“Before you know it he'll be here," Reed says, reaching to pour himself a beer from the pitcher of Backbone IPA that Lake just dropped off at the booth we claimed as ours the first day I opened the doors.
"Not fast enough," I mutter, thinking of Miller's latest moves against local breweries. Three more have folded to his pressure in the past week alone, despite our coalition's efforts.
I hate that Wren’s stressing, and that stress is so hard on the baby.
"How's the baby name situation?" Banks asks, watching me with Noble. "Still arguing over it?"
I snort. "What do you think?"
The truth is Wren and I can't agree on a single name. Everything I suggest, she hates. Everything she suggests sounds like the name of someone who'd get beaten up on a playground. We're at a standstill.
"You could always name him Banks," Banks suggests with a straight face.
"Yeah, that’s not happening," I reply, making Noble bounce on my hip. His giggles are the best sound in the world, and for a second, I imagine my son making that same noise. My son. The reality of that still blows my mind.
Lake finishes with the measurements and joins us, wiping his hands on a towel. "I've got the first stage prepped. We can continue later."
"Perfect timing," Reed says, pouring Lake a glass and passing it over. "To fatherhood, and not fucking it up too badly.”
We clink bottles as Lake adds a heartfelt, “fuck no,” and I take a swig while still balancing Noble on my hip. The kid's fascinated by my tattoos, his tiny fingers tracing the lines of ink down my arm.
"So," Banks says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "How are you really doing with all this? The baby. Miller. Everything."
I shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. "Fine."
Reed snorts. "That's convincing."
"What do you want me to say?" I take another sip of my beer. "That I'm terrified of screwing this up? That every time I think about holding my kid, I remember how my dad checked out when we needed him most? That I'm paranoid Miller's going to find some way to destroy everything Wren and I have built before our son even gets here?"
The room goes quiet. Noble grabs a fistful of my shirt and tugs, kicking me in the ribs.
"Well," Banks says after a moment. "At least you're not bottling anything up."
I huff out a laugh, and my shoulders relax a little. "Sorry. It's just... a lot."
"It is," Reed agrees. "But you're not your dad, Kase."
"And you're not doing this alone," Banks adds, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You've got Wren. You've got us."
"Besides," Reed says, all business suddenly, "the fact that you're worried about it already puts you miles ahead of where your father was. Shitty parents don't generally stress about being shitty parents."
"The doctor makes a good point," Lake chimes in, spinning his beer glass between his palms.
I look down at Noble, who's now drooling contentedly on my shirt as his eyes slow blink. "I just want to get it right, you know? I want to be the father he deserves."
"You will be," Banks says with a confidence I wish I felt. "Look at you with Noble. You’re a natural, dude.”
"Plus, Wren will kick your ass if you screw up," Reed adds with a smirk. "She'll keep you in line."
That pulls a reluctant laugh from me. "True."
Noble starts fussing, his little face scrunching up. Yeah, a meltdown is imminent. I shift him to my other hip, swaying the way I've seen Clover do. It works, and the pride that surges through me is ridiculous.
"See?" Banks gestures toward us. "Natural."
The front door chimes again, and I turn, expecting to see Wren. Instead, a woman with a gray pixie cut and glasses stands in the entrance, her gaze sweeping the brewery.
I know exactly who she is before she speaks.
