Is that really my sweet brother talking like that?
Matt huffs softly. “Sounds a little harsh.”
“She thinks I’m a dumb jock.”
“Honestly,” Matt says, “you sound like one right now. Want my advice?”
“That’s why I’m here talking to a half-dead man so he can’t tell my secrets.”
“Your dad doesn’t know you’re failing one of four classes?” Matt’s voice sounds like he’s finding his footing. Not quite as strained as four hours ago.
Parker mumbles, “No, and I don’t want him to find out.”
“Then suck it up. Do the work. Graduate. Not everyone makes it to the NFL—the average career is two years. Did you know that? Put in the effort with your pizza parlor tutor.”
I step back into the room, unable to stop smiling. “You haven’t talked that much since you told me you were dying,” I tease softly. “Which I didn’t listen to, so it doesn’t count.”
Matt reaches for my hand. “Come here. I feel better. For some reason.”
“Divine intervention,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “The doctors say your blood pressure’s improving. They might’ve found the right cocktail.”
I turn to Parker. “And you—check your attitude. Don’t be a Brooks. Be Parker. You’ve got so much love to give.”
He nods quickly. “I’ll call everyone.”
After he leaves, Matt runs his hand over my belly. “We’re getting so close to meeting our son.”
“He’s been tossing and turning. He may be a platform diver.”
“He’s telling you to go home and get some rest. Little buddy is smart.”
The doctor steps in again.
“Did you tell him the good news?”
“I did, but I’m sure he wants to hear it from you.”
“If your numbers stay up for two days,” the doctor says gently, “we’ll let you go home.”
Home.
The word barely registers at first. I look at Matt then—really look at him—and for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like he’s slipping through my fingers. The gray tint that haunted his skin has softened, warmth slowly returning to his cheeks. His eyes lift to mine, tired but unmistakably present, holding me like he’s anchoring himself here. His breathing evens out, his shoulders sinking into the pillows instead of fighting them, and something tight and crushing in my chest finally loosens.
“Home?” Matt asks, with a lift in his voice.
“Yes,” the doctor confirms. “Your blood pressure is the only concern now. Every other marker looks excellent.”
Matt’s fingers curl weakly around mine. “You hear that, Butterfly?” he murmurs. “I’m still stubborn enough to stick around.”
I press my forehead to his, swallowing past the lump in my throat. It’s not a miracle. It’s not the end of the fight. But it’s hope.
It’s a start.
And for the first time since the ambulance doors closed, Matt is letting himself believe we get the future we’ve been dreaming of.
FORTY-FIVE
MATT
