Chapter Thirty-Five: Cupcakes and Commandments (Thomas)

                                        

                                              

Two months later, Lola turned one, and our home turned into a swirl of balloons, giggles, and the delicious chaos only family brings. The living room brimmed with warmth, streamers fluttered in soft pastels, and someone had started the playlist I made the night before, full of oldies, lullabies, and songs that reminded me of October. Of us.
Alice wore her chosen pink tutu, spinning like a tiny comet between legs and tables. She insisted on applying her own glittery lip balm, which resulted in sparkles smeared across her cheeks. Jimmy was the quiet hero of the day, helping carry trays, adjusting the camera for group photos, even holding Lola so October could have a minute to eat. He was growing up in all the best ways.
 August brought homemade cupcakes that looked so good, I briefly wondered if he'd traded souls with a Parisian pastry chef. October's cousins had already declared open season on embarrassing stories, and the house buzzed with noise, laughter, and the kind of teasing that should require a waiver.
Her parents arrived with gift bags and proud smiles that said, We like you now, but we remember the past, sir. I was halfway through a chocolate cupcake when Joseph marched over and pulled me into a bear hug that nearly cracked a rib.
Then he leaned in, his voice dropping like he was about to reveal the nuclear codes.
"You've been good to her. I see it. You still screw up, obviously—"
"Obviously," I nodded with appropriate shame and a mouthful of frosting.
"—but you fix it. That counts. Most guys don't even bother."
"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched and slightly sweating.
He pointed a firm finger at my chest. "But don't let it go to your head. You're still on probation."
"Oh, believe me. I know."
Then he clapped my shoulder, firm and fatherly. "Just keep showing up."
I think about that now, as I watch her across the room—THAT necklace with the pendant catching the light just enough to make it shimmer.  She hadn't worn it until tonight. She came down the stairs earlier, a little flushed from getting ready, brushing a curl behind her ear and there it was. Nestled just below her collarbone. I froze. She must've noticed, because she touched it gently and gave me a small, almost shy smile.
So to see her wearing it now, choosing to wear it now, was like breathing in a different kind of air. One I didn't know I'd missed. Something about it sent me right back to the teenage version of myself, the boy who couldn't believe she looked at him the way she did, the boy who counted the seconds until he could hold her again. My hands itched to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw, to kiss her slowly and tell her everything I should have said over the years. Not just with words. With presence. With intention. With love.
I was giddy. Restless in the best way. Like I'd just fallen in love with her for the second, or maybe hundredth time, and this time, I swore I wouldn't waste it.
Keep showing up. That's exactly what I intend to do. Forever.
Later, during the cake moment, I stood behind October, both of us holding Lola, whose fingers immediately plunged into the frosting. Everyone sang. Lola blinked in awe, maybe confused why all these grown-ups were singing at her, but when Alice clapped, she did too, delighted.
There was a pause after the celebration, a lull of goodbye hugs and thank-yous, kids half-asleep in corners or curled against their mothers. Slowly, the house emptied.
Lola had fallen asleep in October's arms, her tiny curls sticking to her forehead with a mixture of sweat and birthday cake. Alice was already out cold in her big-girl bed, hugging her tutu like it was a stuffed animal. Jimmy had disappeared into his room with a quiet, "Happy birthday again, Lola," but not before hugging me goodnight and giving October a sleepy kiss on the cheek. We were alone. Finally.