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)
“I wish I had these when I was little,” she says. “You should have them now.”
Even my dad, Tripp, starts stopping by more often. Not for long. Just long enough to check in on Toon, drink half a cup of my terrible coffee, and sit on the back porch like he’s watching the trees for threats.
He doesn’t say much.
But when he leaves, I always feel safer.
Toon’s getting thinner.
Some days are better than others. There are good ones—days where he can eat a full meal, sit in the nursery with me and build furniture, tease me when I groan about my swollen feet.
And then there are the bad ones.
The ones where he can’t get out of bed. Where I have to help him to the bathroom, hold the bowl while he vomits, wipe his forehead as he trembles.
He always says the same thing.
“I’m still here.”
And I always answer, “You don’t have to be strong today.”
But he is.
He’s strong every damn day, even when it breaks him.
Maritza throws us a “pre-labor brunch.” It’s not a shower. She insists on that.
“We already did the shower,” she says. “This is to feed the two of you, remind you you’re loved, and force you to eat pancakes shaped like motorcycles.”
She makes good on all three.
The clubhouse is packed with the people I never thought I’d call family.
The food is ridiculous and delicious—eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, muffins, and a whole table of weird-ass snacks that everyone swears are “pregnancy-approved.”
Toon manages two whole pancakes and a piece of toast.
It feels like a miracle.
When I sneak away to sit outside for a breather, BW follows with a bottle of water.
“You doing okay?” he asks, sitting beside me.
I nod. “Yeah. I think... I think I’m finally ready.”
“For the baby?”
“For everything.”
He gives me a look. “Even if he’s not?”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that.”
“But you’ll get through it.”
I glance at him.
“Because you’re not alone,” he adds.
And I finally let the tears fall.
Later that night, when we’re back home and everything’s quiet again, I find Justin in the nursery.
He’s standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the edge of the crib.
He doesn’t look tired tonight.
He looks... peaceful.
“Everything’s ready,” I say, stepping behind him.
“I know.”
“You okay?”
He nods. “BW told me you cried.”
I groan. “He’s a snitch.”
“He also told me you’re the strongest person he’s ever met.”
I blink.
“Did he also say that with his mouth full of sausage?”
“Most definitely.”
We laugh.
Then I take his hand and place it over my belly.
“Soon,” I whisper.
“Soon,” he echoes.
We’re not guaranteed forever.
Hell, we’re not even guaranteed tomorrow.
But what we have?
This love, this family, this fierce, wild, broken, beautiful life?
We’re holding onto it with everything we’ve got.
I can’t sleep.
Not because of the kicking—though the baby is currently practicing for the X Games inside my ribs—and not because of the backache or the heartburn or the fact that I’ve peed five times in the last two hours.
It’s something else.
A stillness in the air.
A kind of pause.
Like the universe is holding its breath.
I roll onto my side—slowly, because at this point turning over feels like steering a cruise ship—and find Justin already awake.
He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting gently over my hip. He doesn’t move when I look at him. He just watches me.
“You feel it too,” I whisper.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“It’s close.”
“I know.”
We lie there in silence for a minute, listening to the ceiling fan hum.
Then he says, “Remember the night Clutch took you on your first ride?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“BW followed behind. Tripp made him, but he reported it back to me. Wanted another pair of eyes on the road in case something happened.”
I smile faintly. “You were watching out for me even then.”
“I didn’t want to be,” he admits. “Not at first. It felt wrong. You were his.”
“But you still wanted a connection to me.”
“Yeah,” he says softly.
I trace the tattoos on his forearm with my fingertips.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Of labor?”
I shake my head. “Of what comes next.”
He pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine.
“You don’t have to be brave right now.”
“I want to be.”
“I know,” he says, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “But it’s okay to be scared too.”
His voice sounds stronger tonight. Not physically, his body’s still wrecked from treatment earlier this week, but emotionally.
Like he’s already crossed into whatever comes after fear.
I want to follow him there.
We get out of bed around midnight and sit on the back porch wrapped in a blanket. The autumn air is crisp, but not cold. The kind that smells like pine and smoke and something ancient.
Justin hands me a mug of warm milk—my grandmother’s old sleep trick according to my mom—and takes a sip of his own tea.
We don’t speak for a while.
We just sit.
Rocking slightly in the wooden chairs Tank fixed for us last month.