Just Let Me Love You (Judge Me Not #3)(57)

And then another hits…and another.

“Uh, Missy,” I say nervously. “Can you get Chase for me?”

Missy has just been through this, and she jumps to her feet, a knowing look in her eyes. “Oh, my God, Kay, it’s time, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” I reply.

Missy goes into full action-mode. “Chase,” she yells into the kitchen. “Quick. You need to get out here, like, now! Your wife is in labor.”

That sure gets his attention. Chase is out the door and on the porch in no time. My sweet husband, this is the first time I’ve ever seen him in a true panic.

“Jesus, Kay.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “What do we do first?”

“We should probably go to the hospital,” I offer.

It’s funny—for as panicked as Chase is, I am remarkably calm.

“Yes, yes, good idea.” Chase starts to help me up but then stops and reaches into his pockets.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“My keys,” he says. “Where are my keys? Shit, damn. I forgot where I put them.”

Nick comes out with his baby girl, and he and Missy help calm Chase down. They help him find his keys, which are still on the table, and then we are ready to go.

Chase and I head to the truck, while Missy and Nick prepare to follow.

“I’ll get her bag!” Missy calls out as she heads back into the house.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Nick adds, turning away as Chase helps me into the truck.

Chase and I don’t reply since we’re in too much of a frenzied hurry.

My husband does slow things down for a minute, though, as he takes the time to whisper, “I love you, Kay,” before he buckles my seatbelt for me.

“I love you, too,” I reply, just as another contraction hits.

“Shit,” Chase says. “We better go.”

“Yep, we better hurry,” I agree.

Fifteen hours later, our son is born.





Chase



Six years later…



“Daddy, I wanna thee a ga-raffe.”

“You will see a giraffe, sweetheart,” I reply to Sarah, my precious four-year-old girl. “There are a lot of giraffes at the zoo.”

“Are there bears at the zoo too, Daddy?” my six-year-old son pipes in from the back seat.

“Yes, Jack. We’ll see lots of bears there, too.”

There has been a barrage of questions from my curious children since we left the farmhouse in Harmony Creek.

And these kids of mine are not done yet…

“Daddy, where’s the zoo again?” little Jack asks.

“It’s in Pittsburgh,” I reply.

“Where ith Pithburg?” Sarah wants to know.

I laugh, and Kay twists in her seat to say to our children, “Jack, Sarah, please let your father drive in peace.”

Her tone is scolding, yet gentle. We are such softies with the kids. Kay catches my eye as she twists to face forward, and I know she is thinking the same as me—we adore and love these two little blessings more than life itself.

A ruckus suddenly ensues over who gets to hold which stuffed animal and our sensible family sedan is filled with the sounds of screeching, indignant children for a good five minutes.

Kay gets them calmed down after a while and again settles back in the passenger seat.

“Just think, Chase,” she says, grinning. “This is just the start of the drive. Jack and Sarah will probably get into a dozen more battles before we get to the zoo.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, babe.” I tell her as I place my hand on her warm knee.

The summer sun shines in on her lightly tanned skin, just below the hem of her dress, and I think to myself: This woman is so beautiful.

Eyes back on the road, I smile and hit the gas to continue on our trek from Ohio to Pennsylvania. Ironically, the road we’re on is the same path I traveled over a decade ago, and many times since.

But it’s that long-ago June night that fills my thoughts today.

How different my life was back then. Fucked-up on a cocktail of drugs and seated next to my then-friend Tate, I had allowed myself to be poisoned by my past. I was bogged down in so much anger and resentment that I couldn’t move forward.

The sedan cruises right over the spot where I was busted that night, the spot where my face hit the pavement. My actions that night led me to prison.

I usually feel sick to my stomach when I drive past this point, but today I feel nothing.

I have fully moved on.

I think again of Tate, the kid I was with that night. He’s been dead for several years now. He never moved on, and the same shit that sent me to prison ended up killing him.

But my memories of him live on.

Tate used to like to say, “It’s all about the numbers, man.”

And I guess, in some ways, he was right—it is still all about the numbers.

It is one man, who once stood before one woman, seven years ago this month. It is numerous efforts—some failed, some successful—to get past everything, to reach zero judgments, zero doubts. It is eleven years after one big mistake, seven years after falling in love. It is two kids later. It’s about two lives, who became four lives. All bound by one thing—love.