DYLAN POV
It all went downhill the moment Ella said, "I need to pee."
Let me rewind for you.
Max and I had been proud godfather candidates all afternoon. We took pregnant Ella to the park, fed her everything under the sun—biscuits, chocolate, some weird fruit with a name I can't pronounce but she swore the baby wanted it—and now, hours later, it was getting dark, and we were trying to get her back home.
Keyword: trying.
"I'm not walking," she had declared while lounging like a stubborn queen on the park bench. "Do you know what it's like carrying a watermelon strapped to your bladder every hour of the day?"
Max—sweet, misguided Max—had offered, "We'll carry you?"
Ella narrowed her eyes. "Carry yourselves. Carry a watermelon every day. Try that and then talk to me."
I tried bribery again. "We'll get you more biscuits. Chocolate. Name it. Want an alpaca? I'll find one."
Nope. She folded her arms. "Bring me a teleportation device."
