by Lauren Rowe
When I come back from using the bathroom, I quickly scarf down tacos from the buffet like a starving hyena, until my mother-in-law approaches and tells me to relax and slow down.
“Sweetie, it’s fine,” she says. “I’m having my grandma time. Relax.”
My shoulders soften. “I’m not used to relaxing. We’re always on the go.”
Louise looks down at Jackson. “Well, Gramma Lou is here now so Jackson’s mommy can take all the time she needs.” Louise kisses Jackson’s little forehead and looks up at me again. “Go, honey.”
After saying a quick hello to several of Fish’s and Colin’s family members who’ve joined the party tonight, and hugging my brothers-in-law, I gravitate to my sisters-in-law around the skybox. With Kat, I touch her incredibly swollen belly and listen to her moan about how ready she is to pop any day now. With Tessa, I touch her swollen belly and listen to her moan about how ready she is to pop in two months. And then, to finish off the pregnant-sister-in-law trifecta, I find Maddy and touch her teeny-tiny itty bitty baby bump and listen to her rhapsodize about how magical pregnancy is and how excited Keane is and how she can’t wait to hold her baby in five months.
Lydia comes along and takes my boy from our mother-in-law, saying, “Gimme gimme.” She gives me an update on her four kids—the older three and toddler Mia—and then leans into my ear and whispers, “Colby and I have been officially trying for baby number five.”
“Holy crap, Lydi-Bug,” I say. “That’s exciting. Pretty soon, there’s going to be a whole tribe of second-wave cousins for Action Jackson to lord over.”
“Jackson will have the best of all worlds,” Lydia says. “He’ll be an Only, a Little, and a Big.”
She’s absolutely right about that. Jackson is an only child, obviously. And he’ll likely stay that way, because that’s the life Dax and I envision for ourselves. As Dax likes to say, “It’s you and me, and our baby makes three.” But by keeping Jackson a singleton, we don’t feel like we’re depriving him of the kind of upbringing Dax had and loved, because, with so many cousins, Jackson will always feel like he has siblings. And not only that, thanks to the spacing of his cousins, Jackson will get the unique experience of feeling like the youngest sibling with one “wave” of cousins, and the oldest with respect to another.
As I continue chatting with Lydia and my mother-in-law, Tessa comes over and demands to hold my sleeping baby, saying “Gimme gimme.” So, of course, Lydia hands Jackson over.
My mother-in-law asks me the latest on The Superhero Project and I’m proud to tell her, and my sisters-in-law, that my charity now has programs serving children’s hospitals and families in fifteen cities throughout the country. “And next year,” I say, “we hope to double that number.”
The ladies express admiration and awe.
“I couldn’t have done it without everyone’s support.”
It’s an understatement. Dax and the various members of our inner circle have used their significant star power, social media platforms, and/or wealth to help raise awareness and support for my charity. So much so, we’ve not only brightened a whole lot of sick kids’ lives with costumes, we’ve also raised a crapton of money and support for families going through the worst time of their lives.
Kat approaches and slides into the conversation. She compliments me on the costumes I designed for Aloha for the tour, and I thank her.
“Aloha’s kept me busy,” I say. “She’s always got some new project or idea. A music video or photo shoot she’s excited about.”
“Are you still designing wedding gowns?” Kat asks, her hands cradling her huge baby bump.
“Here and there, but not very often. I’m just too busy. I go to children’s hospitals in almost every city of the tour and send my designs for the kids’ costumes off to the seamstresses. That keeps me busy enough, in addition to taking care of Jackson and spending time with Daxy. I think I’ll focus on designing wedding gowns when we get back to L.A. and stay a while. And if not, then when Jackson is a bit older. One day, I want to start my own line. But all that can wait. I’m in no rush.”
“Just make sure you always keep the embers of your own dreams burning,” Louise says. “In addition to being a wife and mother, a woman needs her own personal passions, separate from her role as wife and mother. Keeping your own dreams alive will ultimately be the thing that allows you to give the best of yourself to the people you love the most.”
