Page 84 of Curveball

“You made me lasagna.”

“I sure did.” I tipped my head to the side. “Can you grab the salad bowl and put it on the table, please?”

“Sure thing.”

Once we sat down, I placed the envelope against the vase of wildflowers Walker brought me every week. I wasn’t sure why I thought serving him lasagna—the man’s favorite—was a smart idea when I was trying to deliver big news.

He was too busy shoveling food into his mouth to notice the envelope sitting right in front of his face.

When he finally came up for air, I cleared my throat. “Uh… Ace, baby. Did you not notice what’s in front of you?”

Walker tilted his head and then his gaze dropped to the envelope.

His eyes went wide. “Is that what I think it is?”

I nodded, smiling. “I thought we could open it together tonight. And then do something special to tell Hadley.”

He ripped it open like an animal.

“So much for a drumroll,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

His eyes flicked over the paper once. Twice. Then he looked at me—emerald eyes wide, a grin so big it nearly split his face.

“Wildflower,” he breathed. “We’re having a boy!”

By the time the anatomy scan rolled around, Walker’s excitement had only gotten worse—in the best way and in the “please stop ordering tiny baseball gloves” way.

The nursery was already being swallowed by baby clothes and baseball gear.

Because, yes. He’d bought our unborn son baseball equipment.

Dr. Bernier walked into the room and asked if we had any questions before she started.

Walker opened his mouth—

I lifted a hand. “Nope. We’re good.”

I flashed him a warning glare, and miracle of miracles, he backed down. We would’ve lived in that room if I’d let him get started.

Dr. Bernier placed the wand on my stomach. Once she found the baby, the room fell completely still. Walker’s gaze locked on the screen, stunned like it was the first truly holy thing he’d ever seen. You could make out our baby’s head, his little body curled comfortably inside of me.

“There’s your baby boy,” Dr. Bernier whispered.

A few clicks on the machine.

“And here is his heartbeat.”

The quiet room filled with that steady, relentless sound—our son, alive and strong. I looked at Walker. Tears slipped down his face as he stared at the screen like he couldn’t breathe around the love.

I squeezed his hand.

I’d been nervous about doing this again. About the possibility of postpartum anxiety returning, about feeling out of control, alone, paralyzed by fear. But watching Walker with Hadley… watching him right now—I knew, without a doubt, that if I ended up back in that dark place, he’d be beside me. He’d get me through it. He’d pull me to the other side.

We’d get to the other side.

Together.

The End.