Beside me, Shelby is crying.
Again.
Not loud crying. More like quiet, sniffly crying that keeps sneaking up on her every few minutes, causing Waylon to pull her close and tuck her into his chest.
She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his flannel.
“I’m fine,” she insists to no one in particular.
Charli snorts from the chair across from us. “You keep saying that.”
Shelby glares at her. “I am fine.”
“You lost it on the vending machine.”
“Of course I did. I’m hungry, and the stupid thing ate my dollar. That was frustrating!”
Charli opens her mouth to respond, but then her own eyes fill with tears.
She presses her lips together.
“Oh my God,” she groans. “Now I’m doing it.”
I laugh. “We’re a mess.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cabe says, popping sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“Where did you get those?” Shelby asks.
“My truck,” he says.
Then she immediately starts crying again.
“Okay, geezus, here,” he says, tossing the bag at her.
Across the waiting room, Daddy paces.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Albert Storm is as steady as they come, but I guess awaiting the arrival of his first grandchild has even his nerves on edge. He hasn’t sat down once since we got here.
His boots thud softly against the tiled floor with each turn, his hands are jammed into the pockets of his jeans, and his brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to solve one of his newspaper crossword puzzles.
Every few minutes, he glances down the hallway toward the labor and delivery rooms.
Then he resumes pacing.
Grandpa sits near the window with his arms crossed, looking mildly annoyed by the entire concept of waiting.
Grandma sits beside him. Still. Quiet. Patient as a saint.
Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, her eyes closed, and her lips move silently.
Praying.
The sight of it makes my throat tighten.