Oh, how I love my mother-in-law. She rarely gives me, or any of us, advice. But when she does, it’s always a gem.
“Thank you. I’ll always remember that, Momma Lou.”
“That’s exactly why I’ve been writing my book,” Kat says. “Because I feel, gah, lit up when I write it. Sometimes, I completely lose track of time when I write. I forget to eat or sleep or pee. Who knew I was born to tell stories like this?”
“Who knew?” Louise says, chuckling. “Kitty, you’re the extroverted version of Dax and the second-biggest BS artist in our family. Of course, you’re a storyteller like Dax. Just in a different way. Keane’s also a storyteller, in yet another way.”
My sisters-in-law and I agree with that assessment—and don’t even bother to ask who the “first-biggest BS artist” in the family is, according to Louise. We all know it’s Keane, by a long mile.
We ask Kat for an update on the book she’s been writing—a spicy romantic comedy she’s been working on diligently for the past few months—and she lights up like a Christmas tree as she tells us about it.
Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I ask for my sleeping baby back, and Tessa begrudgingly complies.
“He looks exactly like Dax at that age,” Louise says as Tessa hands Jackson to me. “And so much like Kitty Kat, too.”
“And Gracie,” Kat adds, referring to her own daughter.
“And all four of them look exactly like you,” Tessa says to our mother-in-law.
“Yes, well, the Russian doll doesn’t stop with us five,” Louise says, looking at my son in my arms. “My grandmother and mother both looked just like Kat, Dax, Gracie, and me—and now, our beloved Action Jackson. We’re the ones who, for whatever reason, keep springing like arm buds out of the same cosmic starfish—no added DNA required, apparently.”
We all chuckle, including me. But, secretly, I know my mother-in-law is wrong about Jackson being an arm bud like the rest of them, despite appearances. Although my baby does, in fact, look exactly like Dax and the others, at first glance, I happen to know my son has my late baby brother’s ears, to a tee. Not Dax’s ears. Which means, whether it’s apparent to anyone else or not, my son, Jackson, has my baby brother, Jackson, floating around inside him somewhere. And that makes me so damned happy, I could fly around this skybox, just thinking about it.
Recorded music begins blaring in the arena—the cue that we’re fifteen minutes from 22 Goats hitting the stage.
“I’d better get to my seat,” I say. “I like being in the front row for Dax to see us.”
“Have fun,” Louise says. “FYI, I changed Jacky’s diaper and he’s had a full bottle.”
“Thank you so much. That’s why I love you the most.”
I kiss everyone and tell them I’ll see them tomorrow morning at Casa Morgan. Because, of course, Dax made sure the tour is staying a few extra days in Seattle. Not just for him and me and Jackson to get to hang out with our family, but because Colin and Fish and Zander all love taking a few extra days in their hometown, as well.
But before I’ve made it to the door of the skybox, my new dad, Thomas, strides up to me. “Hello, Flower Girl,” he says. Because, yeah, nobody in this family calls me Rocky. As it’s turned out, they call me Flower. Sometimes, Flower Girl and Flower Child. Also, Dax’s siblings call me Viagra quite a bit, as Dax predicted. And, of course, the entire family calls me every variation of Violet anyone can think up, Ultra Violet Radiation and No Shrinking Violet originally being the most popular selections—that second one leading to them sometimes calling
me “Shrinky Dink.” Which then led to “Dink” and “Dinky.” Yeah, that’s the Morgans for you. Oh, how they love their nicknames.
I give my father-in-law a semi-hug, as much as I can manage while holding Jackson, and he kisses my cheek.
“Hey, Daddy-o,” I say, using the nickname I’ve christened him with. It felt too obvious to call Thomas straight-up “Dad.” Too needy. But “Daddy-o” seemed lighthearted and fun, right in line with the Morgan “brand,” while still allowing me to sneak that magic word in there. “What’s shaking, Daddy-o?” I ask, shamelessly using his nickname a second time.
