"I will."
He also tells me that Tildie's been setting up our room at the clubhouse—fresh sheets, new curtains, a corner cleared out for baby stuff when the time comes.
She even got Maddox to help her move a rocking chair in there, one that she found at a thrift store and refinished herself.
"She said every new mama needs a place to rock her baby," Garrett says, and his voice is thick with emotion. "These people, Van. They're something else."
"They really are."
I close my eyes and let his voice wash over me.
In two weeks, I'll be home.
In two weeks, I'll start the next chapter of my life—the hard part, the real part, where I have to stay clean without the walls of this facility keeping me safe.
But I won't be alone.
And maybe that's the difference this time.
Maybe that's what will make it work.
The night before I leave, I can't sleep.
I lie in my narrow bed, hand on my stomach, feeling the baby move.
Outside my window, the January sky is clear and full of stars.
Tomorrow, Garrett will be here.
Tomorrow, we'll drive four hours back to Morgantown, back to the clubhouse, back to the life I left behind.
I'm twelve weeks pregnant.
Twelve weeks clean.
Twelve weeks of fighting for something I want more than I've ever wanted anything.
And I'm terrified.
Not of the drugs—though that fear is there too, lurking in the back of my mind like a monster under the bed.
I'm terrified of hope.
Of wanting something this badly and losing it.
Of finally having a chance at happiness and watching it slip through my fingers.
But I've learned something in the past three months.
Fear isn't the enemy.
Giving up is, and I'm not giving up.
Not on myself, not on Garrett, not on this baby who's counting on me to get it right.
I close my eyes and picture the clubhouse.
The garage with its bikes lined up in rows.
