I chuckle. “Okay, we’re going to have chickens and cows and a vegetable patch. What else?”
“Bees.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, hot shot. Bees. Cute, fat little bumblebees so we can put fresh honey on our toast. And a huge, white kitchen, big enough to sing and dance in. And a living room full of sunshine with a reading nook in the window. A den with a fireplace, a shaggy dog to cuddle with, two or three cats who pretend they hate us but secretly live for scratches behind the ears.”
I want to laugh, but it all feels so real when she describes it. I can see Saoirse in that house. In that world.
But can I see myself?
I want to. I want to so fucking bad.
“Should I be taking notes?” I tease.
“Don’t be an ass,” she laughs, shoving me in the shoulder. “You asked.”
“I did,” I concede. “The wee ones will be dying to know where all that began.”
She stares into my eyes for so long that I actually get lost in hers.
She sounds tentative, shy about talking about this. Even though I’m the one who brought it up.
I can see how cautious she is about taking in concrete dreams about a future that isn’t certain.
But there is a level of certainty between us now. I can feel it between our beating hearts.
“I don’t think kids really care how their parents met,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“All of ours will,” I say confidently. “The story’s just too damn good.”
“All of them?” Saoirse echoes. “How many are we talking?”
“A whole gaggle of them.”
“A gaggle?” she gasps. “I’m gonna need you to define that for me.”
“I’m thinking six boys and five girls. Enough to field a football team.”
She whacks my arm and laughs. “I am not pushing out eleven kids, you psychopath.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You’d trick me into having babies?” she asks with pretend incredulity.
“No trickery necessary,” I promise. “I’m only going to get finer with age. You’re going to be all over me all the time. Pregnancies are inevitable.”
She scoffs. “I won’t be all over you all the time.”
“‘Course you are. Like I said, you’re only human.”
She shakes her head and laughs some more. “I thought this was my vision of the future?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Continue.”
“Well, in ten years, I’ll be twenty-eight.”
“Me too.”