Page 43 of Never Yours

He pulls me upright and replies, “I don’t fucking care.” Pressing his forehead to mine, he sighs, “You’re my everything, Ingrid.” He splays his hand on my belly. “Both of you are. I love you.”

And, for the first time, I admit, “I love you, too.”

caleb

. . .

Three Months Later

Ingrid,

We got some good news today! I know you’ll be reading these in one large batch when I get home, but writing to you daily makes it feel like you’re here with me. I can’t share the news, but Pitz and I made some great headway with the project and there’s a light at the end of the tunnel—so to speak.

Twenty one weeks pregnant today. My calendar says our baby is measuring around ten inches, the size of a carrot. By now, you’ve probably gone in for an ultrasound and got to see our sweet baby boy or girl. Fuck, I miss you both so much. The next few months are going to be torture.

I hope Smitten isn’t giving you too much trouble and Travis has helped if you need it. I hope you’re safe and I’m counting down the days until I’m home.

Always yours,

Caleb

caleb

. . .

One Month Later

Ingrid,

Today was hard. No. It fucking sucked. We spent twelve hours working on creating a patch that wouldn’t take. I’m fucking exhausted. I blacked out twice, and while I don’t remember what happened, my first thought when I woke up was that I hope you and our baby are safe.

Tomorrow will be better.

Twenty five weeks, sweetheart. By now, you might know if we’re having a boy or a girl. Did you find out? We should’ve talked about it before I left, but I’m dying to know. I can’t wait to start picking out furniture and to paint the nursery. Do you want a nursery? Some of the guys here say that co-sleeping is a thing. I’m not in love with the idea of sharing our bed with a little one. I’d be afraid I’d accidentally roll over onto it in my sleep. But, if it’s what you want to do, I’m in.

Always yours,

Caleb

caleb

. . .

Six Weeks Later

Ingrid,

We’re on our way back home! We’ve been promised that our families will be welcoming us in San Diego. I’ll admit, I’m nervous you won’t show.

I just finished a book about a billionaire and an accidental pregnancy that Pitz said you’ve probably read. Sorry, sweetheart, you didn’t get the jackpot with me. The Navy doesn’t hand out billions. You’ll need to find a sugar daddy.

That was a joke. For the love, don’t find a sugar daddy. I don’t share, Ingrid.

The calendar says our baby is a coconut. Not sure that makes sense, that’s smaller than sixteen inches. I think my calendar is broken.

I love you so fucking much, it hurts. In ten short days, we start the rest of our lives.

Always yours,

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