Page 30 of Meating Dalton

“No, Dalton isn’t here. But Zaiden is downstairs,” Nat whispers, wringing her hands in front of the borrowed shirt that falls to her knees. It’s one of Zaiden’s and I’d had to push aside a twinge of jealousy at having to hand it over for her to sleep in.

My brows drop low as her words penetrate my sleep fogged brain. Zaiden’s downstairs? But—My lips drop open and my eyes widen, hurrying out of the bedroom with Nat quickly padding behind me, feet slapping the hardwood floors.

Leaning over the bannister of the second floor, I listen for his gravelly voice. It floats to me and it sounds like he’s holding a conversation with someone but only his voice reaches my ears.

The darkened living room looks empty from my vantage point, no shadowed shapes moving around below me. His voice must be carrying from the kitchen. I move to step down the stairs but a hand landing on my arms forces me to pause and look at my sister’s frightened eyes.

“Sarah,” she pleads, nails slightly denting my skin. “Are you sure this is?—”

“He’s mine,” I nearly snarl, ripping my arm free. I don’t need her to finish her sentence. Zaiden’s mine just as I’m his. And I’ll drag him from the hells of his mind each and every time to remind him who he belongs to. His demons can’t have him.

“Go to bed, Nat.” I gentle my voice so it doesn’t sound quite like an order but the steel in my tone closes the door on the discussion of Zaiden’s mental health. I know what I signed up for.

Wood creaks beneath my bare feet as I tiptoe down the stairs. Zaiden’s probably in the middle of an episode, and the last thing I want is to startle him. A light illuminates Zaiden’s naked back. Gray pajama pants hang low on his hips. I approach cautiously, picking up bits and pieces of his side of the imagined conversation.

“Do you like that?”

“What about Sarah?”

“Oh, really? You’re happy?”

His whispered gravel voice gets stronger the closer I get to the kitchen until I’m leaning against the doorframe. His back still faces me and he keeps whispering to the hallucination sitting across from him. He sits on a stool, one arm resting on the island and body tilted toward the empty seat next to him, as if he’s listening to the other half of the conversation.

Suddenly, his back straightens and he hops off the stool, whirling to face me with a guilty expression, ears turning red.

He pants, darting blue eyes from the empty seat and back to me.

“Sarah—” He waves his hand at the seat without offering more of an explanation. A flush stains his cheeks and broad shoulders tilt forward, shrinking. Nausea swims in my gut and it’s not because of the pregnancy. I hate seeing him like this, folding in as if anticipating a rebuke or a physical assault.

“Dayton,” I say, keeping my voice gentle, imitating his whispered voice from a few moments ago. My arms lift, beckoning him forward. Cautiously, he takes one step toward me, unfocused eyes glancing around the kitchen, looking for an escape or a trap to close around him. He does this with each lift and fall of his large, bare feet until his face looms above me, inches away.

A minute flinch ripples across his skin as I lift my hand to rest on his cheek. He remains tense for several moments before relaxing into the touch, eyes drifting closed. Full lips part, allowing deep inhales and exhales. We stay like that, letting the silence press on us as he wrestles with his mind.

“Sarah,” he croaks, bringing a hand to my waist and pulling me closer. Breath brush over my face.

“We have a son,” he whispers, eyes staying closed. His tongue slips out, wetting his lips. “We name him Zade.” My lip trembles and tears spring to my eyes.

“That’s nice.” My voice crawls out around a rock that lodged in my throat. I pull his hand from my waist to my stomach, pressing it there and hoping it anchors him, reminding him that our child hasn’t been born yet.

“I like that name,” I tell him. His eyes pop open and a tentative smile curls his lips.

“Yeah?” I nod vigorously, feeling a stray tear trail down my cheek. He brushes a finger along my face, wiping the tears away.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head.

“Don’t you dare apologize to me,” I mock growl and he laughs nervously. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Your mind is simply telling you in its own special way what I already know. You’re going to be an amazing father.” More tears leak free and he wipes them away, his smile faltering.

“My Sarah,” he croaks, bringing his forehead to rest against mine. “I love you,” he says softly, like a confession.

I choke out a laugh, letting the tears fall freely now.

“I love you, too.” My lips wobble, but I still bring them to brush along his and he eliminates all the space between our bodies. My fingers rake up and down his nape, reminding me of my dream. Was it a boy I held in my arms?

I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m already holding the center of my universe. Anything else is a bonus.

FINDING FAMILY

DALTON

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