Extra Bonus #84: Prep for Audrey's Sweet Sixteen (Patreon)

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RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "Waltz of the Flowers" by Tchaikovsky while writing this bonus scene.

SPOILER WARNING: There are major spoilers from NOBODY LIKE US in this bonus scene. We highly recommend reading this bonus after you've read NLU.

CLIPBOARD IN ONE HAND and a 32oz thermos of coffee in the other, I feel gloriously in my element. I’m a part-time wedding planner, full-time big sister and wife and mother (in order of familiarity to newness), and now I’m the world’s best sweet sixteen decorator.

“I don’t care much what we’re doing, to be frank,” Audrey said one late night at the lake house. Christmas had come and gone, and I’d be leaving the next day to spend the remaining holiday with my in-laws.

I sensed Audrey could feel this impending evacuation. The lake house, typically filled to the brim, would slowly empty. Beckett had already up and left for New York.

It was just me, my little sister, and my mom around a toasty fire in the living room of the lake house. We’d been the last three to stay up after a game of charades with all the women in the family.

I frowned at Audrey. “I thought you wanted an extravagant party with all the bells and whistles?”

“That was years ago,” she noted. “This is now.”

Our mom scrolled through her notes app. “No seven-tiered cake with floral elements?”

Audrey drummed her lips, then sighed. “It’s not of importance.”

Mom read out, “A string quartet?”

“Again, I don't mind either way.”

Mom stared into Audrey like she’d been kidnapped right before our very eyes. “Audrey Virginia Cobalt.”

“Mother.” Audrey grew red in the face. “I’m hiding nothing. I can change my mind.” She crossed her arms and let out a tiny huff.

“How very peculiar,” I said with the squint of my eyes.

“Not you too, Jane.” Audrey melted back into the plaid couch cushions. “Is it so unreasonable that I’d have a change of heart?”

"Of course not,” I said.

“Yes,” Mom countered. “You’ve never once not cared about this party. You’ve had a laundry list of requests for your sweet sixteen since you were twelve.” Something was amiss, and me and our mom could sniff it out a mile away.

Audrey let out another breathy sigh. Then she eyed Maeve who was nestled in my arms, fast asleep.

“She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?” Audrey cooed. She changed the subject on purpose, most surely.

Still, I smiled down at Maeve and stroked her buttery soft cheek with my finger. She’s mine and Thatcher’s. A part of us. So delicate and fragile and innocent to this dreadfully strange and beautiful world.

I had her in a garden. A maze, really. It’d been the scariest moment of my life, but once her cry pierced the air, there was more beauty than terror. I just wish Thatcher could’ve physically been there with me...with her.

Next time. There has to be a next time.

Life can’t continue to be so cruel to him. I won’t allow it.

Tears tried to prick my eyes, and I blinked the waterworks away, then looked up at my sister. She wasn’t the first to use Maeve as a distraction tactic. I hated that it worked too well on me.

I saw Audrey still smiling at Maeve, and our mom had a loving look in her eyes. “Do you want to hold her?” I asked my sister.

“Oh...no, I couldn’t. She’s so peaceful.” Audrey smoothed the wrinkle-free bottoms of her silky pink pajama set.

“She won’t wake up. She loves being held while she sleeps. Too much, even.” Anytime anyone puts her down, she wails. I’d let my arms go numb before hearing her cry.

My mom always tells me, She’ll be fine.

I know.

Thatcher has a much easier time letting Maeve self-soothe. I think it’s only hard for him when he sees my struggle, and he wants to help and take away my distress.

“Hmm, that’s quite alright,” Audrey said.

Our mom studies Audrey for half a second. “If you don’t like holding babies, it’s not a travesty or a character flaw or a—”

“I didn’t say I don't like it,” Audrey said quickly. “I love holding babies.” She’s only ever held Maeve once or twice. Where Kinney always asks to hold her, Audrey will simply fawn over Maeve from afar. “I do.”

“Babies spit up,” our mom said. “They cry over everything. They get in everything. They’re little irrational devils.”

“That you raised seven of,” I smiled in admiration. It sounded like an awfully wonderful challenge.

“I hated the baby stage,” she admitted, even though she’ll be the first to help me with Maeve if Thatcher isn’t around. “You can hate it to, gremlin.” She spoke to Audrey.

But for some reason, Audrey just sighed like we didn’t understand her. It hurt Mom more, I think, who so terribly wanted to understand.

I just felt as though my sister was going through a murky stage of self-discovery. She’s the baby of all our families and has been influenced by so many of us—to the point where finding and carving her own path could potentially be trickier.

“Back to the party,” I said, rerouting the topic to her looming birthday.  

