Page 137 of Babies for the Big Shot
And then she drools on me.
Not figuratively. Actual drool. Warm. On my shirt. My favorite one, which, until now, had avoided the hazards of pregnancy cravings, emotional outbursts, and stovetop s’mores.
I don’t move.
I should. I could get a towel. Nudge her awake. Pretend I need water. But I don’t. Because somehow, this—her asleep, pressed against me, her hand resting over what I still can’t bringmyself to call “the bump” without sounding ridiculous—is the most peace I’ve had in months.
The movie flickers in the background, voices blurring into soft nostalgia. Sara twitches once, then stills, her hand tightening slightly as she’s anchoring herself. Or the three small lives she’s carrying.
Three.
I never do anything halfway. Of course I’d end up with triplets.
I watch her for a while. Her lashes don’t flutter. Her brow isn’t creased with whatever stubborn thought she usually doesn’t share until it explodes at 1:30 a.m.
She’s not bracing. Not bartering with her emotions. Just… sleeping.
And I think:Damn, she’s brave.
Not in the self-help-book sense. Not in the “stand on a TED stage and talk about overcoming adversity” way. No, Sara’s bravery is quieter. Sharper.
The kind that still shows up after it’s been betrayed. The kind that lets someone lie next to you even when every reason in your body says run.
I can’t remember the last time I trusted someone enough to sleep this close to them. To stay when it would be easier to go. To let my shoulder serve as both pillow and evidence of mouth-related gravity.
But here I am. Shoulder soaked. Heart loud. And I make a decision without the benefit of a whiteboard or a weighted risk matrix.
I’m in.
Fully. Recklessly. Without fine print.
I’m in for the mess. The morning sickness. The swelling. The 3 a.m. medical panics. The endless gallons of chocolate milkwe’re apparently going through weekly now. I’m in for every brutal, beautiful, infuriating inch of it.
Of her.
Because whatever happens next, whatever bombs Isla drops, whatever storms come barreling toward us, I’m not leaving.
I’ve left alotof things in my life.
She won’t be one of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sara
I last approximately fourteenminutes before I regret insisting on coming in to work today.
The elevator doors open on the floor and the air already smells wrong. Too filtered, too still.
The whole office might as well be holding its breath.
I smooth a hand over my stomach. The bump isn’t much yet. Just enough to make my jeans a war crime and enough for my bra to feel like it’s punishing me for my sins.
But to anyone who’s been watching closely?
Yeah. They might be able to see.
Shit.
