Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
The stars are bright tonight.
Justin leans over and says, “Do you think they know? Babies? When it’s time?”
“I think they do.”
“I think ours is stubborn,” he says, smirking.
I laugh. “Wonder where they got that from.”
He grins.
But it fades too fast.
His face goes serious. Quiet.
“If I don’t make it,” he says, “I need you to know.”
“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
“You don’t. Not tonight.”
“Dia—”
“No,” I say again, firm. “Because you’re not going anywhere.”
He looks at me with those eyes that always give me more than I’m ready for.
But I hold his gaze.
“I will fight for you,” I whisper. “I will scream at doctors. I will drag you back to chemo by your collar. I will cook so many kale-chia-something casseroles your body won’t know what hit it.”
He chuckles softly.
“I will not let you go quietly,” I add. “So you don’t get to say goodbye tonight.”
He nods, lips tight. “Okay.”
I curl into his side, and he wraps the blanket tighter around us.
And for a while, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy anymore.
He talks to the baby again before we go to sleep.
He rests his head against my stomach and whispers, “You come when you’re ready. We’ve got you.”
The baby kicks like they understand.
I cry.
He kisses the stretch marks he once said looked like lightning.
And we fall asleep, heart to heart.
Tomorrow, everything might change.
But tonight?
Tonight we are whole.
And that’s enough.
NINETEEN
TOON
"The bear's paw leaves no permanent tracks, but its impact on the world endures." — Unknown
It starts just after dawn.
Dia’s pacing the hallway, hand braced on the wall, her other curled under her belly.
“You look like you got hit by a truck, darlin’.”
She glares, “thanks, Romeo.” She breathes heavy. “I don’t think these are practice anymore,” she says between gritted teeth.
I bolt up from the couch, where I’d been half-sleeping with one ear tuned to her breathing all night.
She breathes through it, slow and deep like we practiced, then groans, “Yeah, definitely not practice.”
I’m moving before the next one hits. Bag by the door. Phone in hand. Calling the clinic. Calling BW. Getting her coat.
She swats me with it when I try to help her into it. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
I grin. “Sure. Tell that to the wall you just threatened.”
She glares.
But she lets me take her hand.
The drive is the longest thirty minutes of my life.
She grips the edge of the seat like it insulted her personally. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. Every few minutes she squeezes the life out of it.
“God, Justin—just drive.”
“I’m going the speed limit.”
“Screw the speed limit.”
“You yell at me for driving too fast, and now you yell when I don’t.”
She growls like a wounded animal.
“You’re beautiful when you’re homicidal.”
“I will kill you.”
But when the next contraction rolls through, she doesn’t let go of my hand. At the hospital, everything goes fast. Too fast and not fast enough.
The nurses check her in. Monitors beep. Fluids drip. There’s talk of centimeters and effacement and “early labor” and “we’ve got time.”
She gives them a look that says you don’t know shit. She’s already dilated five centimeters.
By the time they get her into a delivery suite, she’s at seven.
“No drugs,” she growls.
I blink. “Babe, maybe we talk about—”
“No. Drugs.”
The nurse glances at me with wide eyes.
I just nod. “She means it.”
Dia breathes through another contraction, her whole body going taut. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders.
“You’re doing perfect,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
She bites down on my shirt.
An hour later, she’s at ten.
“I can’t do this,” she gasps.
“You are doing this,” I tell her. “You’ve done harder things.”
“I’ve never done this!”
“Well, I hate to tell you, darlin’ you got no choice. He’s ready to meet his momma. You’re doin’ this.”
She’s sweating, shaking, but her eyes are on fire. “When I get done here, I’m going to punch you in the junk, Justin Miller! You don’t get to be a sexy smartass when my vagina is about to be ripped in two pieces!”
I lean close, press my forehead to hers. “You’ve got me. You’ve got the club. And you’ve got that kid in you who’s already a damn fighter.”
Tears stream down her face, but she nods.
And when the doctor says push, she pushes.
She groans but doesn’t scream.
I cry. Yes, the tears fall watching her in pain helpless to take it away. I’m enamored by her strength as wave after wave of contractions roll through her.
And then.
He’s here.
A rush of movement. Wails.
A wet, squirming little miracle placed on her chest. As fluids of the bodily variety continue to ooze from her, I watch as the doctor’s clamp the cord handing me scissors.
As I cut the lifeline of my son to his mother, she watches me nodding her encouragement.
Dia sobs.
I can’t breathe.
The baby—our baby—is pink and screaming and perfect. His little fists curl tight, his mouth wide open, voice already louder than life.