“It’s not as though you’ve hired the caterers yet,” Audrey said to Mom.

“I will,” Mom said definitively. “I’d tear a star out of the night sky for you, and I’m sorry we haven’t had time to organize this sooner. Not with the funeral and...” She let the unsaid words linger. And Aunt Lily being assaulted, and our cousin being kidnapped. “But we’ll have everything ready for your birthday. So if you’re worried it won’t come together in time—”

“It’s not that.”

I frowned. “Then what?” I have my own notes app full of Audrey’s ideas over the years. She’s wanted an Alice in Wonderland theme for the majority of that time. I wondered if it’d been because it reminded her of Eliot. Maybe she’d recently had a fight with him and wanted to trash the whole concept.

“It’s not important,” she emphasized again. “My birthday. What we do.” She frowned at her hands while she twiddled her fingers. “I don’t care about the activity as much as...”

“As what?” Mom wondered, resting a consoling hand on Audrey’s. It made Audrey open her palm and let Mom hold her hand and squeeze in comfort.

“As everyone being there. And why does that feel like the greater ask?” Audrey looked between us. “Why does it feel greedier than a seven-tiered cake and a string quartet?”

Time is priceless. As we all grow in different directions, we have less to spare. But for each other, we’d give it.

So Audrey asked for all of our brothers to attend her birthday. It was her only real request that night. She also wanted the Meadows, Hales, and Abbeys to attend, but she said she’d understand if anyone had prior engagements.

When Audrey left the living room for bed, Mom and I stayed.

“We’re giving her the party,” Mom said, reopening her notes app. “The one she’s always imagined.”

“And the one she’s just realized,” I agreed, and we shared a smile before we went to work planning Audrey’s Wonderland themed sweet sixteen in record time.

Now that the day has come, I’m in the backyard of my parents’ estate in Philly. My main duty involves delegating tasks and wrangling all five of my brothers. Some are already here, and others are arriving later in the day.

Audrey thinks her birthday is just a family dinner—nothing too elaborate—and to keep this surprise, our mom plans to take her to Tiffany’s for the morning.

Stepping outside, I squeeze my arms against my body. The January cold pierces through my mint-green sweater. Just beyond the pool, a large white tent overtakes our backyard. Underneath are wooden tables and elegant tufted chairs. A single chandelier hangs from the tent’s center and…that’s it. No other décor yet.

Nerves swarm me. The box of streamers and tulle sits untouched next to three tubs of antique floral tea sets.

Merde.

These should have been set up an hour ago, and I don’t have to look far to see why nothing has been done. The person I tasked with hanging the streamers and setting out the tea sets currently lounges in the bubbling hot tub.

I stomp over.

I wish I chose more aggressive footwear. My purple hippo slippers barely make a noise. Charlie either doesn’t hear or he ignores me. Eyes shut. His elbows are perched out of the water onto the stone ground. 

He has a reasonable explanation. I try my best not to assume too much when it comes to my brother, especially where it concerns Audrey. I can’t, for the life of me, believe he’d purposefully forgo helping decorate for her party.

I clear my throat.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Charlie,” I say as patiently as I can.

He opens his left eye. Then his right. He sighs heavily. “What?”

What?!

I take a deep breath. “The streamers need hung, and the tea sets need to be on the tables by the time the florist gets here in…” I check my watch on the hand that’s cradling the clipboard. “Fifteen minutes.”

“It’ll get done,” he says calmly.

I wait a solid second for him to rise out of the hot tub.

He remains all too comfortable, and I want to ask if he’s turned into Cinderella and tasked woodland animals to assist him—but I’m not trying to be confrontational today. Everything must go smoothly. Audrey deserves the opposite of a Cobalt Civil War. She deserves peace and harmony and sibling unity.

It’s practically all she asked for.

Okay, she didn’t request unity—just that we’re all present. And that, in itself, is like asking for drama.

“May I ask how you expect to get it done?” I pose.

“You may.”

“How?” I ask.

He glances at his phone. “The task rabbit I hired will be here in five.”

My face falls. “You hired someone?” It sounds like I'm accusing him of committing a mortal sin, but everyone—and I mean everyone—has been happy to execute their own tasks. Part of the gift to Audrey is telling her we all pitched in to make this party happen.

Sweat equity.

Solidarity.

Loyalty to her.

We can’t show that in purchasing things, but we can in effort.

He gives me a look that makes me want to kick his arm off the ledge. But I’ve never been one for that kind of retaliation. No matter how frustrating Charlie is today.

“Yes,” he says like he’s bored by this conversation. “Just like Mom hired the tent company. Dad’s assistant hired the florist—”

“That’s not the same, Charlie.”

