Addicted After All(101)

And I can’t answer it in words. The point is in every feeling that ripples through my veins and grips my bones. It’s something that shrinks the universe to a single place and slows time to a millisecond. It’s too deep to articulate.

Ryke stares out the window. “The ambulance just parked in the emergency lane.”

Everything is going to turn out okay. I remember back in February, on the yacht, I stood out on the deck with Connor one night. A conversation that we shared crashes against me.

I told him, “I know you think you’re perfect, and that you’ll raise the perfect kid and have the perfect f*cking life. But is there any part of you—even the tiniest part—that is scared shitless?” Before he opened his mouth, I cut him off, “And don’t bullshit me, Connor. Please.”

Connor licked his lips in thought before he said, “I’m not scared.”

It’s not what I wanted to hear. I choked on a laugh, about to turn around and leave him.

But he caught my shoulder and kept me there.

“I’m not finished yet either.” He carried a deep, tranquil serenity that just eased me in an instant. And he added, “I’m not scared because I’ve accepted the future that you fear.”

“English,” I snapped.

“I’m not perfect.” He shook his head at my growing smile. “Don’t tell Rose or Ryke I said it.”

“Deal,” I nodded. I only told Lily.

“I don’t believe my children will be perfect, Lo.” He continued, “I understand that circumstances will change them, mold them. My own, unforeseeable mistakes, might even hurt them. And they may not be perfect, but they will be steadfast.” He paused. “And yours will too.”

Steadfast. A word that I would never describe myself as. Dependable. Loyal. A constant in a world of unstable variables.

It’s something I’d die for my own child to be.

This birth should’ve scared me more, for when Maximoff comes. But I’m no longer saddled with these fears. I want this imperfect perfect kid. Flaws and all.

Because he’s a life I’m meant to give. Because he’s a part of Lily. And because—he’s my son.





{ 30 }

LILY CALLOWAY



In the dead of night, I’m wide awake, my back pressed against Lo while his arms wrap snuggly around me. I stay utterly still, careful not to rouse him from his sleep. My thoughts won’t stop replaying what happened in the limo a week ago.

I’ve been cautious during showers, jumping in and out so I recognize when my water breaks. I don’t think I can handle having a baby anywhere but a hospital. I’m not prepared for the unexpected, and I think, maybe, that’s what being a mom is. Being able to handle all the unexpected things in life.

My arms prick with cold. I’m not ready for this. Rose having her baby first has amplified all of my fears. And I can’t push a pause button. I can’t hit rewind to gain more time.

I am stuck on this course with only one end.

Cries filter through our closed door, from the nursery down the hall. It’s the second time tonight. I hear Lo shift behind me, and I snap my eyes shut. He can’t know I’m awake. He’ll worry. And I’ll worry that he’s worrying. It’s just too much worry for two people.

“Lil…how long have you been up?”

I don’t move.

“You’re holding your breath, love.”

“Oh…” I murmur.

I open my eyes. I’ve been bested, but I’d rather lose to Loren Hale than anyone else. The hall light flickers, and I see shadows through the crack underneath the door and hear the patter of feet.

Lo’s hands find mine in the darkness, and he laces our fingers together in a strong grip. I fixate on the lamp light under the door, and my eyes attune to the baby cries that alternate between soft and incessant. In a few weeks, that will be Maximoff. And what if I can’t calm him? What if he just cries and cries with no end?

What if he hates me? And then I turn out to be a terrible mother that everyone believes me to be.

“Lil,” Lo whispers, “you’re shaking.” He props his body on the pillow and rubs my arm. “You’re cold…”

I lie on my back, and he stares down at me. Pulled away from the door, I cover my eyes with my hands. I don’t want to see the concerned wrinkles in his forehead or the pain in his amber irises at watching me tear-up.