Chapter_44

SIX YEARS LATER

Four suitcases sit next to each other on our bedroom floor.

It’s difficult to finish packing while Matilda is flopped inside Wyatt’s bag with her chin resting on his folded shirts like it’s the most comfortable spot in the world.

This is our dog’s new thing. The mere sight of our bags used to make Matilda dart around in anxiety circles. Now she fully embraces going on a road trip.

“Matilda! That’s Papa’s bag,” Finch playfully yells as his four-year-old sister, Rose (named after both our grandmothers), runs in with Pancake. Matilda jumps from Wyatt’s bag and chases Pancake out of the room.

Our son Finch Beckett Petterelli-Wallace’s first name comes from my favorite literary character, Atticus Finch, from To Kill a Mockingbird, and one of Wyatt’s favorite movie directors, David Fincher. Also, when Finch was born, he looked tiny, like a little bird: a finch.

His middle name is Beckett for no real reason. We agreed it just sounded cool.

Thankfully, Wyatt and I agree on a lot more these days. Like leaving Brooklyn and moving upstate to the Hudson Valley in our sweet little house where we’re living now so we could have more space.

Tomorrow morning, we leave for a family road trip to Door County, the same coastal area in Wisconsin I went to with my family every year as a kid. The kind of trip Wyatt wished his family would’ve taken when he was growing up.

This time we only have one stopover before our final destination: Millie and Dennis’s bed-and-breakfast in Ohio.

Hopefully.

After packing and eating a delicious dinner that I made, Finch asks to rewatch the video of the magical day he was born. He laughs every time, watching his dads sweat as their eyes pop out of their heads during the graphic parts.

Mostly, it’s Wyatt’s eyes bulging. He looks like a deer in headlights when Kirk hands him our baby.

“Why are you both crying?” Finch asks us, eyes glued on his video.

“We were so happy to meet you,” Wyatt says.

“I’m so tiny,” Finch always says, watching himself in awe.

“You’re perfect,” Wyatt and I always remind him.

“Where’s the stork?” Rose asks.

“The stork was just off camera,” Wyatt says, pulling Rose and Finch close under each of his arms.

“Can you see him in my video?” Rose asks.

“He might have a cameo,” I say.

“What’s a cameo?” Rose wonders.

The four of us continue to watch the video. A close-up of Wyatt. His cheeks are flushed and you can literally see sweat dripping off him.

“Look at me. I’m a mess. I can’t believe you thought I’d be the calm and collected one,” Wyatt says.

Wyatt hands me little Finch for our first skin-on-skin contact. I’m in a state of bliss.

“I can’t believe I was freaking out so much before this,” I say.

“You look like an old pro. Like you’ve been a dad your entire life.”

“I don’t know what came over me. I was so relaxed and it felt so natural.”

There was no shadowy figure tapping me on the shoulder and telling me I was out of my league. The doctors and nurses didn’t start laughing at me, saying I was doing fatherhood wrong. Wyatt didn’t take Finch away from me forever, telling me I wasn’t good enough.

“We still have Finch’s little lavender blanket,” Wyatt says, seeing them swaddle him in the video. “In a very organized box in our basement, thank you very much.”

I grin as we snuggle next to each other on our big bed. We’re beaming as we watch the video of us beaming at Finch.

We look up at Flora and start to cry more like a baby than Finch.

There’s just nothing we could possibly say to Flora for our gift, and I think she knows how much she means to us. She helped us do it all over again two years later with Rose. We went with Mackenzie again too, our same egg donor. Never underestimate someone whose special skill is making dolphin noises.

Wyatt and I are still in negotiations on baby number three.

After we settled upstate, I went back to my roots and started acting again. I booked a lot of TV and movie roles in the city, and I’m making my Broadway debut later this year with rehearsals starting after we get back from our trip. In a weird twist of fate, the show is a musical based on Mrs. Dalloway, the famous Virginia Woolf novel.

Wyatt directed a commercial for the Super Bowl that made a big splash. His thirty-second stories became sixty-minute stories, and lately he’s been directing episodic television.

My phone buzzes.

GIO

Dear Massi,

What’s your ETA tomorrow?

Love, Dad

Dad is cancer-free now and as long as he continues to text like he’s writing a formal letter, I’ll know he’s fine.

Speaking of dads and writing letters, Wyatt checks in with his dad sometimes. We invited Richard to our wedding, but he can no longer travel so he wasn’t able to join. We haven’t been back to see him in Vegas yet, but we will one day soon while the kids are still young.

I text my dad back.

BIZ

we get there thursday midmorning, remember? tomorrow we spend the night in ohio

My dad sends back a string of kissy emojis.

This trip is the first time my entire family and Wyatt’s family are all spending time together since our wedding.

We’ve even graduated from Virginia Woolf to an embarrassingly large SUV, which comes in handy when you have luggage for four humans and two dogs.

The video ends and Wyatt and I glance at the four suitcases in front of us, going over our mental checklists, excited and eager for the early morning drive.

“Think we have everything?” Wyatt asks, turning to me.

I look around to see two kids sleeping in between us with a couple of snoozing dogs at our feet, and I turn to Wyatt with a grateful smile. “I think we do.”