“It’s exactly the same,” he retorts like I'm deluded. “We have the money for it. So instead of you running around here, you could have hired someone to do your job.” He stares at me for a long beat, and I wait for him to add more hurtful words—the ones so easily available. That way you’d have more time to be with your daughter.

He’s quiet, not shoving that knife into me. Maybe it’s my own insecurities frothing up, but Maeve is having quality bonding time with her dad inside. It’s not like she’s thousands of miles away. Focusing on something else besides her shouldn’t make me feel guilty—and it usually doesn’t.

Guilt only comes when I think other people are judging me for it.

“I want to do this job,” I tell Charlie. “Because it means something. To myself. And especially to Audrey.”

“She won’t know who hung the fucking streamers, Jane.”

“She will.” I arch my brows. “Because I will tell her.”

Charlie looks at me challengingly.

I stand my ground. “She would appreciate your involvement more than you really know, and if you do know it, then get out of the hot tub and be the big brother she admires. You can let her down another day. Just not today.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs heavily before standing up out of the hot tub. Water drips off his body and his black swim trunks. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Don’t tell her it was me.”

“Charlie—”

“I don’t want brotherly brownie points for doing the bare minimum.”

I tip my head. “You mean the bare minimum you were about to not even do?”

“Yes, that.” He reaches for his phone.

“Cancel your task rabbit,” I tell him. “We shouldn’t have any strangers on the property in case they take photos.”

“We have a problem,” Charlie says as he texts. “The ladder. Eliot said it’s broken.”

Lovely.

“Set out the tea sets first,” I suggest. “And I’ll find you a ladder.”

“Don’t bother. I’m having my assistant pick one up at Home Depot now.” He has his phone to his ear, but he tells me in French he’s not hiring the task rabbit.

“I’ll have Moffy bring one over in the meantime, if that’s okay.”

I don’t want to step on Charlie’s toes, but the Hale House is closer than Home Depot.

“It’s fine.”

With that solved, I slip back into the house and ditch my thermos on an end table. When I head into the kitchen, I send Moffy a text about the set-up and the ladder.

Need more hands on deck and your ladder. We’re behind schedule.

The mixer growls as Ben makes red velvet cupcakes. The sweets are in addition to the petit fours and bite-sized sandwiches that Tom and Eliot should be bringing with them from Audrey’s favorite café in New York.

Ben physically shakes the machine. “This wasn’t this loud last time I used it.” I doubt manhandling it will help, and I almost assist him.

But I glance around the kitchen. “Where’s Beckett?” He was supposed to be helping Ben. Out of my brothers, I’d bet Beckett would be the least likely to shirk his task.

“I don’t know.” Ben lowers the speed of the mixer. It quiets a fraction. “He left like five minutes ago.”

My phone pings, and I check the text.

Dealing with a diaper explosion. I can be there in ten with the ladder. – Moffy

Ten minutes is ten minutes too late. “Pippy,” I say. “How would you like to be pulled off baking duty?”

“I’d prefer that.” He shuts off the entirely. “What am I doing?”

“Can you pick up a ladder at the Hales?” I start texting Moffy back. No need. You already have your hands full. I’m sending Ben to grab the ladder.

“Sure,” Ben says. He makes a move to leave before glancing back at the mixer. “Wait, if I’m leaving…who’s going to finish the cupcakes?”

Every year, Audrey looks forward to her red velvet cupcakes. Mostly because they’re always homemade by one of us using her recipe.

“I’m going to find Beckett,” I tell him. “You’re off the hook.”

“Thanks, Jane.” He darts out of the kitchen, and I text my brother.

Location?

Beckett’s quick to reply. Your old room.

Peculiar.

We set up a basinet and a changing station in my childhood bedroom, and that’s where I last saw my husband and child. Was there an issue with Maeve? Is that why Beckett’s there?

My pulse and anxiety creep up as I ascend the staircase to the second floor. When I get closer to my room, I hear the soft sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers. With the door cracked, I push it open and see Beckett knelt by the basinet. Music plays from the phone in his hand.

Maeve, dreadfully beautiful Maeve, is fast asleep. The moment I first laid eyes on her, I felt overpowered by love. I’d die for her. I’d kill for her. I’d move mountains and captain warships for her. I wonder if people can see that as much as I feel it.

I hope they understand that the times I give her to Thatcher or my parents to watch over her doesn’t mean I don’t want to be near her. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her. Perception is a gnarly beast. It feels like I’ve been fighting it my whole life. How the world perceives me.

