I jump in. “But if you guys aren’t good with this, I want you to tell us. It’s okay to say no—you won’t hurt my feelings. I only want to move in here if you all really want me to.”

They look at each other. And think. It’s a little fucking weird, how quiet they are.

“Would you move into Mom and Dad’s room?” Riley asks.

I wink at Chelsea, ’cause we already talked about this.

“Actually,” Chelsea tells them, “we were thinking we’d do some construction on my room down here. Make it big enough for two people, make the bathroom and the closets larger. And your parents’ room . . . Jake and I thought it’d be pretty neat if we made it an upstairs family room. Somewhere we can all hang out together. We could get a pool table, a big couch, a new television . . .”

“And an arcade game!”

Rory’s obviously on board.

Chelsea nods. “And I could draw whatever you want on the walls. And we could paint it together.”

“Oooh, ooh—I want butterflies!” Rosaleen yells. “And unicorns and rainbows.”

“And monster trucks,” Rory says.

“And skateboards,” Raymond adds, tapping his brother’s fist.

“And,” Riley finishes, “a whole wall with One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer Fatheads.”

“Yeah, we can do all that,” Chelsea tells them.

“It’s gonna look like a schizophrenic’s room,” I murmur, and she laughs.

“So about Jake moving in here with us, what do you say, guys?”

“Can I move in with my boyfriend one day?” Riley asks, because she’s smart.

“Sure,” I answer. “When you’re twenty-six and raising six children, you can absolutely move in with your boyfriend, and I won’t say shit about it. Until then, no way.” Because I’m smarter.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever—I vote yes, Jake should move in.”

“Definitely,” Rory agrees.

Rosaleen’s smile is huge as she runs up and hugs me. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Sure,” Raymond says.

We all turn to Regan, who grins her tiny baby grin and seals the deal—with word number four.

“Yes.”

• • •

That night, after the kids’ homework is finished and everyone is in their pajamas, we lie around in the den, watching TV. My cell phone rings on the table—it’s Brent.

“Hey.”

“Hey, how’s it going?”

My eyes land on Chelsea. “Pretty incredible, if you want the truth.”

He chuckles. “Good to hear. Listen, are you free for lunch tomorrow? There’s something I want to talk to you about. Stanton and Sofia too.”

“Yeah, I’m free. What’s up?”

“Well, the thing is, I own this building . . .”

“You own a building?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice building . . .”

Epilogue

One year later

The office I’ve worked in for the last six months is bigger than my old one—top floor with a corner window view. And I don’t share it with anyone. Legal volumes fill the bookshelves on one wall, and a bunch of family pictures sit proudly on my desk. And Brent, Sofia, and Stanton each have their own corner office on the top floor.

Being a founding partner has its perks.

That building Brent mentioned, the one he owned downtown? It’s been extensively renovated and now has a name stenciled in black above the front door.

The Law Offices of Becker, Mason, Santos & Shaw.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

When I kicked Adams & Williamson to the curb, Brent, Stanton, and Sofia started thinking about branching out on their own too. Calling our own shots, picking our own cases. It was a risk, but for the four of us, it was a risk worth taking.

Mrs. Higgens pulled a Renée Zellweger from Jerry Maguire when I left and came over here with me. She pops her head through the office door right now, pearls hanging off her ears, accenting the formal dress she’s wearing. “Jake—you’re going to be late!”

“I’m not going to be late. I’m never late.”

Then I check my watch. “Shit, I’m gonna be late!”

My leather desk chair rolls back as I stand. I check the pockets of my sharp black suit—keys, wallet, phone; I’m good.

“Go, go.” Mrs. Higgens waves. “I’ll shut everything down and lock up.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll see you there, Mrs. Higgens.”

I jog the four blocks to the day-care center where Regan and Ronan spend part of their day. I greet the teacher through the Plexiglas window and sign the clipboard next to the kids’ names. The cheerfully decorated door opens a few minutes later, and the sound of Barney’s “Clean Up Song” echoes through it.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—I have nightmares about that song.

A teacher’s assistant brings out the troublemakers, holding their hands. Ronan is about a year and a half now—a full head of blond hair, freckles on his nose, and a devilish look in his eye that reminds me of his brother. He’s walking, slowly and unsure still—which is why I scoop him up with one arm and Regan with the other. They wave good-bye to the teacher as we haul ass out the door.

“Today, we made paper flowers for the room, and mine was the biggest. Then Mrs. Davis brought a stuffed bear in for story time and I got to hold him. He was gray. And he had two black eyes, and two arms and two legs and a bow tie that was red and—” Regan grips my cheeks in her tiny hands and gives me the bitch brow. “Are you listening to me?”