Page 64 of Better as It

“Toon’s asleep,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “Bad night.”

BW nods. “He told me. Nausea again?”

“Worse than usual. He couldn’t keep water down.”

BW’s smile fades. He sets the groceries on the kitchen counter and glances toward the hallway.

“Want me to check on him?”

“Let him rest,” I say quietly. “He fought all night just to breathe without groaning.”

That silence settles between us. The one that’s full of fear neither of us wants to name.

BW claps his hands once. “Alright. I’m organizing the pantry.”

I blink. “You’re what now?”

“Pantry. Baby’s coming soon. You’re nesting, he’s dying—sorry,maybe dying,” he adds quickly when I flinch, “—and someone has to keep this damn house from imploding. I pick me.” This is my brother. When he feels like things are beyond his control, he finds something to control. In this case, it’s my pantry apparently.

He pulls open cabinets and mutters to himself about expiration dates. I sit on the stool and try not to cry.

They all start showing up like that.

Not just BW.

Tank stops by the next day with a handmade mobile for the nursery, little felt motorcycles and stars that spin gently when the fan’s on.

“I don’t know what babies like these days, my boys are grown,” he says, awkward as hell. “But I figured stars are peaceful, and bikes are, well. Us.”

I hug him. He panics and nearly drops the damn thing.

Then there’s my mom, who shows up with a notebook full of “emergency contact lists,” printed schedules, doctor’s notes, and instructions for how to swaddle with one hand.

“This baby will not arrive in chaos,” she declares.

I don’t have the heart to tell her this baby is literally being born into chaos.

Kylee comes too, shy but steady. She’s Red’s ol’ lady and truly one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She has always been my favorite at the produce stand, even before she fell in love with a Hellion. She brings a playlist of lullabies and asks me to promise to play them when I rock the baby at night.

“I wish I had these when I was little,” she says. “You should have them now.”

Even my dad, Tripp, starts stopping by more often. Not for long. Just long enough to check in on Toon, drink half a cup of my terrible coffee, and sit on the back porch like he’s watching the trees for threats.

He doesn’t say much.

But when he leaves, I always feel safer.

Toon’s getting thinner.

Some days are better than others. There are good ones—days where he can eat a full meal, sit in the nursery with me and build furniture, tease me when I groan about my swollen feet.

And then there are the bad ones.

The ones where he can’t get out of bed. Where I have to help him to the bathroom, hold the bowl while he vomits, wipe his forehead as he trembles.

He always says the same thing.

“I’m still here.”

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