“Cross!”
Catherine’s shriek carried out of the master bathroom. Cross had been beyond exhausted when he fell asleep the night before. She wasn’t sure if he even heard her.
“Cross!”
“W-what? Jesus, what?”
His grumbled, sleepy voice filtered into the bathroom. Catherine clenched her eyes shut and breathed her way through another round of pain. She couldn’t even speak through the damn things. They had come on so quickly.
She wasn’t finished preparing for the baby.
The clothes weren’t put away. The crib wasn’t put together. Her baby shower was a week away, yet. It was too early—a whole month early.
The baby didn’t seem to care at all.
“Catty,” Cross called from inside the bedroom, “are you okay?”
“No,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Get in here.”
She had woken up in the middle of the night with an ache in her back that felt like someone was sticking a hot knife against her spine. She hadn’t thought anything of it, the bed wasn’t wet, and she wasn’t having any kind of pain other than that one strange ache.
Certainly not contractions.
Cece’s pregnancy and birth had been textbook, as far as Catherine was concerned. Every single little thing the books talked about would happen, happened. Contractions started at far spread intervals. She labored for hours upon hours like that, until they finally became closer together and more intense. The doctors only wanted her in the hospital when the contractions were less than three to four minutes apart. The doctor used a strange looking hook to break her waters. She got a nice little epidural that took away the pain. She pushed for a bit, and Cece was born screaming.
Yeah, textbook.
Apparently, this birth was not going to be the same.
Another wave of pain hit just as Cross came into view in the bathroom doorway. His disheveled appearance spoke to how hard he had been sleeping because the man looked good rolling out of bed first thing in the morning. His wild eyes searched for her, and found her in a full bath of what had been hot water.
It was now lukewarm.
“What—”
“Baby is coming,” Catherine told him.
Cross’s hands pressed to the doorjamb on either side of him. Leaning forward, he simply stared at her like he didn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth. “Are you sure it’s not those fake contractions?”
Another contraction started then.
Catherine had been counting.
Thirty seconds apart was now twenty.
“Cross, I swear to fucking God, get me out of this goddamn tub right now.”
Every single word came out strained, high pitched, and desperate. She couldn’t even be mad that he didn’t see how much pain she was in because all she could do was clench her fists, grit her teeth, and breathe. Nothing helped, anyway.
“Holy shit,” Cross mumbled. “You didn’t want to wake me up and let me know you were having contractions, or what?”
“I wasn’t having contractions, Cross,” she snarled at him. “I was having a pain in my back. I thought a hot bath would help. I fell asleep, and then woke up when contractions actually started. The water was a little cloudy—I knew my water broke. There wasn’t even really a minute between the contractions. I called for you five fucking times!”
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Catty.”
“Get me out of this bathtub!”
“Okay, okay, okay.”
His repeated chant did not help her in the slightest. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut once more as the peak of the contraction hit. Like a wave, it rushed in, gained pressure to its most painful point, and then began to taper off.
She barely felt her husband’s arms wrap her into a tight embrace as he yanked her dripping wet from the bathtub. By the time the contraction started to wane, Catherine opened her eyes to see the bedroom ceiling staring back at her.
Cross was at the side of the bed, phone in hand. He pressed it to his ear, and held it there using his shoulder as he reached over to stroke Catherine’s cheek.
“It’s all right,” he told her. And then, “Yeah, Zeke, it’s Cross. Can you get over here right now? I need someone to take Cece because Catherine’s in labor.”
Another contraction hit.
That wasn’t even ten seconds after the last one ended.
And the pressure.
It came fast.
Hard.
Strong.
Undeniable.
Push, her body demanded.
Push, push, push.
She did.
Silently, fingers digging into bedsheets, and purely out of instinct. She pushed.
“Get off the phone,” she told Cross when she sucked in a gulp of air. “Get off the phone and catch this baby.”
Cross’s dark eyes flashed to her. “Babe—”
His words cut off when his stare followed her motions. Her hand was between her thighs, feeling the indescribable bulge of her baby’s head. Right there, that’s what had been happening in the tub, she realized. That’s what the burning sharp pain had been. Her baby moving down.
“I can feel the head, Cross,” she mumbled, pain saturating her senses. The pain was terrible—intense and burning and horrible—yet her mind was clear. “Just … oh, my God, help me.”
Catherine wasn’t entirely sure what happened after she got those few tearful, frightened words out. This was not how her birth had been planned—it was supposed to be her, a doctor, trained nurses, and a sterilized room with a nice little epidural to make things easier. She didn’t know what happened because the pain took over again, and her body demanded she act to make it stop.
Hands cupped her face, and dark eyes found hers through the haze.
Shh …
And, Breathe, Catherine.
You’re doing so great, babe.
Nazio Cross Donati came into the world quiet. He didn’t scream the halls down like his sister had done when she was born. No, his mother had done that for him. He came quietly, assuredly, slowly with a soft little hiccup and chubby pink cheeks. He came unknowing that his father would use his mother’s knife in her bedside drawer to cut his cord, or that his older sister had been watching from the bedroom doorway in silence because she never stayed in her own bed. He came into the world into waiting hands—his father’s hands.
