“We need names. Why not Andrew Junior?”
His turn to make a face.
“How about Al and Barkin?” I suggest. Al Barkin was my prom date in high school. He's a town cop now, and we had a run-in with him years ago, right after Shannon and Declan's wedding.
If Andrew's fingernails could make sawdust out of the table top, they would. “That's not funny.”
“Why are you jealous of a guy I haven't dated in forever?”
“I'm not.”
“You are!”
“How about Coffin and Raleigh?” A diversion technique: Those are the last names of the two people Shannon is most likely to call me in the middle of the night to help her dispose of their bodies.
“Hah!”
“Everyone's asking, Amanda,” he says as a seafood stew appears, along with an assortment of grilled vegetables, pastries I can't pronounce, and refills of our water. I stare at the loaded table and have just one question:
What is Andrew going to eat?
Rubbing my belly as the babies move and kick in response to the rush of calories hitting their bloodstreams, I sigh in contentment. This is going to be a fun food marathon.
Andrew had better clear the rest of his day.
For real this time, too.
“We said we wanted classic names. No children named after movies or television.”
“Baskin and Exotic are off the list.”
“And no family names,” I confirm before taking an enormous spoonful of soup, careful not to turn the top of my belly into a bathmat.
“That doesn't leave much.”
“It leaves plenty!”
“I want to bring up something more delicate,” I say, reaching for his hand. “It's about work.”
“What about it?”
“I think I want to quit.”
“Quit?”
“Quit. Give Carol a promotion to take over the division.”
“And do what?”
Pointing to my belly is the only answer that question deserves.
“Of course! The babies! Of course,” he emphasizes, face filling with joy as he leans in. “Are you sure? I never wanted to pressure you, but if you want to stay home with them, I'd be overjoyed. We'll still have nannies for support, but it would be a great honor to know our boys are being loved and guided by so much of you.”
“I'm increasingly sure. I need a few more days to make certain, but between Carol doing well, the trust fund money I get anyhow, and the reality check of two babies almost being born pre-term, I’ve been re-assessing my priorities.”
Something dark passes across his eyes. It reminds me of Declan.
“Right. I feel the same way.”
“You want to quit your job? Leave Anterdec?”
“What? No. The reassessing priorities part.”
“What's wrong? You suddenly seem different.”
“Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
A long sigh, then he leans back in his chair and scratches his chin. “It's Declan. And Vince. Dec laid into me for buying the gyms.”
“Why?”
“He says I can't run Anterdec and the gyms and be a good father and husband.”
All the air of this outdoor paradise seems trapped in my lungs.
Beseeching eyes meet mine. “Do you think he's right?”
Andrew doesn't falter very often. Asking me a question like this feels like minor key change that comes across as discordant. Dangerous.
A warning.
“I think,” I say carefully, feeling like every word is a step in an active landmine field, “you have a lot on your plate and will need to scale up support to make it all work.”
“That's a diplomatic dodge.”
“It's not untrue.”
“You're my wife, Amanda. Not a COO being asked to give a report or a forecast.” He looks down, then back up at me. “That day at home, in the pool. I know you were upset that I left. You can be honest here. I want the truth.”
My phone buzzes. It's Carol.
Quick question about the North Shore nursing home account. Are we focusing more on narrative reports, and can we use AI transcription for those, directly from a dictation app? Might make it easier for seniors to explain vs. type.
“Hang on. Work question,” I tell him, giving her a quick yes.
“Role reversal,” he murmurs as he plucks an almond and an olive from a tray and eats them.
I look up from my phone and smile. “I won't need to do this for much longer.”
Suddenly, I can breathe.
Because those words feel true. Right. Open and ripe with the space I want to raise my kids. Privilege is a double-edged sword, and being married to a billionaire means I acquired a heaping dose of it when I took him as my husband.
Why not use it?
Shannon struggles with guilt about the money, but I don't. I view it as a joyful abundance I can share with others. What if I give Carol the opportunity to grow at work, to make more money to raise her kids, while I take the time to be a stay-at-home mother?
What if?
There isn't a what if.
I know what I want to do.
“Really?” he asks as the server removes our finished plate, my stomach full but still ready for more. As I shift in my chair, Lefty does a slow roll. Someday–soon–they won't be in me.
I need to treasure how this feels.
Putting my napkin over the top of my belly, I smile at Andrew. “Really. And I’m so happy you're fine with this.”
“Fine? Better than fine. But it seems so easy for you.”
“Easy?”
“How do you just walk away?”
“Because I know what I want. And fixing other people's problems isn't my role anymore.” I rub Righty. “Fixing their lives is.”
“Fix. You're a fixer. You told me that from the start, when I met you. I didn't understand it then, but I do more and more as time passes. We're different,” he says with a contemplative smile, hand on his chin again, watching me. “I don't fix problems. I find solutions that promote growth.”
“You're more ambitious.”
Something troubled comes into his expression. “Is that bad?”
“Of course not. It's who you are. Something drives you. It doesn't drive me.”
“I don't want to be like my father. I can't let work consume me.”
“Work already consumes you.”
He nods, his eyes moving slowly to the right. It’s a tell that he's thinking, hard, but trying not to
