One Summer Isn't Enough (Summer, #4)

chapter 27

BELLY

I'm in the kitchen, stirring the bouillabaisse in the giant pot that I cooked it up in for dinner tonight. I went all out, just like Susannah did every summer during our first night at the beach house: crabs, squid, all of the spices, and cooked on a low flame for two hours. I'm hoping it tastes close to as good as hers used to, because I've made it for a special occasion.

Today would have been Susannah's 60th birthday.

Conrad and I woke up today and kind of sensed the lingering sadness in the air, even though neither of us really acknowledged that it was actually the day. We always try to keep the mood light and fun on her birthday, because we know she would hate for us to be sad, but it's hard. Especially when the person who lit up our day is the one who isn't here.

I'm on maternity leave, so I haven't been going to work, but Conrad still is. He wanted to ask for at least a month off so he could keep a 24/7 watch on me as the expecting date comes closer, but I refused. His job is so important to him, and it makes him so proud of himself. And I need to see him proud of the work he's doing every single day.

So I'm at home all day, and usually I find something to keep me occupied. I either clean up a bit, read a book, watch some TV, or just go on a walk if the weather's nice. Today, though, I just felt kind of sluggish. My midsection feels heavier than ever, and my body feels like a sack I'm lugging around. I think it's because I'm just kind of sad today, but it's still kind of scary to me. After lying around on the sofa for about an hour halfheartedly reading my book, I got up and started bringing the ingredients for bouillabaisse together. I wasn't gonna just lie around on such a special day.

By now, the stew's started a nice simmer. Once all of the spices have been added, I prod the squid a bit with a fork to check its consistency, and when I decide it's cooked, I put the lid on the pot and leave it to simmer for the two hours. This is the easy part, but I honestly think I would have given up halfway if it wasn't for the encouraging words of the Spice Girls to keep me going. It's like Taylor used to say when we were at Finch: the magic's in the dance breaks, babe.

About five minutes after I've started scrolling through Instagram to pass the time, I hear the front door open and the familiar series of sounds that signals Conrad's return home. Him hanging his coat up, putting his keys in the ceramic hand-shaped bowl by the door, the shuffling of his scrubs.

My face lights up as he walks into the kitchen and wraps his arms around me, picking me up into an air-twirl. He buries his face into my hair and mumbles, "It smells like the beach house the first–"

"--night we were there, I know," I finish for him, smiling. "That's because tonight's special is...bouillabaisse!"

I add some jazz hands to make him laugh, and succeed in doing so. He lifts the lid of the pot and takes a sniff, nodding appreciatively as he basks in the aromatic steam. "It smells just like Mom's."

He turns and puts his hands on his hips, lifting me onto the counter carefully and then standing in between my legs. "How did you know," he begins, twirling a lock of my hair between his fingers, "that this is exactly what I've been wanting all day?"

I boop him on the nose and say, "Conrad Beck Fisher. I know you better than anyone else." Then I add, "except maybe Susannah." Counting off of my fingers, I say, "I know you hate wrinkled shirts. I know your favorite food of all time is Kraft mac and cheese, but you hate telling people that because you think it's embarrassing. I know you can only get a good night's sleep when you sleep on your stomach. I know you'd rather live one perfect day rather than endless mediocre ones. I know it all. So don't," I say, lightly poking him on the chest, "underestimate my expertise on the subject of Conrad Fisher."

His eyes have gone all melty, but all he does is laugh softly and lean his forehead against mine, putting one of his hands against my baby bump. And it's such a perfect moment, our entire family together. It feels so...comforting. Like we're all here, together, and there's nowhere else we need to be and nothing else that needs to be done.

We proceed to make out for a few minutes like absolute teenagers, and then I push him away and order him to go upstairs and shower. Not only because I like seeing him walk around our house in his pajamas–which I very much do–but because he'll have wet hair. And, well, I like him with wet hair. A lot.

After he's gone upstairs (somewhat unwillingly), I smile and click my phone open to Instagram again, surprised to see that Steven just posted a picture. It's him and Taylor kissing in front of the sunset, and it's such a sweet, romantic picture. Which doesn't make much sense until I swipe to the next one and see them flipping the camera off instead. That's more like it.

Suddenly, a blinding, fierce pain erupts through my midsection as I feel a trickling wetness seep through my loose linen pants. I look down and see a clear liquid dripping into a small pool onto the floor. Oh, shit.

My water broke.