Page 72 of Brutal for It
I laugh, swatting at him. “You’re impossible.”
He leans close, voice low. “Worth it?”
I glance around at the room full of women laughing, hugging, living proof that second chances are real. Then back at him — the man who fought through every storm to stand by me.
“More than worth it,” I whisper.
He smiles, presses a kiss to my hand, and stands. “Alright, ladies,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “You spoil her too much, she won’t come home.”
Doll winks. “That’s the plan, handsome.”
By the time the party winds down, the gifts are packed neatly in the truck, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Sass hugs me goodbye, whispering, “Welcome to the family, sweetheart. Officially.”
I blink back tears. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me,” she whispers. “Just live happy with my boy and my granddaughter.”
On the drive home, the highway lights streak by, reflections of a life I almost didn’t get to see. Tommy reaches over, resting his hand on my leg.
“Good night?” he asks.
“The best,” I say softly. “You did all this, didn’t you?”
He chuckles. “Maybe had some help.”
I smile, tracing the silver locket at my throat. “You really think I saved you?”
“I know you did,” he says simply.
I stare out the window, the moon catching the edge of my ring, the steady thrum of the engine humming through me.
For so long, I thought I was defined by what broke me. But sitting here now with a baby growing inside me, love wrapped around me like a promise, laughter still echoing in my ears, I realize something else.
Life can be brutal.
But it can also be beautiful.
And for once, mine finally is out of the darkness and into the light.
Epilogue
Tommy Boy
Morning slides in soft, the way good things do when you don’t clutch at them. The house smells like coffee and baby soap, even though there isn’t a baby yet—just the pile of gifts the women tucked into my truck last night like they were fortifying us against every storm to come.
Jami’s in the middle of it all, cross-legged on the rug, hair thrown up, my old tee falling off one shoulder. She hums while she opens a bag with tissue paper the color of bubble gum.
“Okay,” she squeals, pulling out a tiny denim jacket with a stitched patch: Little Hellion. She laughs so hard she cries a little. “Doll is out of control.”
“Doll is restrained,” I explain, biting toast over the sink. “That’s the smallest patch you’ll ever see her order. And my mom will be even worse when the baby gets here.”
She holds the jacket up in front of her belly and squints at me, mock-serious. “Size check.”
“Perfect. Baby will grow into the attitude.”
She grins and moves to the next thing. A mobile made of leather stars and thin chains. A book of lullabies that actually play as you turn the pages with my mom’s handwriting in the front: For nights that stretch long—sing anyway. A stack of onesies folded like peace treaties. A handmade quilt done in red and black to drown out some of this pink.
“God, Tommy,” she whispers, fingertips tracing a line of thread. “I didn’t know people did this for one another. I didn’t know people would do this for me.”
