A name floated up from somewhere deep in my memory. A name that felt right, that felt meaningful.
“Blake,” I said softly. “I want to call her Blake.”
Knox went completely still.
When I looked up at him, tears were streaming down his face. His jaw was clenched, his hands trembling, his entire body shaking with the effort of holding himself together.
“Knox?” I whispered, suddenly worried I had done the wrong thing.
He shook his head, unable to speak. Then he was on his knees beside my chair, his forehead pressed against my thigh, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
“Knox,” I said again, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair.
“You remember him,” he managed, his voice broken. “You remember Blake.”
“Your brother,” I said softly. “Noah’s twin. I remember... pieces. I remember he was important. I remember he was loved.” I paused, looking down at our daughter. “I want her to carry his name. Is that okay?”
Knox lifted his head, his gray eyes red rimmed and raw with emotion. He reached up and cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears.
“It’s more than okay,” he said hoarsely. “It’s perfect. Blake is perfect.”
Sarah was crying now too, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. Just beautiful.”
I held my daughter, Blake, close to my chest and let the tears fall. Tears of joy, of grief, of overwhelming love. I had missed so much. But I was here now. And I would never miss another moment.
Knox leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead, then to Blake’s.
“My girls,” he murmured against my skin. “My perfect girls.”
We stayed at Sarah’s for another hour, talking and laughing and passing Blake back and forth. By the time we left, the sun was setting and I was exhausted in the best possible way.
Knox carried Blake in her car seat, and I walked beside him, my hand in his, my heart fuller than it had ever been.
24
— • —
Lina
After a few days, I was tired of being treated like I was made of glass.
Knox hovered constantly. If I went to the bathroom, he stood guard outside the door. If I sneezed, he practically called an ambulance. If I yawned, he was ready to carry me to bed and tuck me in with a bedtime story.
It was sweet. It was also driving me absolutely crazy.
“Knox,” I said for the fifteenth time that morning, “I can pour my own coffee.”
“But what if you burn yourself?”
“Then I will have a minor burn and I will survive.”
“But-”
“Knox.”
He stepped back reluctantly, his gray eyes tracking my every movement as I lifted the coffee pot. I poured the liquid into my mug without incident. No burns. No spills. No catastrophic kitchen disasters.
“See?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Still alive.”
