“Hold me,” she says, groaning softly, then breathing fast, “Stay with me, don’t go black, stay with me.”
I nod and hold her, but I start to worry when she keeps moaning in pain.
Don’t fucking go black, asshole!
When we check her in, I’m trying to calm down, but she’s moaning and grimacing and I can’t stop thinking I’m the bastard who knocked her up.
I try to think of the look of happiness on her face when I proposed. I try to hang onto it and remember what she’s told me before. We want this. We want a family. We deserve it like anyone else. I try to think of that look of happiness when she’s on the delivery table, pushing.
Holy god, I don’t even know how I’m in one piece.
I hold her hand as her cries tear through my ears and split me open.
I brush her hair behind her face and watch her chew on her lip as she pushes, while I quietly beg myself to please just hang tight and not let my daughter first meet me when I’m black.
It feels like forever by the time Brooke lets go a sigh and drops back on the table, suddenly relaxed, when I see the doctor holding a squirming, wet, pink figure. “It’s a boy,” he says, and a soft cry follows.
“A boy,” she gasps, delighted.
“A boy,” I repeat.
“Breathing on his own. No complications. He’s preterm—we still need to incubate,” the doctor murmurs.
“We want to see . . .” Brooke cries.
She lifts her arms and they tremble as she waits for them to clean the baby, and it howls in protest, and then, the nurse brings it over.
I’m staring in disbelief as Brooke holds it . . . not it . . . him. Our son.
Our son who stopped screaming when they placed him in her arms.
She ducks her head, her hair tangled, a sheen of sweat across her neck and face, our son wrapped in a small blanket and in her arms, and my body loosens as I bend my head to her, and to him, as a whole truckload of protectiveness, and love, and pure raw happiness slam into me.
“I love him, Remy,” she whispers, tilting her head to me, and I feel so fucking grateful for her giving me this, I just need to kiss her, feel her whisper against my mouth, “I love you so much. Thank you for this baby.”
“Brooke,” I rasp, protectively wrapping my arms around both of them. My throat is raw, and my eyes are killing me, and I’ve never had something so perfect, pure, and precious in my life than my little firecracker and a little part of her, with a little part of me.
“If he’s like me, we will support him,” I whisper to her. “If he’s like me . . . we’ll be there for him.”
“Yes, Remy,” she agrees, looking at our son, and at me, her expression so loving I feel renewed by it. “We will teach him music. And exercise. And how to take care of this little body. It will be strong and astound him and maybe frustrate him sometimes too. We will teach him to love it. And himself. We will teach him love.”
I wipe the moisture from my eye and tell her yeah, that yeah, we will, but I won tonight, and I still wish I felt worthier and I were different. I wish I were perfect for them. I wish I were perfect in every way so they’d never shed a tear for me, worry, or stress because of me. But I love them more than anything perfect ever could. I love them more than anything perfect ever will. Nothing perfect would kill for them like I would, or die for them like I would.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she stretches out her arm, and I realize I stepped back like some pussy afraid to be rejected by them.
“Come here,” she whispers, and I come and bow my head to hers, and I’m not sure if the wetness on my jaw is mine or hers, but it’s taking all my effort to hold myself under control. “I am so in love with you,” she whispers as she nuzzles me, caressing me in a way that makes my eyes burn even harder. “You deserve this and more. While you fight out there, I will fight for you to come home to this.”
I growl, angry that I’m crying, and then wipe my tears and kiss her lips, rasping, “I fucking love you to pieces. To pieces. Thank you for this baby. Thank you for loving me. I can’t wait to make you my wife.”
PRESENT
SEATTLE
The way my wife looks today.
The way my wife smiles today.
The way my wife nuzzles our smiling son as she says, “Goodbye, Racer, be good with Grandma and Grandpa. . . . ”
“Gah!”
I pat the top of Racer’s round little head and kiss his chubby cheek. “That’s right, devil, you heard her.”
“Leave him to us,” Brooke’s mother tells us outside the church, while the team looks on from a couple feet away. Brooke’s sister, Nora, is clutching the bouquet she just caught to her chest, and Pete looks ready to puke at her side because of his feelings for her. Coach is grinning like he never does, while Diane is standing with her arm linked to his, and Riley can’t stop glaring at Melanie’s new boyfriend, who clearly doesn’t give a shit.