“Just living the dream, Flower Girl,” he says. “Actually, that’s true. I’m living the dream, same as you.”
A huge smile splits my face. Truer words were never spoken. “Yep, we’re lucky sons-of-guns, aren’t we?”
“We sure are.” While talking to me, Thomas absently offers his finger to his grandson, who grips it and coos. “Are we on for backgammon tomorrow, Dinky?” he asks. “Me and you—to the death?”
“You know it, Gramps,” I say. “And this time, I swear, I’m gonna kick your butt.”
“I’d like to see you try.” He kisses my forehead, and then does the same thing to Jackson. “See you back at the ranch, love.”
Emotion threatens, the same way it always does when my father-in-law addresses me as “love.” But I swallow it down. “See you there. You might want to strap a cushion to your butt, because it’s gonna get beat.”
“Oh, please. I’ve been beating kids in backgammon since before you were born.”
I hug him. And kiss his cheek. And then, my heart full, head outside the skybox where my personal bodyguard stands at the ready to lead me to my front-row seat.
***
Dax is sweaty up onstage. Glistening. Glowing. As usual, he’s giving every note, every stroke of his guitar, every word, his all. He’s light as a feather up there tonight. Unburdening himself of all the deep thoughts and anxieties that come with the territory of being an artist. And I’m so proud. Especially because, through it all, Dax keeps finding Jackson, his mini-me, along with his wife, and flashing us secret, adoring smiles. Smiles that say, You and me, and our baby makes three.
As Dax moves his arm, I get a glimpse of the new tattoo inked onto the inside of his forearm, an extension of his ever-expanding “family tattoo.” It’s a second solar system, this new tattoo, adjacent to his original family one—a solar system featuring a giant, blazing sun emitting ethereal yellow, orange, and violet rays. Next to this violet-infused sun, there’s a bright, beautiful, boyish moon. And next to those two heavenly bodies, a small, twinkling star—our beloved Rock Star husband and daddy—basks in their light and glow, just as much as they bask in the star’s breathtaking, shimmering sparkle. As usual, my heart swells at the sight of Dax’s new tattoo—my husband’s visual declaration of undying love for our little family—the same way it always does whenever my gaze happens to fall on it.
The audience in the arena cheers the last chords of “Hitwoman Elvis Disco Momma.” Out of nowhere, a roadie appears, bringing with him a stool and Dax’s acoustic guitar. Quickly, the guy helps Dax swap out his electric for his acoustic, and Dax takes a seat on the stool. All of which means my husband is about to sing the sole acoustic hit from 22 Goats’ catalog: “Three,” the monster hit off their third album of the same name.
“Three” was a revelation when it came out two months ago. Totally off-brand, in terms of instrumentation, and yet so raw and vulnerable and honest, so Dax Morgan, it still came off as quintessential 22 Goats... which is probably why it unexpectedly became one of the band’s biggest hits.
“You having a good time, Seattle?” Dax says.
The crowd cheers like crazy.
“So am I. Time of my life, in fact. It’s good to be home.” He looks down at me and Jackson and, once again, beams a wide smile at us that makes my heart melt. He begins playing the iconic riff of “Three,” and pandemonium strikes. Dax chuckles at the exuberant reaction, like he always does, plays the riff again, leans forward, and sings:
They say two’s company
Three’s a crowd
That’s as phony as a three-dollar bill
You get three strikes, yer out
It’s a three-ring circus out there
Used to get three sheets to the wind
Not no more
Three
Three
My lucky number now
No turning back
Right where I wanna be
People lied
Said there were three
In our bed
In our love story
They were wrong about that
Wrong about me
Wasn’t in-fat-u-at-ed
Or stealing ya
Fulfilling my des-tin-y
Turning myself from one
To two
And finally, lucky number three
Three
Three
My lucky number now
No turning back
Right where I wanna be
Three little words
That made me complete
Saved me
Healed me
Gave me a family
Three
Three
My lucky number now
No turning back
Right where I wanna be
You and me
And our baby makes three
Used to think five, then two
Was luckiest
I was wrong, baby
It’s three
You and me
And our baby makes three
You and me
Is what makes me happy
Got a new lucky number now
It’ll always be three
As long as two outta three
Is
You
And me
Sweet little flower
My road
My destiny
Gave me one, two, three
And now I’m right where
I always
Wanna
Be
The arena applauds uproariously. Dax thanks everyone, like he always does. But then, he does something he’s never done before...
