waste it, it’s going to be me.”
Aubrey’s lip pops out with a pout. I hold her closer, shushing her in comfort before she cries.
“You know, when you tell a child she’s done something wrong, it’s usually not followed by a hug,” Charisse says with a grin.
I wave her off. “I can’t stand to see her little lip. It’s the saddest—and cutest—thing in the world,” I explain. “Besides, I’m the fun aunt. Your job is to ground her, and mine is to be the shoulder to lean on, so she can talk about how awful her mother is.”
Charisse whips my butt with the dishtowel in her hand. “Just make sure you let me know on the sly when she eventually comes to you, talking about boys, sex, and smoking pot.”
I cover Aubrey’s ear with my hand and bring her head to my chest to cover the other ear. “Don’t let my sweet girl hear you speak of such things,” I say sarcastically.
Charisse is laughing while her wife, Melody, walks into the room.
“Hey, Lacey. You’re just in time for drinks.”
“Sounds good.” I follow the ladies into the living room.
Charisse and Melody have the kind of home people aspire to create. Located in the western suburbs of Chicago, their house is a Tudor style with wood-beamed ceilings and large black-paned windows. One look around reveals wall upon wall of family photos, many of them black-and-whites of their parents, grandparents, and themselves growing up.
If there ever were a home that told a tale, it is this one. And this home is about love, especially when you see the picture frames on table after table of their baby, who entered their world three years ago.
I put Aubrey down on the floor in her toy corner, and she immediately starts playing with her doll, putting her in a cradle and rocking her to sleep. I pat her silky black hair and give her a kiss.
On the coffee table is a photo of Charisse and me, taken about six years ago. She was the first friend I made when I moved to the city. We were working at a production company when we hit it off as great friends. Fast-forward a few years later, she told me she was sick of waiting for the perfect woman to come around and wanted to have a baby on her own. Being a mother was the only thing Charisse had ever dreamed of, and she didn’t want to put it off for another moment. I gave her my support and my time, even meeting her during her lunch breaks to give her hormone shots for her fertility treatments.
Two months into the pregnancy, she met Melody. Not only did Melody not care that this fabulous woman she was falling in love with was pregnant, but she also wanted to be part of the journey. They married a year later, and the rest is history.
“Wine or water?” Melody asks as I take a seat on one of the barstools around the oversize island that separates the kitchen from the living room.
“It’s always one or the other, huh?”
“The drink tells us what’s really going on in that head of yours.” She winks, and Charisse gives an agreeable shrug.
“Vino it is.” I give in with a mock motion for her to make it a heavy pour, and the two women laugh.
While Melody pours, Charisse sets out a tray of meat and cheese. “What are your troubles, Miss Rivers?”
“The words aren’t coming, and the ones that do all suck.”
Melody tops off a glass for me and then pours a second tall one for herself.
Charisse leans over and looks at the pour with exaggerated eyes. “You having writer’s block, too, Mel?” she teases.
“I”—Melody places her hand on her chest—“am being a good friend who doesn’t leave another friend to drown in her sorrows alone.”
“Oh, okay. So, I take it, I’ll be making dinner while you two sorrow it up?” Charisse shakes her head.
“Sounds good,” Melody responds as we clink glasses.
“For the record, she’s my friend. No stealing.” Charisse smiles as she opens the fridge and takes out a brick of Pecorino Romano.
“No fighting, ladies. There’s plenty of my crazy to go around. Here, give me the cheese, and I’ll grate it for you.” I reach over the counter in offer to help.
Charisse hands me the brick, grater and a glass bowl. “I’ve been with you since you published your first book, and I’ve never known you to have a problem with telling a story.”
Melody agrees, “That’s