Hands that already loved him.
Hands that had been waiting for him.
They finally knew, then, born in the very early morning hours of August twenty-ninth …
A boy.
Nazio Cross Donati.
Thirteen months later …
“Do a little twirl for me, baby,” Catherine said.
Cece smiled a blinding sight, and did as her mother said. In the softest baby pink dress, she twirled wide, showing off little kitten wedge heels, and black tights underneath. Her little fingernails were painted the same pink as her dress, and matched her mother’s. Catherine had even let her sneak a kiss worth of pink gloss on her mouth.
But only because it was a special day.
Cross, on the other hand, did not think it was a special day. “We still have time to back out.”
Catherine ignored him.
Cece was the girl of the hour.
“Am I pretty, Ma?”
Catherine dropped down to a crouch, and caught her little girl’s hands in her own. “Cece, you are the most beautiful girl. Right, Daddy?”
Cross forced a smile on his scowling face. “The most beautiful. Like Ma.”
Cece’s happiness didn’t falter, but Catherine could still see just the slightest hint of nerves in her girl’s face. She swore that if Cross saw Cece’s anxiety, he would pull the plug on this whole shebang. Catherine couldn’t let him do that to Cece. She needed this. Their girl was ready for this.
Kindergarten was a rite of passage.
And the law.
The principal of the private school—Bishop Academy—waved at Cece from the other end of the walkway. For now, they stayed at the gate. The school had policies for the young ones. They wanted the kindergarteners to take their first steps into school alone. The parents could take them to the gate, say goodbye, but let them walk the rest of the way on their own.
Sure, if a kid was having trouble, then the policy allowed for changes.
Cece, however, had no trouble.
Even with her little nerves.
“You have fun,” Catherine told her.
“And punch any boy that bothers you,” Cross added.
Catherine shot him a look.
He shrugged.
“I loves my ma, Ma,” Cece told Catherine.
Okay, that broke her heart a little bit. Cece still told them she loved them how she used to as a little girl. She grew bigger, older, and her vocabulary matched, but she still used that old, sweet phrase to tell them her love.
Maybe Catherine could understand why Cross wasn’t ready to let go of their girl quite yet.
Still, Catherine took a deep breath, and willed the oncoming tears away. “I love you, too, my girl. You’re going to be amazing.”
Cece flipped a small hand through her perfectly curled, loose hair. “Of course, Ma. I’m me.”
And there she was.
Catherine’s little mini me.
All that swagger was Cross, though.
Perfect.
Cross chuckled as Catherine stood. He took her place, kneeled down to say goodbye.
“Daddy loves you, huh?”
“I know, Daddy.”
“Take no shit, right?”
“Cross,” Catherine muttered.
He paid her no mind.
“Right,” Cece said with a nod.
“What else?”
“I do what I want,” their daughter said in her girlish, childish voice.
So many calls.
Catherine could hear the teachers and principals now.
“That’s right,” Cross said, holding out his fist. Cece bumped it with her own, and then bent in to kiss her father on the mouth. “Push the button on your watch, and Daddy will be here in no time. Got it?”
“Yep.”
“And—”
“You’re kinda makin’ me late, Daddy,” Cece said seriously, “and I gots a place to claim.”
Their little princess.
Already head of the school.
Cross laughed, and nodded. “Fine. Go ahead.”
Cece blew kisses as she turned for the school. On the last few steps before she reached the waiting principal, she glanced over her shoulder, and gave a little wave.
Cross was still kneeling on the ground. Catherine could feel his fucking stress.
“Don’t you move or stop smiling at her,” she warned him, barely letting her lips move as she said the words. “Make her think you’re sad about this day, and it will ruin it for her, Cross.”
“This is killing me, Catty.”
“She is going to be fine.”
“Should have red-shirted her for a year.”
“Nope,” Catherine said.
Then, Cece was gone.
Catherine let out a sigh of relief. She made it through this morning without a breakdown from their daughter, and without one from Cross.
Winning.
Cross stood with a heavy sigh, and turned to face his wife. “Are you happy, now?”
“Very. And no, you cannot wait outside this school all day for her.”
“I wasn’t …” She gave him a look, and Cross added, “You know what, never mind.”
“I give it until lunch time before we get a call.”
Cross smirked. “Not even.”
She should have trusted his judgement. They were called at eleven.
Cece punched a boy right in the throat after he pulled her hair. And she did it with a smile, apparently.
Five months later …
Catherine shrugged her coat off in the hallway, and kicked the sky-high Prada heels aside. The house was strangely quiet, but she didn’t think much of it. She hadn’t been home since dropping Cece off to school that morning, and it was closing in on noon. Nazio would likely be napping.
So why did she smell peanut butter?
“Cross?” Catherine called.
