Page 86 of Beyond Oblivion

She relaxed a little, though I could see the wheels still turning. “Who would want to break her out?” she mused, folding her arms. “Think about it. Her own parents put her in there.”

I shook my head. “I wish I knew, baby doll. That’s exactly what the P.I. is working on.”

“Have we checked social media? What if she’s been working on a following? People love a lost cause. What if there’s this online army of sympathetic supporters out there who think Madison is some kind of misunderstood martyr? What if she hasn’t joined a cult? What if she’s started one?”

She had a point. We were living in strange days. Give the masses a sob story with some flair, and suddenly there’s a fanbase. “That’s a terrifying idea. I’ll pass it on to Kostas, get his people snooping around the Internet. Historically, a bunch of misguided college kids can become a real problem.”

A hint of relief softened her face, and I felt a surge of gratitude. Anyone who added stress for my wife over the next nine months was now public enemy number one. I watched her for a moment, feeling the urge to steer the conversation toward something that wouldn’t have her brows furrowed like she was piecing together a crime scene. “Speaking of little people who require supervision, let’s talk baby names.”

Her face lit up. “Okay, hit me,” she said, turning toward me and resting her head on my shoulder.

“All right. For a girl, how about… Esmerelda? Very Victorian circus performer vibe, right?”

She scrunched her nose. “That sounds like what you’d name a cat living behind a dumpster.”

I nodded, dead serious. “Exactly. Perfect for a kid who’ll throw epic tantrums. Now for a boy: Bartholomew.”

“Trent,” she said, pulling back to stare at me like I’d lost my mind. “Bartholomew? Really? That kid would be in therapy by kindergarten.”

“Fine, fine. What about something classic but unusual, like… Tallulah?” I suggested, trying to hold a straight face.

She laughed, rolling her eyes as she smacked my arm, the sound bright and warm. “Tallulah? Seriously? What about us screamslet’s name our kid after a jazz singer with a feather boa and a tragic backstory?”

Her eyes sparkled as she shook her head, still grinning, and I couldn’t help but laugh with her. “Come on,” I said, pretending to beg. “Tallulahcould be sophisticated! She could rock a top hat and an old-fashioned martini glass by the time she’s three.”

Camille shook her head, still laughing, her cheeks flushed. “No way. Our kid would be the one to spill cold-pressed organic kale and ginger juice on her onesie from her miniature recycled glass jar. Then use her spaghetti noodles as a crown. Tallulah would be mortified.”

I laughed, but then my face twisted in mock disgust. “Look, we arenothipsters who serve our toddler drinks with bamboo straws.”

Camille smirked, leaning in. “Oh, and bonus points if the cup is labeled something minimalist and pretentious like ‘Raw Earth Elixir’—packed with spirulina, locally sourced, of course.”

“Stop,” I groaned, only half annoyed, but I couldn’t stop smiling. “We’re notthatbad.”

She raised an eyebrow, giving me a playful nudge. “No, we’re not. Yet. But who knows? First-time parenting has a way of making even normal people go a little cuckoo. Just imagine us at three a.m. discussing organic diaper fabric or debating baby yoga classes.”

I winced, chuckling. “Okay, if I start saying shit likemindfulness, please slap me.”

Watching her with a look of pure amusement on her face, I allowed myself a short second of pride that my distraction attempt had succeeded, melting away all her earlier worries. It was a moment I wanted to keep, to tuck away somewhere safe, a reminder of why we were here, planning for the future, silly baby names and all.

We tossed names back and forth, everything from favorite book characters like Luna and Jasper to absurdities like Gertrude and Herbert. Somewhere between Ludwig and Petunia, Camille peeled off the throw, leaving it in a heap beside her as laughter smoothed away the last traces of tension in her face. She didn’t need the comfort of it anymore; the names, the banter—it was all the security she needed. I stood up, figuring that if we were going to keep our ridiculous game going, a warm cup of tea might just be the perfect touch to help her completely unwind. She looked a bit worn out from the whirlwind of family lunch and the big announcement. She needed to feel looked after and protected, to know I was there to catch her on even the happy days that felt a little too much—and the smallest gestures meant the most to her. If just noticing and making her some savory warm goodness could do the trick, I’d do it every time.

When I returned with her mug, she wrapped her hands around it, inhaling the steam. I slid onto the couch beside her, pulling her closer until her head rested against my shoulder again. “Movie?” I suggested.

She nodded. “Spaceballs?”

“You know it.” I flashed her a grin, lifting the remote with all the gravitas of a guy about to start a national anthem. I pressed the button, leaning back onto the couch, feeling the warmth of her shoulder under mine. The music of the opening credits kicked in, that goofy, glorious fanfare that madeSpaceballsa Maddox family favorite.

Camille settled in closer, and for a second, all the chaos of the day melted away. There we were: a guy, his girl, and a truly questionable movie choice, exactly as it should be.

She nestled in, tucking her feet up under the throw and releasing a contented sigh. I pulled her closer as the absurdly dramatic opening crawl rolled up the screen. For a moment, we were kids again. It was just the two of us, the glow of the TV, and the ridiculous antics on screen—a little slice of normal.

She tilted her head up, catching my eye with a smile. “Thanks for this,” she whispered.

I gave her a squeeze, my thumb tracing gentle circles along her shoulder, and nodded.

“You said you upgraded the security system, right?” she asked. I could tell by her tone she didn’t want to interrupt our little peace inside the eye of the hurricane by asking.

“In all honesty, I’ve been downplaying it,” I said, watching her carefully as I ticked off each item in my head, knowing this would put her at ease. “I set up high-resolution cameras—four outside, one at each corner of the house, all with infrared for night vision. They’re hooked to motion detection, so they’ll automatically track any movement within fifty feet and send an alert straight to my phone. Plus, they record to cloud storage, so even if something happens to the equipment, we’ve got the footage.”

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