Page 74 of Property of Thrasher
“Five weeks? Maybe six? I’m going to the clinic tomorrow to be sure. I wanted to tell you first.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d throw hands with a nurse if they got to know before me.”
“I’ll warn them you can be a tad over the top protective.” I teased him with a smile.
He cradled the small plastic proof again, swallowed, and I watched the shift happen—the way a man becomes attached to his child.
“What about names?” he asked, voice rough. “Too soon?”
“Maybe a little,” I said, smiling. “But we can dream.”
“If it’s a girl…”
“Don’t say it if it hurts.”
He took his time. “I want to honor without chaining her to ghosts.”
I nodded feeling the emotions build inside me. “Same.”
He paused. “Middle name,” he said finally, quiet. “Not calling her by it. Just carrying it. Lyric fits anywhere.”
“It does.” My throat burned, the good kind this time. “And if it’s a boy…”
“Middle name again,” he said. “Braxton wouldn’t want his full flag on a kid. He hated his name. Said it was formal and he was anything but fancy. But Tino’s a solid middle name. Or just T. We’ll know when we know.”
“We will.”
He glanced at my hand again, at the ring that had already warmed to the heat of me. He took my fingers and brought the band to his mouth, kissing that small circle like a sealing. “Tomorrow we tell the club. Expect noise.”
“I like their noise.”
“You also like their food. It’s how they win you over.”
“They didn’t have to win me. I came here because a woman I loved told me it was safe.” I thumbed his jaw. “She was right.”
His eyes closed on a slow breath. When he opened them, he was present in the way he only was when something mattered beyond words. “You’re gonna be protected like it’s a religion,” he said. “I’ll handle telling my brothers. You handle telling my daughter before she hears it from Pinky and throws a shoe at my head for making her last to know.”
“Deal.” I laughed. “We can FaceTime her tonight.”
He considered the time. “Make it morning. She’s with friends. Let her have the night.”
“You’re a good dad,” I complimented him truthfully.
He rolled his eyes like he didn’t want the compliment but tucked it away like a spare key.
We sat like that for a while and listened to the guitar pretend it was the sound the stars made. He kept his palm anchored to my stomach, not pressing, just there. My body already felt different to me. Maybe it was imagination. Maybe it was my heart making room.
I picked my phone up from the cushion and scrolled to my mom’s name. “Do you want to tell her with me?”
He nodded. “Always.”
She answered on the third ring, voice bright and tired. “Melody? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s… good,” I said, and the word felt new in my mouth, a shape I didn’t have to force. “We have news.”
She was quiet, hopeful already. “Yes?”
“We’re engaged,” I said, because I wanted to lead with the thing she’d understand. “He put a ring on my finger tonight.”
