I steady my racing heart, stare down at my stomach.
Just the one, as it turned out. But you’re the most precious gift I’ve ever been given.
In a few more months’ time, I will look into the eyes of my baby and whisper,Oh, hi. It’s you. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’rehome.
Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
Stay
In the café next to the birth center at Queen Charlotte’s and Chelsea Hospital, I look up as I’m waiting for my Americano, and catch my breath.
Max Gardner. The man who haunted my dreams for so many years is standing just inches away, ahead of me in the queue. He looks older, of course—not a boy anymore—but the extra years flatter him. I can see straightaway that all his best qualities remain: that he is confident and charming as ever, a magnet of a man with a wholehearted laugh and reel-you-in eyes.
The hospital’s pretty warm, and I’ve lost layers since three a.m. this morning, when we came in. I’m now down to just a cotton dress and some cheap rubber flip-flops, which compared to Max—in his designer shirt and smart jeans—suddenly feels unsophisticated, almost childlike. It strikes me that we probably would never have been as good a match as grown-ups as we were as students.
He doesn’t look tired like I do—in fact, at first glance he appears pretty wired. Must be the adrenaline rush of impending fatherhood. Or maybe this is his fifth coffee since he got here.
His smile when he sees me suggests this is the happiest coincidence ever. “Lucy.Hello.” Laughter lines spring to the corners of his eyes.
We stand to one side as we wait for our drinks.
“Are you—”
“Yep.” Max half turns, tips his head back toward the birth center. “My wife Camille. Our first.”
I glance down, notice the dark matte ring around his finger.How strange, I think,that I used to dream about seeing a ring on his hand becausewe’dgot married.
I might once have made a mental note to Google Camille as soon as I’m alone. But I’m relieved to realize I have no feelings deeper than mild curiosity about the woman Max has married. Which is, of course, exactly as it should be. “Congratulations. Do you know what you’re—”
“A little girl,” he says, eyes burning with pride. I see him take in my flat(ish) stomach (maternity units, I guess, are the only place in the world where it’s half-acceptable to do that). “But you’re not...?”
Hopefully soon, I want to say, but instead I shake my head. “I’m here with Jools. Remember Jools? She’s two weeks early. Her husband’s up north for work. Racing down the M1 as we speak.”
Jools and Nigel got married last August, and they’ll happily tell anyone who’ll listen that they conceived on their wedding night. (I’m not too sure about the accuracy of that, but who am I to argue with such a romantic thought?)
Max smiles, then turns his gaze meaningfully to the rings on my finger. “So, you’re married?”
I nod. “Caleb. He’s a photographer. We actually just got married last month.” Even saying his name brings a flush of warmth to my belly.
“Newlyweds,” Max says, with a smile I can’t quite interpret—reminiscence? Envy? “Congratulations, Luce.”
Four weeks ago today, to be exact. It was at Shoreley Hall, an outdoor wedding in the walled garden where we watchedRomeo and Julietthat night three years ago. The whole day was luminous and heartfelt, filled with color and joy. We decorated the fruit trees with bunting and pom-poms, strung lines of bulbs between the branches to glow when darkness fell. Caleb had a raft of friends taking care of the catering, pictures, and music. Two of his nieces were my bridesmaids, along with Jools, and Dylan was a page boy. Our guests squeezed together on long trestle benches for the ceremony, umbrellas at the ready in case it rained. My parents even spent the day by each other’s side, despite still being separated. There was dancing, and a few tipsy speeches, and a vast Mediterranean feast. And laughter, so much laughter.
Toward the end of the night, Caleb and I stole a quiet couple of moments together, perched hand in hand on top of a hay bale. I rested my head on his shoulder as we watched the happy, swollen throng of our friends and family in front of us, jiving and joking and throwing arms around each other. I was barefoot at that point, exhausted from all the dancing, and Caleb asked if I was happy.
“The happiest,” I whispered. And it was true. I couldn’t imagine ever being happier than I was in that moment.
“Funny,” Max says now, an expression on his face that falls somewhere between nostalgia and regret, “how life works out. I sometimes think how great it would have been to have had a crystal ball at eighteen.”
“Would you have done anything differently, if you had?”
He waits for the briefest of seconds as our gazes latch together. “A few things.”
I look down. There’s some stuff I might have done differently, too.But I know I wasn’t meant to end up anywhere other than where I am right now.
“You know what else is funny?” Max says. “I actually have you to thank for meeting Camille.”
