"But I'm not..." I start to say, then stop. Because suddenly I'm thinking about how tired I've been lately, how emotional I got yesterday when a commercial about puppies made me cry, how I've been craving foods I normally hate.
"When was your last period, sweetheart?" Sawyer's voice is gentle, patient, like he's talking to a spooked animal.
I try to remember, counting back days and weeks, and realize with growing shock that it's been almost two months.
"Oh my God." The words come out as barely a whisper. "Oh my God, Sawyer, I think... I might actually be..."
"Pregnant," he finishes, and the satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable. "Yeah, I figured that out about a week ago."
"I was going to say pre-menopausal,” I protest. “Sawyer, I’m forty-eight years old. The odds of pregnancy are pretty darn low. Besides, did you say you’ve suspected this for a whole week? And you didn't tell me?"
"I was waiting for you to figure it out yourself. But then this morning Tommy started asking when the baby was coming, and I realized my son is more observant than his mother."
My son. Even now, even after two years, hearing Sawyer refer to Tommy that way makes my heart swell.
"But how did Tommy know?" I look at our son, who's watching this conversation with the intense focus of someone trying to understand adult mysteries.
"Kids know things," Sawyer says simply. "Animals too. Have you noticed how the cat's been following you around lately? How she keeps trying to sleep on your stomach?"
Now that he mentions it, Patches has been unusually clingy lately. And Tommy has been more cuddly than usual, always wanting to sit on my lap, always patting my belly when he hugs me.
"I need to take a test," I say, the reality starting to sink in. "I need to know for sure."
"Already got one." Sawyer reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pregnancy test still in its box. "Figured you'd want to confirm what we already know."
"You bought a pregnancy test?"
"Yesterday. Along with prenatal vitamins and a book about what to expect when you're expecting your second child."
I stare at him, this man who somehow knew I was pregnant before I did, who's already planning for a baby I just found out might exist.
"You're very sure of yourself, Sheriff McKenna."
"I'm sure of us. I'm sure of our family. I'm sure that whatever happens, we can handle it together." He shifts Tommy to one arm and reaches for me with the other. "But yeah, I'm pretty sure you're pregnant. Call it husband's intuition."
"And how do you feel about that? About the possibility of another baby?"
His answer is immediate, certain, completely unshakeable. "I feel like the luckiest man alive. I feel like we're about to get even more blessed than we already are."
"Even though it means less sleep, more chaos, twice as much work?"
"Even though it means all of that." He leans down to kiss me, soft and sweet and full of promise. "Lisa, two years ago I thought I'd never have a family. Now I have a wife I love more than breathing, a son who calls me Daddy, and possibly another baby on the way. If that's not worth losing some sleep over, I don't know what is."
"Baby!" Tommy announces again, patting my stomach with his small hand. "Christmas baby!"
"Maybe a Christmas baby," I correct, even though something deep in my bones tells me that my two-year-old and my husband are right. "We have to take a test first to know for sure."
But even as I say the words, I'm already imagining it. Another crib in the nursery, another high chair at the kitchen table, another little voice calling for Mama and Daddy. Tommy as a big brother, protective and proud and probably a little jealous at first.
Sawyer holding a newborn, looking at me like I've given him the world all over again.
Our family growing, expanding, becoming even more than I ever dreamed possible.
"Test first," Sawyer agrees, but his voice carries the same certainty I'm feeling. "But Lisa, whether it's this month or next month or sometime in the future, we're going to have more children. I want to fill this house with babies who look like you and call me Daddy."
"How many babies exactly?"
"As many as you have in your tummy." The possessive satisfaction in his voice makes my pulse quicken. "Two, three, maybe four if you're feeling generous."
