He drops to one knee.
The room gasps as he opens the box. Inside is a ring—an oval center stone, flanked by diamonds shaped like butterfly wings.
“Butterfly,” he says softly. “Will you marry me?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only nod and whisper, “Yes.” I break into tears. So happy. So fulfilled. I’m in disbelief that he managed to pull this off while recovering from a transplant.
“How?”
“I’m capable of online shopping and emailing the jeweler to give you a ring as unique as you. Your brother picked it up for me.”
We kiss like no one is in the room, and when we part, the room erupts—cheers, tears, applause. He slides the ring onto my finger, stands, and kisses me like this moment is etched into his bones.
When the congratulatory hugs are finished, I open gifts. A hand-knit blanket from Birdie. A framed family tree print from Sutton. Tiny boots from Paulina with a note that saysfor my first little buddy boy.
My producers and colleagues sent a huge chenille basket full of clothes, baby toiletries, toys, and teethers with a gift card.
Matt bends to grab the next bag and begins to sway.
“Matt?”
He crumples in slow motion.
The room explodes into chaos. Someone calls 911. Greyson drops to his knees beside him. I’m frozen, myheart pounding so loud I can’t hear myself scream his name.
The paramedics move fast. Blood pressure cuff. IV. Calm voices over panic.
“His blood pressure is dangerously low,” one of them says. “We’re stabilizing him now.”
Matt’s eyes flutter open. He looks at me, pain and sorrow flooding his gaze.
“I can’t do this to you,” he whispers. “To you and the baby. It’s too much.”
And then they wheel him away.
And everything I thought we had secured slips through my fingers.
FORTY-THREE
MATT
By day three, I don’t recognize myself.
The numbers on the monitor refuse to cooperate—blood pressure still too low, alarms chirping like they’re mocking us. The doctors have tried medication after medication, adjusting doses until my body feels like a chemistry experiment gone wrong. My veins burn, my head swims, and they’ve switched IV bags more times than I can count, since I’m asleep more than I’m awake.
No, that’s not right.
It feels like I’m suspended between consciousness and sleep, never fully in either one. And I’m afraid if I let my mind relax and stop fighting to stay present—I won’t be strong enough to come back.
The doctors speak in careful voices just outside the curtain, as if whispering will keep the truth from being true. They have no idea how to help me. They’re out of meds to try. Doc has called in the top cardiologist in Texas, and still, I’m dying.
I feel it in my bones.
The weakness.
The fading.
Noelle sits beside me, her body curled into the hospital chair that isn’t made for a pregnant woman. She’s afraid to leave even for a second. Her hair is pulled back, with dark circles under her eyes, one hand always on my arm, my chest—anywhere she can remind herself I’m still warm.
