#conlow

Cliff leans back in the deck chair he’s occupying. Across from him, Connor stands with baby Irina tucked to his chest as he talks with Ilya and Yuna Hollander. Connor is good with kids, he's learned over the years. The man has a gaggle of nieces and nephews, courtesy of his much older siblings from his father’s first marriage, and an equal number of younger siblings from his father’s second marriage.

Across the many family gatherings Cliff has been invited to—you’re my best friend, Cliff; your as much a part of my family as I am—he has always seen at least one kid hanging off of or cuddled up with Connor. Cliff thinks he looks peaceful with a kid in his arms.

Cliff scratches at his stubbled cheek. He wants kids. He’s past 30 already, his partying days far behind him, but something in him won’t settle. None of the women he’s dated have felt like “the one.” And when he fantasizes about his future family, the kids he will have, Connor Connors is always there, a faceless child sitting on his shoulders.

He watches as Connor says something to Ilya, causing the Russian to crow with false sadness, before walking over to Cliff. Irina is still tucked against into Connor’s chest as he softly sits in his own chair beside Cliff.

“I thought you’d want to see her. It’s almost like you’re avoiding her.”

Cliff scoffs. “I’m not avoiding her; I’m just…”

“Nervous?” Connor suggests. Cliff hates how well his friend knew him.

“Yeah, actually. I’ve never seen a baby this fresh.”

Connor laughs, “You can’t call a baby fresh! And yes, you have.”

“No, Caitlyn was already six months old when I finally met her,” Cliff countered, referencing Connor’s youngest niece. “She was sitting up on her own and shit. Irina’s, like, three days old.”