Every few minutes, the baby would yawn, eyes rolling back in her head, then snap awake like she’d remembered something urgent.
I knew exactly how she felt.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Macon squeezed my hand, thumb tracing the ridges of my knuckles. “Me too, but we’ll figure it out.”
He meant it, and somehow that was enough.
Later, when the baby was asleep and swaddled in a blanket so tight she looked like a chipotle burrito, Macon ran a damp washcloth over my face and arms, cleaning away the sticky residue of the day.
“You look like shit,” he said, but his voice was all honey.
“Feel worse,” I replied, and let my head loll against his shoulder. He smelled like antiseptic and sawdust and sweat, a combination that, for some reason, felt like home.
“You want visitors?” he asked, nodding toward the closed door.
I shook my head, then hesitated. “Maybe Jojo. If he’s here.”
“He’s been in the waiting room since they got here,” Macon said. “He and Rawley. They won’t leave until they see you’re alive.”
I tried to sit up, and Macon eased me upright, arranging the bed so I could at least pretend to be presentable. The baby grumbled in her sleep, fists still balled up, but didn’t wake.
The door creaked open and Jojo slipped in, holding a Tupperware container and a faceful of nerves. He took in the sight of me, the baby, and immediately burst into tears, covering his mouth with both hands to muffle the noise.
“Oh, my god,” he gasped, eyes shining. “She’s so tiny.”
He hovered at the foot of the bed, visibly afraid to come closer, like he might break something by existing too close to the miracle. I beckoned him over, and he came, hands trembling, standing guard over the bassinet.
Rawley followed a minute later, still in his ranch clothes, dirt smudged up one arm and a bandage wrapped around his thumb. He nodded at me, then at Macon, then at the baby, as if taking attendance.
“Looks like she made it,” he said.
“She did,” I said, and felt the truth of it settle in my bones.
Rawley uncapped a thermos and poured coffee for the three of us, ignoring the hospital’s ban on outside food and drink. Macon sipped, then passed mine over with a smile. Jojo tucked the Tupperware into the corner, still too overcome to speak.
I watched my little family circle around the bed, everyone orbiting the baby like she was a new sun. For the first time, I didn’t feel like a ghost in my own life. I felt present. I felt needed.
“Have you named her yet?” Jojo asked, wiping his nose with the heel of his hand.
I looked at Macon, and we had the conversation without words. We’d talked names on and off, but never landed on one—never wanted to jinx it.
“Margot,” I said, because it felt right. “Margot Annabelle O’Reilly.”
Jojo beamed, the kind of smile that cracked straight through his shyness. “That’s beautiful.”
Rawley grunted his approval, then leaned over to inspect the baby. “She’s got your eyes,” he said, voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
Jojo and Rawley didn’t linger long—just enough to say hello, to promise lasagna for dinner and to ask if I wanted them to bring the baby goats from the ranch for a visit. When they left, the room felt huge, quiet, full of promise.
Macon watched me watch the baby, his face unreadable for a long time.
“What?” I asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, then grinned, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Never thought I’d be here. With you. With her.”
“Me either,” I said, and realized it was true.
