Tears spill down my cheeks as I nod. She saw one of his letters come in and asked me about it. After some convincing, she promised not to tell Noah. Though I might have led her to believe it wasn't as serious as it is.
"I know you’re going to ask, but I don't know how this happened. I've been on birth control for years, and not missed a day," I say.
"Oh, Lucy. When Caden was here, you were on those antibiotics for a sinus infection. They can make the birth control ineffective for up to a week after you finish them," Lexi says, pulling me into her arms. She says nothing, only wraps her arms around me and lets me fall apart against her shoulder. Grace rubs my back.
When I finally pull away, Lexi brushes my hair from my face.
"Does Noah know?" Lexi asks.
"God, no. Please. Don't tell him. Not yet. I can't, he'll lose it. He'll go straight into the war zone and drag Caden home by the collar."
Lexi gives me a look. "You know he might do that anyway."
"Not if I can keep him in the dark a little longer. Caden and I are serious. We have plans for when he gets home," I whisper.
Grace sits beside me. "So, what are you going to do?"
"Keep going. One day at a time. And I’ll write him. Just... not the baby part. Not yet. He needs to keep a clear head and come home safe."
Lexi nods. "Okay. Then we keep the secret. And we make a plan. You're not doing this alone. Got it?"
I nod and try to believe her.
Sunshine,
God, I needed your letter this week. It came after a hell of a twenty-four-hour shift, sand in my boots, and some dumb kid trying to show off with a grenade. Reading your handwriting grounded me again. I sat on my bunk with my flashlight and read your words over and over like they were gospel.
I think a lot about the porch drawing I sent you. The one with the white rockers and the wind chimes. You're there in every version, barefoot, laughing, and a camera around your neck. I started sketching the floor plan again. Open concept with the big kitchen you want. A window over the sink so you can watch the kids play in the yard. Yeah, I said it. Kids. I don't know when or how, but if it's with you, I'm in.
Stay safe for me. Keep writing. You're the thread holding me together out here.
Always,
Caden
The weeks blur together. I keep writing Caden every day and mail a batch of letters every Sunday night, pouring my heart into the pages. I don't tell him about the baby, but I tell him everything else. How I miss his laugh. How I caught Noah trying to fix a broken fence and nearly knocked himself out with a hammer. How I dream about the farmhouse he sketched and how I imagine rocking chairs and soft blankets and wind chimes.
His letters come back in an uneven rhythm. Sometimes two in one week. Sometimes none for almost ten days. But when they come, they're gold.
Lucy,
You were right about the porch. That's where I imagine us most. You with your camera, barefoot and grinning. Me in a rocking chair with a beer and the dog at our feet. I've been sketching again. Drew out a layout I think you'll like. Open kitchen. Big windows because you said you wanted light.
Sometimes I read your letters more than once. Helps me breathe out here. Keep writing.
Always, C
Caden,
It's storming tonight, and I can't sleep. You always said thunder makes you feel alive. Me? I just wish you were here.
I've been thinking about your homestead sketches. The ones with the loft above the living room. I keep picturing anursery up there instead, with soft yellow walls, a rocking chair that creaks, and lullabies floating up to the rafters.
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Or maybe this is what love does. Makes us dream things we're not brave enough to say out loud.
I'm still scared, Caden. Every day. But I'm more afraid of a future that doesn't have you in it.
Come home to me.
