Page 83 of Only for Tonight

Tracey raises her glass. “I can work with small.”

“Define small,” Valerie says.

“Under fifty people.”

“Fifty is small,” Ana confirms, already typing something on her phone. Probably updating the Pinterest board in real time.

Ella bangs her teething ring on the high chair tray, and Ryleigh reaches over and wipes drool off her chin. My mother watches the gesture with an expression I recognize—it’s the same one she used to give my dad when he did something that made her fall in love with him all over again.

“So,” Valerie says, swirling her wine. “Wedding date aside. What about more kids?”

“Val,” Tracey warns.

“What? It’s a legitimate question.”

“We just got engaged a week ago,” I say.

“So? Planning ahead is responsible.”

“Grandsons,” my mother says matter-of-factly, spreading butter on her bread. “I want grandsons. Granddaughters too, but start with a grandson.”

“We have a four-month-old, Ma.”

“I know. I’m planning ahead.”

Ryleigh chokes on her coffee.

“Ma, you can’t just order grandsons.”

“I’m not ordering. I’m requesting.” She points her butter knife at me. “Big, strong boys. Like your father.”

Ryleigh’s shoulders are shaking. She’s got her napkin pressed against her mouth and she’s staring at her plate, and I can tell she’s about two seconds from losing it completely.

“How many kids do you want?” Valerie asks her directly.

“We’re not having this conversation.” I reach for more bread.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Ryleigh puts her napkin down. Her cheeks are pink from holding in laughter. “I always thought maybe two.”

“Two is nice,” Ana says.

“Three is better,” my mother says.

“I personally recommend stopping before they outnumber you,” Jase says from the end of the table, where his two-year-old is methodically dropping peas on the floor.

“Noted,” Ryleigh says, grinning.

The conversation spirals from there—someone brings up baby names, which leads to an argument about family naming traditions, which leads to my mother telling the story of how she picked my name, which leads to Tracey doing an impression of my father that’s so accurate the table goes quiet for a second before everyone laughs at once.

After dinner, I help my mother with the dishes while Ryleigh sits on the living room floor with Ella and Tracey’s kids. I can hear them from the kitchen—Ella babbling, Tracey’s son making car noises, Ryleigh’s laugh threading through all of it.

My mother washes. I dry. Same positions as when I was eight, standing on a stool to reach the counter.

“She’s a good one,” my mother says quietly, using the name only she uses, the Russian diminutive she’s called me since I was born. She doesn’t look at me. She looks at the suds. “You chose well.”

“I know, Ma.”