He glanced over, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. “I mean… it’s a big change. We’ll need a damn minivan. But it’s our baby, Michelle. It’s right because it’s us.”
He said it so simply, so earnestly, that for a second, I almost believed him. I almost let the wave of relief wash over me, chalking it up to my own paranoia. But his eyes, they held a flicker of something else. Not concern. Not exactly. It was… knowing. A deep, settled understanding that felt miles older than this conversation.
He knew.
The certainty hit me like a physical blow, winding me.
“I’m just… not sure I’m cut out for this,” I whispered, testing him. Throwing a pebble into the vast, still water of his knowledge to see how big the ripples would be.
Scott took my hand, and his thumb stroked over my knuckles. “You don’t have to be cut out for it,” he said, his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You just have to be here. And you are. That’s all that matters.”
And you are.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and telling.You’re here. You didn’t go there. To the clinic. He was telling me, in his own way, that he knew about the choice I’d almost made. And he was telling me he’d forgiven me for it. But that forgiveness felt like another layer of expectation I had to live up to. He wasn’t just expecting me to love this baby; he was expecting me to be grateful for the chance.
After a long stretch of silence, I surrendered to it. What choice did I have? This baby was coming whether I was readyfor it or not. Naming him felt like the first step toward accepting that fact.
“Jake,” I said softly.
“What?”
“His name. It’s Jake.”
Scott did a slow blink before a smile swept his face. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not naming my son after your teenage crush.”
“It doesn’t have to be Jake Ryan. Just Jake is fine. Take it or leave it.”
“Now, hold on,” he protested. “Shouldn’t this be a joint decision?”
“Sure, Scott. Like how you named Keith after the famous skater whose slasher graphic is on your board?”
“Keith Meek is a legend.”
“So is Jake Ryan.”
We’d both drawn our line in the sand. The question was when Scott would cave.
He looked at me for a beat, then sighed. “All right, fine. Jake McKallister it is.”
The drivefrom the clinic wound north along the coast, and I looked out over the calming waves, breathing in the sea air. Funny—it was the same ocean as Venice Beach, but here it felt less… threatening. Of course, it helped that Scott made good on his three-step ‘get my family back’ plan, quitting his delivery job only after every stolen case had been replaced with the help of the gifts I’d pawned during my week and a half of luxury. Once Marty lost his leverage, he went hunting for another easy mark.
The kids on the street swarmed us the second we parked, following us inside like a parade. After paying the sitter and shutting the door on the chaos, Scott chased the kids into theirroom for wrestling. Laughter filled the house, reminding me how much I loved it here. The place wasn’t much—just a squat, sun-bleached two-bedroom rental with a crooked fence and a yard that lost the war to weeds—but it already felt more like home than the apartment ever had.
I set my purse on the counter next to Scott’s new postal uniform hanging over a chair. He loved his new mail carrier job. It was the perfect fit for him. His looks charmed the ladies, his humor won over the men, and a pocket full of dog treats kept the canines from biting his ankles. Most of all, the job provided us with the security our family had never known.
I drifted toward the corner of the living room where, against one wall, stood an unexpected miracle: a baby grand piano. Mrs. Cartwright, an elderly woman on Scott’s postal route, had insisted he take it. No one in her family wanted it, and she was eager to give it to someone who did. “Every home needs music,” she’d said, placing her family heirloom in his hands because she’d seen the good in him—and trusted it.
I lifted the lid, ran my fingers across the ivory keys, and sat down. Since receiving it a few days ago, I hadn’t had the chance to play, but now felt right. The keys were both foreign and familiar. When I struck the first chord, comforting notes rang out. Then another. And another. That’s when I felt it—a sudden, forceful kick. I froze. I’d experienced flutters before and little somersaults, but this was the first time it felt deliberate. I pressed a single key. Another kick.
“Jake?” I whispered, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other still playing. He kicked again, like he was keeping rhythm. My heart recognized him. For months, I’d tried to force the bond that should have come naturally. But this… this felt real. Like he was hearing me. Like he understood and had forgiven me. Tears blurred the keys. I laughed softly through them and played on, keeping time with my own little drumbeat.
That momentat the piano had been a turning point. Since then, his kicks had become a familiar language, a private conversation no one else could hear. And now, as I sat on the sand looking out over the setting sun, I felt only peace.
Scott was a hundred feet down the beach, his silhouette dark against the shimmering water as he held Emma in his arms and kept Keith from running too far out into the sea. My focus was on the boy sitting beside me on the thick flannel blanket.
Mitchell.
Normally, we only had him for the weekend, a frantic 48 hours that involved a Saturday morning drive to Venice Beach for Keith’s and Mitchell’s baseball games, then a good hour’s drive to our house in Ventura, and then the same roundtrip drive back Sunday evening in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But this week was different. April had finally married Tony, and they’d gone on a honeymoon. For seven uninterrupted days, Mitchell was ours.