Maybe it’s because we’re in Seattle and he always feels extra loose in this city. Like he can do whatever the hell he wants and everyone will always have his back. Maybe it’s because he knows his entire family is here to cheer him on tonight. Or maybe he’s just feeling particularly good after the enthusiastic blowjob I gave him earlier in the dressing room. I don’t know what’s got my rock star hubsters under this crazy spell tonight, but whatever it is, he goes to the edge of the stage and instructs the security personnel to lead his wife and baby to the stage. And so, they do.
It takes a while, since I’ve got Jackson with me and I need to do this slowly and carefully, but, as the arena cheers and chants, I’m escorted with my bodyguard through several barriers and up a staircase... and finally across the expansive stage to meet Dax.
When I get to my husband, the crowd goes insane. But I’m wary. What the hell is Dax doing? I steal a quick look at Fish and he shrugs, telling me he has no idea what’s up. A quick glance at Colin yields the same result.
Dax raises his mic stand and slides his microphone into the holder. He takes Jackson from me, who’s now awake and elated to see his beloved daddy, and, of course, the crowd goes nuts at the sight of Dax with his son. After a moment of cooing at Jackson, Dax takes my hand with his free one and says into the microphone in the stand, “Some of you may know I’m a pretty private person. Not big on posting on Instagram.”
Everyone cheers. Yes, they know this about him.
“But there’s been a lot of shit said about my wife. A lot of bullshit that was just plain wrong and mean. And I’ve never addressed it because I felt it was beneath us. I felt like acknowledging the haters only gave them oxygen. But as long as I’ve got you all here, could you do me a fa
vor and take out your phones and post this for me?” He pauses as every person in the arena, pretty much, holds up their phones. “Thanks. Now hear this. My wife is the most incredible person I’ve ever met. Hot as fuck with a heart of gold.”
The crowd cheers wildly.
Fish leans into his microphone, the one he uses to sing backups, and says, “Word.”
“So, if anyone’s got something negative to say about her, I just want you to know you’re saying something negative about the person I love the most. The mother of my baby. You’re saying something negative about me and my family. My wife has never done anything disloyal to anyone in her life. If you’ve heard otherwise, it’s not true. If anyone was disloyal, it was me. But for a very, very good reason. Because I’d reached a fork in the road, and I took the path to a lifetime of love and happiness. And I don’t apologize for that.” He looks at me. “I love my wife and baby more than life itself. I’ll love her and protect her with my last breath. And I’ll never apologize for that.” He looks to the farthest rafters of the arena. “Everybody out there got all that on video for me?”
The place explodes.
“Good. Good talk. Now, be sure to post what I said every-fucking-where for me, okay?”
The arena cheers to let Dax know they’ve got his back.
As the crowd goes crazy, Dax kisses me, rather passionately, eliciting a raucous reaction from the arena. When our kiss is done, he kisses Jackson’s forehead and hands him back to me. And then he leans into my ear. “Watch from the wings, baby. Where I can give you a kiss any time I wanna.”
My heart is racing. Until this moment, I had no idea how much I craved having my honor defended. I thought I was perfectly fine with our strategy of ignoring the trolls. But that speech just now meant more to me than I could ever express to Dax. And the fact that he felt the desire to make it, unprompted by me, means even more.
Dax leans into my ear again, “Fuck ’em all, baby. It’s us against the world.”