7. Lewis

7

LEWIS

T here are things you choose not to notice when your father has a boyfriend. Like the hickey on his neck. Or how gingerly he walks into your apartment the day after their dinner date. Or his embarrassingly obvious boner when Todd and I invite him over to watch a movie, and he sits next to Ansel.

Todd thinks it's hilarious because he's not related to either of them. And because he wasn't the one to see the fogged up windows of Ansel's car when they said they were five minutes away from our place, and we were still waiting for them thirty minutes later. He also didn't see the rocking of the car.

I'm trying to be happy for my dad. I really am. But a little discretion would be nice. Whenever I mention this, Todd smirks. "You mean like us?"

I hate it when he's right.

But we're still stuck in a perpetual reliance on my father and Ansel until the eggs hatch. A full month after laying the eggs, the chicks haven't started pecking at their shells yet. My dad said they're a few days behind, but it isn't anything to worry about. Of course, I'm still concerned.

As each day drags on, I listen closely for any sign of pecking. I'm exhausted by the time Todd gets home. He makes us some dinner, and brings the food to the bed where I'm snuggling with the eggs.

"It's been three days since you've left the house," he says, handing me a plate of spaghetti.

"The eggs are going to hatch any minute."

He leans down to kiss each egg, then sits at the edge of the bed.

"You could go for a walk. I'll text you the second I hear any pecking, okay? I'm worried about you."

Todd doesn't understand. I don't want to miss any of it. Not a single peck.

We eat silently. Sometimes I wonder if Todd feels the same ache I do to see our chicks. I've been looking at photos of penguin shifter chicks on my phone all day. They're so small and sweet. I want to feel their soft feathers and watch them outstretch their tiny wings.

When I finish, Todd takes my plate and stacks it on top of his, then places them both on the nightstand.

"Come here," he says, outstretching his arms. I scoot over to snuggle into his arms, still clutching our egg bundle. He gives me a fierce hug. "It won't be long now. You have to take care of yourself, Lewis. It looks like you haven't showered. Did you eat today?"

"I don't remember," I admit.

"That's officially against the rules now. You have to eat three meals and shower every day."

"But I?—"

One of the eggs wiggles. It's almost a bounce. I giggle with delight, and pull it out of the bundle. My father said it's important to let the eggs breathe once they start moving, so I set it on the bed gently.

The second egg jerks. I lift it out of the blankets as well, and set it next to its twin.

Todd and I grin at each other. After all the waiting and worrying, this moment feels surreal.

The eggs take their time. They twitch and shift from side to side for a full thirty minutes. Then the sound I've been waiting days for finally comes. The subtle, quiet peck of their little beaks. I giggle again, and Todd squeezes me tighter in his arms.

My father made it clear that we aren't allowed to help them. He said it was the first lesson of parenthood—allowing children to find their own strength. Todd and I simply wait and watch, taking photos with our phones every minute or so, even though the eggs basically look the same.

It's been nearly two hours when a little hole appears on the side of the first egg. The tip of a black beak pokes out. It's the cutest thing I've ever seen. Todd's snapping photos like a maniac, his face beaming.

"That's it, little one. You can do it."

We agreed we'd name the first child Jordan. And here they are. Finally breaking out of their shell. Penguin shifters are raised genderless until they hit puberty and then given their adult name. Our baby will be Jordan for the next thirteen years of their life.

Not to be outdone by their sibling, the second chick pecks through the side of their shell a moment later. This one is Jade. Todd's snapping photos of Jade's egg now, laughing with joy as the crack gets bigger and bigger. I turn my phone and take a picture of Todd. I always want to remember him in this moment—so thrilled to see our little ones come into the world. Before long the center of the eggs crack, and our little babies stretch out their wet, furry bodies--squeaking and tittering. Their black feathers are wet, and their necks are so long. They wriggle around, searching for warmth. The time has come when we can finally help them. Todd eases the shell off of the bottom half of Jordan's body. Jordan closes their eyes, exhausted.

I shift into my penguin form faster than I ever have in my life, and waddle to my baby, hiding them under the folds of my underbelly to keep them warm. Todd helps Jade with the last bit of their shell and then he shifts. Jade squeaks until Todd picks them up with his enormous paw and brings them to his furry chest. He growls to Jade affectionately, a smile wide on his bear face.

Jade disappears. I panic, until I realize that they aren't gone at all. They've simply turned white and are now growing in Todd's arms. Within seconds, a confused polar bear cub is clinging to Todd. A deep rumble comes from Todd, which I'm assuming is a laugh.

Todd takes me in his other paw, exposing Jordan. As he brings them in for a hug, they start shifting too. I don't know what this means. Can our children shift into both? Did they simply grow in my womb as penguins because I'm a penguin shifter?

In the end it doesn't really matter. As we snuggle together in our animal forms, I close my eyes and cherish this moment. Our children are here. Penguin, bear, human. No matter what they are, we're family. And all animals cuddle in the same way.

Our little cubs burrow into Todd's fur. I do the same. He's big enough to love us all at the same time.

He's my alpha. My best friend.

My mountain.

And the view from his peak is glorious.