Not all stories have happy endings.
Sometimes, the villains win.
Sometimes, the heroes die.
Sometimes, life breaks your fucking heart into so many pieces, you think you’ll never be whole again.
But you carry on.
You push through.
You keep trying.
Because life is all one big, endless cliffhanger — riddled with uncertainties and inconsistencies, each page suffused with complex characters and heart-aching plot twists that take your breath away. There’s nothing you can do to change that.
All you can do is choose the sunshine instead of the shadows. All you can do is hang onto the knowledge that no matter how dark the night, the sun always rises in the morning and chases away the doom.
Because… no matter what…. tomorrow is another goddamned day.
Fifteen
“You can trust me.”
- A super-villain.
“Baby, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Carrying in the kitchen stuff.” I roll my eyes. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“I hired movers for a reason.” Wyatt scowls at me, crosses the room, and yanks the box from my grip. “Tomovethings.”
I cross my arms and glare at him. “Bossy.”
He grins. “Beautiful.”
“Stubborn man.”
“Stunning girl.”
“It was one tiny box. Did you not hear me saykitchen stuff?” I snort. “We both know I don’t cook. All that’s in there is an ancient garlic press and stale box of Girl Scout cookies from my pantry.”
“Not the point,” he grumbles, pulling me into his arms. “We aren’t taking any more chances.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, scrunching my nose but deciding not to argue.
He kisses me fleetingly, then crouches down, puts both his hands on my stomach, and plants another kiss there. My fingers slip into his long hair, stroking absently.
“Hear that, watermelon?” he whispers. “No more chances.”
A smile touches my lips. I’ve grown so massive in the past few months, my stomach now protrudes out over my jeans, bigger than a basketball.
“I’m huge,” I complain, frequently.
“You’re beautiful,” Wyatt counters, always.
The doctors told us it was a miracle I didn’t lose the baby, the night Masters died. The stress of the crash coupled with my other injuries and a partially-ruptured placenta meant there was something like a ninety-five percent chance of termination when I finally arrived at the hospital and was rushed into surgery.
I was the five percent.