“Kitchen, babe.”
She found her husband loading dishes into the dishwasher. Nazio was nowhere to be seen.
“How did that meet with Miguel go?” Cross asked as she passed him a plastic cup.
“Good. We’ve got things under control. The girls are satisfied.”
“Business good?”
Catherine smirked. “Very good.”
“How good?”
“You’re such a numbers man.”
Her husband straightened to his full height with one of his sinful smirks. Leaning over the open door of the dishwasher, he gave her a quick kiss and said, “Good numbers, babe.”
“Same thing.”
“Good numbers get me hot.”
“Mmhmm.” Catherine tapped his cheek with her ring covered fingers. “The numbers were very good this month.”
Cross nodded. “That’s great. In case nobody tells you, Catty, you’re kickass at what you do.”
“Am I?”
She knew she was.
She liked it when he told her, though.
For the most part, they kept business out of their house and marriage. He did his thing. She did hers. Life gave them plenty of other nonsense to bicker and work out. Business was not ever going to be one of them.
“Crazy good,” he told her. “And that gets me hot, too.”
Catherine laughed, and pushed away from the counter. “You’re something else.”
“Help me get little man down to bed, and I’ll show you something else, babe.”
She bet he would.
She couldn’t wait.
Also …
“Speaking of Nazio,” Catherine said, looking around, “where is he?”
Cross’s gaze instantly flew to the other side of the kitchen where a pile of their eighteen-month-old son’s toys sat untouched in the corner. Cars, trucks, and trains. All the things that Nazio loved to push around on his chubby little legs.
Usually, with his leather jacket and a beanie on his head.
The kid had quirks.
Like his sister.
“Where did he go?” Cross asked.
Catherine’s heart leapt into her throat. “I just got home, how would I know?”
“Well, don’t shriek at me.” Cross darted across the kitchen, and headed out into the hallway. Catherine was right on his heels. “Nazio, come to Daddy!”
“The back door is locked, right?”
“Jesus, Catherine, he can’t even reach that!”
“Stop shouting at me!”
“Nazio!”
“Do you smell that?” Catherine asked.
Peanut butter.
It was stronger now.
Stronger than when she first came in.
Cross sniffed the air, and passed her a look. “Is that …?”
“Peanut butter,” she said, “yeah.”
“Oh, fuck.”
This was not the first time.
This was not even the fifth time.
It was probably not going to be the last time.
Anything Nazio got his little fingers into, he made a mess of. Baby oil. Baby powder. Vaseline. Cross’s shampoo he once left sitting on the edge of the tub instead of higher on a shelf. Cece’s nail polish. Rice.
Anything.
“This is your fault,” Catherine told Cross.
“Is not!”
“It is, and you’ll be the one cleaning it, too.”
“Will not.”
“You sound like a ch—”
“Hi, Da. Hi, Ma.”
Catherine’s eyes stretched wide at the sight of Nazio inside Cross’s office at the very back of the house. Their son’s teeny, tiny fingers were caked in peanut butter. Thin streaks of the brownish, tan butter covered the walls up to about two feet—Nazio’s height. His black tufts of hair were chunked with the gunk. Cross’s desk, a mess. The light cream carpet? Totaled.
Everything.
A mess.
Peanut butter everywhere.
Nazio, his father’s little twin, blinked up at them with a toothy grin and soul-brown eyes. “Hi, Da. Hi, Ma.”
A record on repeat.
Sweet as could be.
He probably didn’t think he had done a damn thing wrong.
“Hi, baby,” Catherine told him.
“Naz,” Cross said, plucking the now empty peanut butter jar up from the floor, “who made a mess in Daddy’s office?”
Nazio pursed his pink lips, and narrowed his eyes. “Cece.”
“Nazio.”
The eighteen-month-old didn’t even blink at his father.
“Cece.”
“Naz.”
The baby shrugged.
“Nazio,” Cross repeated once more, “who did it?”
Peanut butter covered the baby. He looked a right mess. Catherine had all she could do not to burst out laughing, but mostly because Cross would be the one cleaning it.
“Who did it, Naz?”
“Cece,” Nazio said.
“Cece is at school.”
Nazio shrugged.
Cross let out a breath. “You did it, didn’t you?”
“Cece,” Nazio repeated again.
“Now, Naz.”
The baby shrugged again.
Blaming his sister, or shrugging it off when he was caught was Nazio’s best defense.
“Well,” Catherine said, “who left the peanut butter jar open where he could reach or climb to it, Cross?”
Silence answered her back.
She was not surprised.
Not the fifth time, after all.
“Hmm?”
“Cece,” Cross said, refusing to meet her gaze.
Catherine tossed her hands up. “And you wonder where Nazio gets it from.”
“Well, no. I don’t wonder, really. I’m quite aware that this is what people call karma, Catherine.” Cross wet his lips and surrendered with, “Okay, this one was my fault.”
Their life was still unruly.
Just now, in better ways.
Catherine wouldn’t change it for the world.