The club president, Brick, told me not so long ago they’d heard about Switch.
Turns out he and Tasha’s mom split not long after they left town. He lives in Germany now, runs a software company.
And Tasha’s mom?
Who knows?
She’s a mom herself now, and with most of her pregnancies coinciding with Abby’s, I think Brad and I might need to have a little talk about timing.
It’s like every time I’m a dad again I get a call to tell me I’m also a grandad again.
But I don’t mind, not really.
The more little babies in our family the better. It’s what makes our family a family.
We moved a few miles out of town a while back, Abby didn’t want to go anyplace else far.
Our trips to the city can be fun, and the kids enjoy them. But coming home to a big house and acres of land. A huge, starlit sky above us every night with crickets to serenade us? Plus Abby’s tradition of getting inked under the moonlight after each baby is not one I would miss.
It’s the only time I’ll ink her now, once she’s blessed us with another little person.
A new face to love, and a new member of our ever growing family.
I’ve shifted from tattoos to oil paints, and now I paint the kids and Abby. Anyone who’ll sit still long enough really.
People say they’re pretty good paintings and apart from Tasha’s kids, I’ve had a few orders put in from a few of her friends.
My neck aches and my back is frozen, but I have to take a break.
“Abby. Take five?” I ask her, noting her brooding look as she holds the paintbrush out towards me, using her thumb for perspective.
“Abby? My neck…” I tell her, groaning an apology as I let myself up.
“Fine,” she sighs, blowing her bangs out of her face once it slips from under her beret.
“Hey,” she calls out, but I keep walking.
Stark naked, munching the apple she’s been trying to paint for three hours while I pose naked behind it for her.
It's okay, we made love for two hours before she even picked up the paints.
It’s the only thing she’ll let me do to help. She won’t take art lessons, and her painting?
It’s… Unique. Let’s just say that much.
“Get some clothes on, they’ll be here soon,” Abby reminds me. But I’m already pulling my sweat pants on, checking the time as I hear the minivan pulling up.
Right on time.
“They’re here,” Abby calls out.
While she gets her paints cleaned up, I pull the front door open, eager to hear about the kid’s day out with their Aunt Tasha and Uncle Brad.
Little punk. He turned out to be quite the father. Quite a man. Tasha could’ve done a lot worse.
“We can’t stay, Dad,” Tasha says, handing me kids like they’re bags of groceries.
I take and kiss each one, in turn, nodding at everything the older ones are trying to tell me and making faces at the ones who can’t talk yet as they stare up at me.
“It's baby Jessica, she’s cutting that first tooth, and… you know?” she sighs, looking like a mom who just wants to get home.
“It’s alright sweetie, and thanks again for today. I’m sure they loved the tour of the cannery.”
“We went to the county fair too, didn’t we?” Tasha asks the youngest in an overdone baby voice.
“Having you take ‘em, even for just a few hours? Tasha, how can I help?” I ask.
I know it’s not required but this is what family does.
We have our ups and downs, but we always, always help each other out.
Standing on a different porch than either of us could have imagined, after a long dinner hearing each kid’s account of their day, Abby and I sit hand in hand.
A not-so-little swing seat I built for us creaks under my weight as we look up at the stars.
The kids are all finally asleep. The dogs have zonked out early.
There’s nothing but the sound of the breeze and the crickets.
An owl hoots from somewhere far off, and the tip of a giant yellow moon peeks over the hills.
“You know you get more beautiful every time I see you,” I tell Abby, not surprised when she doesn’t even flinch.
No sign of the old, self-conscious Abby who had a list ready of everything that was wrong with her.
My woman is stronger now. She knows who she is and where she belongs because it’s a choice of her own making.
And she takes a compliment because she’s worth a million of ‘em.
A billion of ‘em.
“You’re not too shabby yourself, Mr. Peters,” she says wistfully, her hand sliding over to my lap.
My hand meets hers, and I gently thumb the rings we exchanged when we made our promise and tell her again just like that day.
“I love you, Abby. More and more each day.”