Mason says something back to me, but I don’t hear it thanks to the blood suddenly rushing through my ears. My whole world seems to pause as I register the faint tap against my palm.
It’s become a habit whenever I’m near Isabelle to rest my hand against her stomach, especially since she’s been feeling BB move around so much more over the past few weeks.
My body freezes, tingles dance up my arms, and I swallow down a lump in my throat.
Izzy tells me our daughter moves more whenever I’m talking. Whenever she comes home from work, I make a point to say a few words to my little girl, excitedly anticipating the day it’ll happen. Even when I’m coming home from the bar in the middle of the night, I sneak into bed while Isabelle sleeps soundly and say a few words to her stomach, but nothing.Until now.
My head turns to Izzy’s stomach.
“Did you feel that?” Isabelle whispers.
With tears clouding my eyes, I nod. “Yeah.”
“Oh my god! You felt the baby?” my sister shrieks, then a flurry of movement happens behind me. When I look around, both our families are gathered behind me.
“Talk, Grim. You know she loves to hear you.” Isabelle encourages me, but with everyone watching, I feel a little foolish.
I chew on my lip, trying to think of the right words. A hand lands on my shoulder, followed by the calming lavender perfume of my mother.
“Hey, my little girl. It’s your daddy.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I wipe my eyes with my free hand. “I can’t wait to meet you.”
A little tap hits my hand, pulling a laugh from me. There’s another bump, then a flat-out punch against my palm.
I’m pulled from the moment by a high-pitched wail behind me.
“Told you she was likely to cry,” Mason mutters.
All heads turn to Beth, where she stands behind me, crying into Mason’s shirt sleeve.
Chapter forty-three
Thirty-four Weeks
It’s just after seven when I pull into the driveway after group therapy. Tuck and I were asked by our therapist to join an earlier session that had younger people in the group. Both of our journeys with grief started in our early twenties, and he thought it might be good for them to hear how the healing never stops. It’s not a race to be won. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, you just gotta keep showing up for yourself every day. Recognising the good days and the harder ones, because all of them represent your choice to never give up on yourself.
I switch off the car and take a few moments to breathe before I go inside. I let my mind centre on the things I’m thankful for, like the opportunity to have August in my life, as short as it was. For having a family that is supportive and understanding. For finding friends like Tuck and, more recently, Dylan, who hold space for me to be silent and messy as I process my emotions, and teach me to be kind and patient with myself. And my Isabelle. My very own angel. My light, my heart, the hand I get to hold as I move through this life, knowing I’ll never truly be alone again. She keeps me safe and protected from the shadows. She’s led me to a path I never thought was in the cards for me.
Feeling grounded, I get out of my car and head inside through the kitchen door. There’s a chopping board on the benchwith various vegetables scattered over it. Hallie’s sitting on the counter, and as soon as she notices me, she’s up and walking along the edge, seeking a head scratch.
“Hey, Grim. How was group?” Isabelle asks as she messes with the microwave. She’s wearing fuzzy lilac sleep shorts with one of my T-shirts stretched over her bump. I can’t believe our daughter is due in only six more weeks. And in three weeks, Iz and I will be married.
Running my fingers under Hallie’s chin, I smile over at Isabelle, frowning as I notice what she’s doing. I flick my lip ring as I decide the best way to tell this beautiful woman she’s trying to put a saucepan in the microwave right now.
My steps are slow and calm as Isabelle huffs out a frustrated growl to herself, twisting the saucepan handle and pushing at the microwave door with growing frustration.
“Buttercup?” My hands come up, landing on each of her shoulders and giving them a reassuring squeeze.
“Yeah?” she says. “What is wrong with this stupid thing? Why won’t the door close?”
Placing a kiss on the back of her neck, I whisper, “The saucepan goes on the stove.”
I wait for her to respond in some way, but she just stands in my arms, her back to my chest, as we both look at the saucepan handle sticking out the microwave that was never going to fit.
I hear the tiniest sniff and when she turns her head to look up at me, her eyes are filled with unshed tears. I don’t even think before I pull her back into my chest.
“It’s okay, baby.”
“I just wanted to make you dinner.”
