Halston

Five Years Later …

I peek through the doorway to the room our three-year-old twins share, watching as Truman and Harper are cuddled up to their father under the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Ford reads to them from their favorite book, a collection of bedtime fairytales, and they fight their hardest to stay awake until the very last page, but just like every other night, it’s a losing battle.

Placing my hand on my growing belly, I think about what it’s going to be like transitioning from a family of four to a family of five in a few months. Our life is beautifully chaotic already, so I suppose adding one more to the mix won’t make that huge of a difference.

Besides, we make really freaking adorable babies.

Truman has my pale hair and creamy complexion, but his father’s striking, dark eyes and long lashes. Sweet Harper has Ford’s cocoa-colored locks and a face that matches mine down to the tiniest dimple at the tip of her nose.

He’s so amazing with them, better than I ever could have imagined he would be. Growing up, I never really had an example of what a proper father was like. There were the ones in books and the ones on TV, and then there were the ones that everyone else had; the ones I’d catch glimpses of from time to time, like little snippets that never truly showed the whole picture.

Watching Ford with them is one of my favorite things in the world. From the moment those two were born, he hit the ground running, waking in the middle of the night to change diapers and fix bottles, documenting their every milestone, archiving and preserving every photograph, every video.

I may be biased, but I’m pretty sure any other dad would pale in comparison to Ford Hawthorne.

Almost six years ago, this beautiful man came back into my life.

Almost five years ago, he whisked me away to Key West, arranging for a private tour of Ernest Hemingway’s house, where he proceeded to pop the question outside next to the famed fresh water swimming pool.

I’ll never forget what he said as he took a knee and held my hand in his: “I spent so many years thinking we were the broken ones, but it was never us. It was always everyone else. We were the good ones. We have good hearts and good souls and we deserve to be happy. We deserve each other.”

He presented me with a beautiful brilliant cut diamond on a classic gold band with the words: “Absinthe + Kerouac Always” engraved on the inside.

Six months later, we returned to that same site, exchanging our vows and hosting our reception under a string of party lights and a moonlit sky, laughing and dancing as our guests gathered around a sparkling, well-lit pool and a home rich with significance.

Ford finishes the book despite the fact that the twins are well past asleep now. I chuckle at the notion that he was too into Hansel and Gretel, too busy doing the voices and bringing the story to life to even notice the drool dripping down Truman’s chin or the faint snore escaping Harper’s heart-shaped lips.

Sneaking away, I return to our room, climbing beneath the covers and flicking on a bedside lamp to catch up on a little reading before calling it a day. If I’m lucky, this new little one will let me get some sleep tonight. Lately she’s been kicking up a storm around two AM like clockwork. Ford calls it her “witching hour,” and last night he proceeded to crawl out of bed in the pitch darkness, locate his noise canceling earphones and an old iPod, and when he returned, he insisted I wear the headset on my belly because he read an article about how classical music in the womb creates genius babies, but if the baby’s anything like him, it’ll just make her pass out.

“Either way, it’s win-win,” he said that night. “She’ll either be a baby genius or you’ll be able to get some sleep.”

We’re naming her Scout. Ford’s idea. I think it’s cute, and I can’t wait to meet her someday soon.

Ford shuffles into bed, mussing his dark hair with his fingers as he yawns and slides in beside me. Even with tired dad eyes and constantly covered in the scent of play dough and dried mac and cheese, I still find him wildly sexy, addictive in each and every way.

“Hey, baby,” I say when he pulls me close to him. I nuzzle against the crook of his neck. He smells like the kids with a touch of his cologne, and my heart feels so full I think it might explode.

“Get some rest,” he whispers. “She’s going to be waking you up in about four hours.”

I smile, turning to a bookmarked page in Virginia Woolf’s Selected Letters.

“Read to me, Halston,” Ford requests, his eyelids heavy and closing as he draws in his last deep breath of the evening.

Clearing my throat, I turn the page and begin to read Virginia’s words to my husband. “In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.”