Page 24 of The Song We Lost

“Bailey?” Sadie asks softly, “You okay?”

I nod immediately, the response automatic. “I’m great. Just tired from traveling.”

She studies me for a second, head tilting like she’s always done when she’s not quite convinced. Then she smiles and lets it go, choosing trust over interrogation. Cole doesn’t miss it though, he’s leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, quiet and observant. When Sadie turns back toward what she was working on, he catches my eye. His expression is gentle, but there’s something steady and knowing in it, like he sees the strain beneath my smile and understands exactly why I’m holding it together.

I shake my head. He looks away and then back at me. A look on his face that almost has me breaking down into tears. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, I know he sees through me.

Sadie chatters, listing table layouts and last-minute changes, asking my opinion on things she’s already decided. I listen, offer feedback and laugh when she laughs. I am exactly who she needs me to be.

After lunch, they walk me through their house slowly. The living room is already flooded with light, dust motes dancing in the air. The kitchen smells like fresh paint and sawdust, the counters still wrapped in protective paper.

“This is where the table will go,” Sadie says, gesturing. “And there, a big natural Christmas tree, every year.”

I smile, picturing it easily. Kids running around, safe and happy. A home full of noise and love.

We wonder where the bedrooms are all laid out, “And this,” she says, pausing halfway down the hall, her voice dropping just slightly, “is my favourite room.”

She opens the door, letting me step inside first and I freeze, because it’s a nursery. Unfinished but unmistakable. Pale walls waiting for details. A rocking chair by the window, a crib still in it’s box, leaning carefully against one wall like a promise not yet claimed.

I turn slowly and the view nearly undoes me. Sadie’s hand is resting over her stomach. Cole stands behind her, arms wrapped around her in a way that is protective without being possessive, his palm warm and steady against her not-quite-there-yet belly.

“We’re pregnant,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s early. Really early. We haven’t told anyone yet.”

For a second, the room tilts and then I’m crying. I cross the space in three steps and pull her into my arms, careful and fierce all at once. “Oh my God,” I whisper into her hair. “Sadie.”

Cole wraps his arms around both of us, solid and grounding, and suddenly I’m remembering the first time I met him.

I was sixteen.Sadie had brought him home to the trailer one Tuesday night, nervous like I’d never seen before. Our parents were already gone then. The place felt too small, too thin-walled, like it might give us away.

“This is Cole,” she’d said, fingers laced through his.

I remember studying him carefully. Dark hair cut short. Hands already rough from work. Tired eyes that had seen responsibility early but not bitterness. He didn’t look around like he was taking inventory of what we didn’t have. Didn’t flinch at the peeling linoleum or the cramped kitchen.When Sadie apologized for the mess, he’d smiled and said, “It feels like home.”

He came from working people, too. No money. No safety net. But he had both parents present when he was young, steady even after distance pulled them away. He knew what consistency looked like.And he offered it to her without making a show of it.

From that first night on, he just… fit.

Standing here now, watching him hold her the same way, my chest tightens with something warm and painful all at once.

“We wanted you to know first,” Sadie says softly, pulling back to look at me. “You’ve done so much for us. For all of us.”

“You gave us a home,” Cole adds. “You gave our child something we never had.”

I shake my head, wiping my face. “This was always the plan. I’m just… I’m so happy for you.”

And I am, completely.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. “Not until you’re ready.”

Later, I sit at the big wooden table in the barn, threading twine through tiny glass jars for wedding favours. Lavender sprigs pile up beside me, the repetitive motion soothing.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t look. I know what I’ll see if I do, Luke onstage, lights in his eyes, someone else beside him where I should be. I’ve learned to recognize the hurt before it happens.

So I stay focused on the jars, on the favours, on the quiet work of making something beautiful.

That night, Sadie hugged me tightly before bed.

“Thank you,” she says into my shoulder. “For coming home. For giving us all of this. I know how hard you have worked, how much you have given up to make this dream come true. I... I just want you to know that I see it, we all do. We love you, Bailey.”