“They are loud,” Sky says.
“And they almost never sleep.” I smile.
It ends on a really happy note with Zara. I think she feels good about our plans. We all sign a few things, and Sky and I go to the courthouse to finalize the paperwork as much as we can the day of.
No one stares. No one asks questions. No one notices Ollie with his camera in the corner.
As we head home for dinner, Ollie talks to Zara, first for the Netflix documentary and then to introduce Zara to a San Francisco Chronicle reporter. The reporter is going to interview Zara for an in-depth piece about parenthood and mental illness; it won’t be published for maybe a month, and it won’t feature Zara’s real name. But it will allude to the connection between Zara and us, so at some point Luke will look more like a respectable gay pastor again and less like a baby-swiping swinger.
The church has already put out a few statements mitigating Zara’s original story, and after dinner tonight, we’ll write out the wording for another press release, announcing our Big Gay Vegas Marriage, and also Eden as our daughter.
First, I have an early evening pre-op call. Sky whips up zucchini pasta, wearing Eden in the little pouch thing, while I answer hospital questions on the phone beside the fireplace. Turns out Sky was right—he’s got the hook up with some good doctors. I don’t know what strings he pulled, but he told me this morning in bed that a surgeon friend of his family can ‘do’ my shoulder the first week of September.
“Do it,” I laughed. “That sounds awfully fucking casual.”
He trailed his hand over it. “I already spoke with him, and he said that it will be. It’s an outpatient procedure. So you’ll get to come home with me.”
I’m surprised, but the nurse on the pre-op call tells me the same thing.
“One and done. Then, just some checkups.”
I’m feeling pretty fucking buoyant as we eat our pasta. Eden’s sitting in this little tabletop chair thing, just blinking at us.
“You realize how lucky we are?” Sky asks as he clears the table. “Lots of people wait a lifetime and they still don’t get what we have.”
His voice goes ragged on the last few words, which makes me have to put my head down in my palm because if I don’t, I’m going to fucking happy cry at dinner.
“Hey…” His hand is on my shoulder. “It’s a good thing. That’s what I’m saying. I feel happy. Instead of feeling…heavy…I feel light. Like maybe everything will work out in the end. No, like it will. Like it’s already worked out.”
I lift my head, wiping my eyes but also laughing at how damn emotional I am.
Sky is grinning like the Papa he is as he wipes my tears. “Rayne, I’m going to tell you something, okay?”
“Oh boy,” I tease.
He swallows, and I hold my breath as he holds my face between his hands. “It’s not a wedding this time.” He smiles sadly. “But it’s something that I wish I would have said before. Like months ago. And it’s just this…” He moves his hands down to my shoulders, looking so solemn my heart flips. He takes a deep breath, and I take one, too, to calm my fraying nerves.
He shuts his eyes, going down to his knees by the chair so he can wrap his arms around me. “We are going to have an amazing life together.” He draws back so I can see his face, and I realize that he’s down on one knee—even if he doesn’t know it. “All the things you really want, I’ll try my best to make them happen. Everything you need, I’m going to give it to you. If I don’t know how, I’ll find out how.”
I laugh as a renegade tear drips down my cheek. Luke kisses it off.
“You are beautiful and wonderful. You are the heart of our house. You make things possible that really just” —he shakes his head— “they shouldn’t be.”
“They should be,” I counter.
“Well, they only are because you are.” He shuts his eyes and his hand passes over them, squeezing the bridge of his nose. I see a single little Sky tear drop. And then it’s over, and he’s smiling. Laughing, shaking his head. Probably embarrassed. Sky and all his fucking stoicism.
The baby fusses, and I get her, holding her on my shoulder as I whip up a bottle and Luke does the dishes.
Just after we head into the den, Luke’s phone dings. It’s a text from Miller. He sent a selfie of himself in a Crimson Tide T-shirt with a Nike slash, giving thumbs up.
“I think that’s the University of Alabama,” Sky says, sounding excited.
We Google Crimson Tide and find that Sky was right.
“So, he’s in Alabama,” I say. “That’s how far he rode the bus.”