t a malfunction at all.
It was fate.
We throw our snowballs.
Mine falls short, but Maxie’s hits Ryan in the back.
He turns swiftly, grinning over at his big sister, and then the kids start tossing balls at each other, giving Weston a chance to walk over with a big smile, his hot breath making the air plume.
“It’s a nice break from LA, eh?”
“Definitely,” I say, grabbing my husband by the front of the shirt, pulling myself up into a kiss.