He brought me back, day by day, piece by piece, until I remembered the good things in the world. The smell of spring in the air, the taste of fresh blackberries on your tongue, the simple joy of a summer sunset, the feeling of strong arms around you.
I never would’ve survived, if not for him. And… I never want to be parted from him again. Not ever. Not even for a moment. I know now, better than anyone, that life is far too short to waste time when it comes to the people you love most.
So, I put my house in the Palisades on the market and I put my belongings into boxes. My favorite foods are stocked in his fridge. My toothbrush sits on his bathroom sink. My books are scattered on every surface of his meticulously organized study, driving him to distraction. And there is a beautifully decorated nursery down the hall from our bedroom, painted a gender-neutral shade of yellow.
Sunshine yellow.
I walk into the kitchen and pick up my phone to call Harper, like I do every single day around this time. She never answers, but I always leave a message anyway. I figure she must check them, because her mailbox is never full when I call.
I never say anything exceedingly important. Mostly, I tell her about my day. Stupid stuff — the things we used to laugh about over sushi and cocktails, a million years ago.
The phone rings twice, then kicks over to voicemail.
“Hey, Harper. It’s me. Kat. Your stalker.” I walk to the fridge, seeking a snack, and bend to pull an apple from the fruit drawer. “Not much happening here. The movers dropped off all the boxes today, so I guess this means I’m officially moved in. Wyatt’s being insufferable, as usual, bossing me around about how carryingone little boxis going to send me into labor.” I munch a bite of the apple, shaking my head. “Which is totally ridiculous. I mean, I’mfineand—”
Something splashes against my shoes.
I look down and feel my eyes widen.
“Harper,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m actually going to have to call you back.” I set the apple on the counter with a dull thud. “Don’t tell Wyatt I said this, but he may have been right about the boxes. Because… well, I’m pretty sure my water just broke.”
I hang up the phone and stare at my soaked shoes.
Dammit.
He’s going to be absolutely unbearable, after this.
* * *
“She’s perfect.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off our daughter. She’s got a cap of bronze hair and eyes like the bluest sky. I knew, the first moment I saw her, that she was Wyatt’s. Not that it matters much — he would’ve loved her the same, regardless.
We’ve been standing over the crib, staring at her like lovesick idiots since we brought her home this morning. Neither of us can stop examining her tiny fingernails, leaning in to catch her every cooing noise. I’d actually be disgusted by our obsession, if I had any space at all in my heart for emotions besides pure joy.
The doorbell rings and we glance at each other, wondering who the hell is at our door at this hour.
“I’ll get it.” Wyatt kisses me on the cheek. “You stay here. If she does anything exciting, take a video.”
I laugh, but don’t argue with him. I don’t even have the energy for a snappy comeback. Every bone in my body is so exhausted, I’d like nothing more than to sleep for the next hundred years. But, since I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from my daughter, sleep is going to have to wait.
Her tiny fingers are wrapped around my pointer when I hear Wyatt come back into the nursery. When I look up to ask who was at the door, I see he’s not alone. My eyes fill with tears.
Her hair is a nondescript shade of mousey brown. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the hue she was born with, not an ounce of dye coloring the strands. Her face is completely free of makeup. She’s thinner by about ten pounds and there are deep shadows etched beneath her eyes.
But she’s here.
“You came.” My voice cracks. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” she says with a shadow of her old vitality. “That’s my goddaughter. What kind of godmother would I be, if I didn’t show up?”
Tears are filling my eyes, slowly tracking down my face as I stare at my best friend.
She stares back at me, her own eyes wet with unshed tears.
“Sorry,” I say stupidly. “Postpartum hormones are no joke. I’ve been crying about everything, today.”
She nods, attempting a smile. “Weepy cow.”