Foundations - Kate Canterbary

1

Lauren

The text message arrived early, barely past seven in the morning.

Andy: I'm coming over with my camera and I have the costumes.

Andy: Props too.

Andy: Do you think 17 pumpkins is too many?

Andy: Never mind. I don't care if it's too many. I'm bringing all of them.

Andy: Also, I have vodka.

Andy: And that cinnamon-sugar rim mix.

Andy: Because the only time I lick a rim is when it's covered in sugar and spice.

I barked out a laugh at her messages as well as the wild shifts in our lives. Not long ago, Andy and I cherished our lazy Saturday mornings. We wouldn't have texted each other at this hour unless it was to announce the previous night's choices were coming back to haunt us.

But here we were, a world away but still right around the corner from the women we used to be. And these new-but-totally-the-same versions of us were dressing my three-month-old baby in a load of seasonal outfits this morning and photographing every inch of it. The baby and the themed photo shoot were new. The apple pie mules we planned to mix up when the baby tired of our antics and went down for a nap were the same.

"What are you laughing about?" Matthew rolled over, pressed his face to my belly.

I drove my fingers through his hair. A touch of silver shined in the morning sun. Also new. "Andy's coming over. We're taking the autumn photos I told you about." He murmured something indecipherable into my skin and wrapped his arms around my waist with a throaty growl. God, those growls. "Didn't catch that, babe."

He lifted his head, saying, "It's too early for photos."

I looked to the bank of windows bathing our bedroom in warm light. We'd moved into this suburban Boston home a little less than four months ago but there were days when I expected to wake up in our old loft and see the waters of Boston Harbor right outside.

"Don't worry," I said, kneading the back of his neck. "We won't dress you up or pose you in a pile of leaves."

"Thank god," he murmured. He leaned into my touch, squeezed me tight. "Feels good." He pushed my t-shirt up with his chin and pressed a kiss above my belly button. Silvery-purple stripes reminded me a baby grew strong and healthy under that skin. Those were also new.

"What time did Madeleine get to sleep?" I asked.

Matthew took the late shift last night. We traded off. It was better when everyone operated with an insufficient amount of rest. We couldn't have one of us cheery and chipper while the other went full zombie. Also, we could swing this setup. Matthew was in the office on a reduced timetable and I wasn't due back at school for another week. This routine worked while we inched Maddie toward a consistent schedule and us back to our previous lives. If such a thing was possible.

I had my doubts.

"Around two," he replied, his scruffy cheek raking over my skin. "She fought it. Hard. Kept dozing off then waking herself up. Stubborn little girl." He laughed, kissed my belly again. "Wonder where she gets that."

"It's a mystery," I mused.

"If that's what you want to call it."

I ran my nails over his scalp. He growled against my skin, a low, rumbly sound I hadn't heard enough of recently. Even with my parents helping out since Maddie's arrival and bunking in our guest room, we didn't get nearly enough alone time. What little time we had was dedicated to catching up on sleep. Our bundle of joy brought us a great many gifts and blessings but she hated keeping to her bedtime.

She had to be coaxed to sleep, trapped in it. She never went willingly and if she sensed that we meant for her to sleep, she revolted. Demanded a change, a feeding, a burp, a cuddle. Anything but a restful, uninterrupted night.

Matthewhew pushed up on an elbow, craning his neck to see into the bassinet at the foot of the bed. Finding it empty, he returned to his spot on my belly, asking, "Did she run out for coffee? I hope she remembers how I take it."

"My mom took her for a walk," I said, running my fingertips over his shoulders, down his spine. "She usually takes the long way around on the weekends."

It was my indirect way of saying please fuck me straight through the mattress before I die of sexual starvation.

After six years with this man, I knew how to ask

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