Maybe I should’ve known motherhood would add a variable to the complicated equation. I know how the world sees me as a Cobalt, as a sister, as a daughter. Maeve is only two months old, and I haven’t been out and about enough for the world to decide on how I am as a mother yet.

Am I neglectful? Too overbearing? Too fussy? Too paranoid? Too hands-free?

The media will have something to say. They always do.

I shouldn’t care.

I don’t care.

At least, I want to not care.

Thatcher, closer to the door than Beckett, notices me first. He quietly slips to my side and places a hand on my hip, leading me silently into the hallway.

“Is everything okay?” I whisper.

Stress builds in his brown eyes. “She wouldn’t stop crying when I put her down,” he tells me. “I went through the entire list.” He holds up his phone. In his notes app, he has a list of What To Do When Maeve Cries. Literally, that’s the title, and the first time I saw it, I nearly melted.

“Nothing worked,” he adds and runs a tensed hand over the back of his neck. “I felt like I was standing there with my foot on my dick.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I frown.

“I almost did, honey,” he says. “But then Beckett came upstairs. He started playing that music and she just…fell asleep.” He starts typing on his phone like he’s remembering something.

I peer over, watching him type out: Play the song

He looks up at me for assistance, which I’m glad to provide.

“Waltz of the Flowers,” I tell him. “Tchaikovsky.”

He types it out, and I spell the composer’s name for him. I can tell he’s taking this hard. “No one would have known Maeve likes the Nutcracker,” I assure him. “It was a good guess on Beckett’s part.”

Thatcher blows out a heavy breath and glances back at the door. “Problem is Farrow made this look easy, and I should’ve known it wasn’t. He makes everything look too fucking easy.”

I nod slowly in agreement. “Oui.” I stare at the door too, my belly unsettling. “And here I thought I could have two or three more…”

Thatcher frowns deeply. “Why can’t you?”

“If this is difficult for us,” I mutter, “how are we supposed to handle two kids let alone four?”

“We just do,” he says, a strength engrained in his eyes, his posture. “You’ve never run away from tough situations, neither have I.”

Why do I want the challenge? Why does one child seem so sad to me? No brothers and sisters for Maeve—I can hardly bear to think of it.

I love my siblings. And I know she’ll have cousins. My closest bond is with my cousin, and it’d be apropos if hers was too. But I can’t imagine her never experiencing the love of a sister or a brother.

But then again, there’s still this tightness against my chest, the seated pressure compounding on me. “I’m worried about silly things,” I whisper this painful truth.

His stoic face fractures for a second. “Let me decide if it’s silly.”

“Oh, it is,” I assure with a winced laugh at myself. “The media. The fans. My fans. I’m worried they might think I’m a terrible mom.”

“Jane—”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. He’s looking at me with nothing but bottomless compassion as if he yearns to erase every doubt from my head. “I know it’s a silly thing. I have the tools to not let negative opinions get to me. But I fear I’m spiraling before the opinions form at all. I’m worried about things that haven’t even happened yet, and I don’t know how to change that.”

He slides his arms around me. “Any shitbag who spews that horseshit doesn’t deserve your energy. Even imaginary ones that don’t exist yet.”

I start to smile. “The imaginary ones are quite cruel.”

He nods slowly like he understands this entirely. How sometimes the demons in our heads are the worst of them all. They can’t be slain with swords.

“Don’t let them fuck with you,” he tells me.

I take an encouraging breath. “I’ll try not to.” It’s easier holding on to him. He’s become the defeater of my doubts. “You’re a great dad already. I hope you realize that too.”

Hearing it out loud sends a wave of emotion through him. He inhales it in like he’s breathing in new life force. Then he looks at me and says, “You’re a great mom.”

“I know it. I feel it. I just want other people to see it too.” I cringe at myself. “When did I start wanting outward validation? I don’t even know why I need that right now.” I groan a little. “I want to chuck these feelings in the ocean.”

He leans closer and places a hand on my cheek. “I see it,” he tells me. “I see it, Jane.”

Emotion surges in my eyes. Thatcher validating me—it barrels through me like a steel ball. He sees it. The father of my child. My husband.

The love of my life. My confidante and second-in-command. He folds me into his arms, and I let his words slay the imaginary foes in my head.

Happy Easter! Thank you so much for reading this month's extra bonus. We really wanted to catch up with Jane & Thatcher this month. And it was so much fun writing two Cobalt-centric bonuses. We hope you enjoyed this one!

That's all the promised content for the month, but we'll be back in action in April with two new bonuses and podcasts. Thank you all for being here on our Patreon! Your support means the world to us 💗

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"Prep for Audrey's Sweet Sixteen," Copyright © 2024 by K.B. Ritchie