The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 504

Mia's POV

"Okay," I said. My voice came out strange. Thick. "Okay. Bath time."

"But we just got HOME—"

"You all smell like hospital."

"What does hospital smell like?" Alexander asked, not moving from his position on the floor, his face still approximately two inches from Gas's nose.

"Sadness," I said. "And floor cleaner. And that weird soup they kept trying to make us eat."

"That soup WAS weird. It was like—like someone put water and disappointment in a bowl and called it food."

"Hence. Bath."

"Hence is a weird word."

"Alexander."

"Going, going."

The bathroom was small. With all three children crammed into the tub, with steam fogging the mirror and water sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

Alexander had claimed the faucet end. He always claimed the faucet end—said it was the "captain's seat". His back was pressed against the porcelain, his knees poking up out of the water like two small islands, and he was holding the bottle of bubble bath like it was a weapon.

"More bubbles," he announced.

"We have enough bubbles," Ethan said. He was at the other end.

"There's no such thing as enough bubbles."

"There is, actually. The optimal bubble-to-water ratio for effective cleaning is—"

"BORING." Alexander squeezed the bottle. A long, thick stream of blue liquid hit the water. "More. Bubbles."

The foam rose.

It rose past their knees. Past their stomachs. Past their chests. Alexander kept squeezing, his face set in an expression of intense concentration, until the bubbles reached their chins.

"Alexander," I said from my perch on the closed toilet lid. "That's enough."

"Just a little more—"

"Alexander."

He stopped squeezing. Looked at the mountain of bubbles he had created. Looked at me.

"I regret nothing," he said.

Madison was in the middle. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun I'd made with a scrunchie, and bubbles clung to the loose strands like tiny white flowers. She had a handful of foam, and she was shaping it, molding it, her small fingers working with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal.

"What are you making?" I asked.

"A dog."

"A dog?"

"For Gas." She held up her creation. It looked nothing like a dog. It looked like a cloud having an identity crisis. "So she has a friend. While she waits for her babies."

"That's very thoughtful."I said.

Alexander had discovered that if he blew on the surface of the bubbles, they scattered in satisfying clouds. He was doing this now—puff, puff, puff—sending foam flying in all directions. Onto Ethan's face. Onto the wall. Onto the small rubber duck that had been sitting on the edge of the tub, minding its own business.

"Alexander," Ethan said, wiping bubbles from his eyes, "you're creating unsanitary conditions."

"I'm creating ART."

"Art doesn't go up people's noses."

"SOME art goes up people's noses. Smelling art. Like perfume."

"Perfume is not art."

"Tell that to Coco Chanel."

"Who's Coco Chanel?"

"I don't know. Mama said her name once. She sounds fancy."

I had said her name once.

"Mama." Madison's voice again. Quieter now. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

"When Gas has her babies... will it hurt?"

The question landed in the steam-filled room. Alexander stopped blowing bubbles. Even Ethan went still.

"It might," I said. Carefully. Honestly. "Birth is hard work. For dogs and for people."

"Did it hurt when you had us?" Alexander asked. "Me and Ethan?"

I thought about it. The hospital room. The fluorescent lights. The way my body had felt like it was being turned inside out, like something was trying to escape, like I was a door and someone was kicking it open from the other side.

Kyle hadn't been there.

I pushed the thought away.

"Too rough," he complained.

"You'll live."

"Will I though? Will I REALLY?"

"Dramatic."

"I learned from the best."

I wasn't sure if he meant me or Kyle. I didn't ask.

Ethan dried himself—of course he did, methodically, starting at his head and working down. I handed him his pajamas—the ones with the periodic table on them.

Madison waited.I knelt in front of her.

"Arms up," I said.

She raised her arms. I wrapped the towel around her—the fluffy white one, the one she said felt like clouds—and pulled her against me. Held her there for a moment. Just held her.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded against my shoulder.

"Tired?"

Another nod.

"Let's get you in pajamas. Then bed."

"Can we say goodnight to Gas first?"

"Of course."

We found her in the whelping box.

She had moved while we were in the bathroom—dragged herself from her regular bed to the box I'd set up weeks ago, the one she'd ignored for so long. She was circling. Around and around, her paws catching the towels, her nose pushing at the fabric, rearranging, adjusting, digging.

Alexander stopped in the doorway.

"What's she doing?"

"Nesting," I said. The word came out quiet. Reverent. "She's getting ready."

"Ready for what?"

But he knew. I could see it in his face—the dawning understanding, the excitement, the fear.

"The babies," Madison whispered. "They're coming."