Page 109

“Thank you,” I whisper into her hair.
“For what?”
“For trusting me with who he was and who he would have been.”
She leans up and kisses my cheek. “Help me blow out the candles?”
“On three,” I say.
We blow, then I get two forks, handing her one before I dig in, shoving a gigantic bite in my mouth. Her eyes bulge at my lack of manners. After all, I didn’t even cut the cake.
She turns up her nose. “We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
I chuckle. “I’m guessing you missed the part of the tradition where we have toeatthe cake.”
“Oh, okay.” She takes a dainty little bite and puts the fork down.
“No, no, no.” I pick it back up and hand it to her. “Thewholecake.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Allie
Every morning, as if by instinct, the very first thing I do is hold completely still and wait for the babies to kick. Some days I don’t have to do this, because at seven months pregnant, it’s not unusual for one or both to be moving during the night and into the wee hours of the morning. Sleep has become harder to come by with two little ones vying for space as it becomes tighter and tighter. But I’m not complaining. I’ll never complain.
The second thing I do is look over on the dresser where the brand-new urn with Christopher’s ashes sits atop a mirrored tray. His name and the outline of his tiny footprint are engraved on the front. Next to it, also on top of the mirror, is the picture of Christopher and me that Asher printed four weeks ago after we ate Christopher’s entire birthday cake.
I stretch my arm across the empty side of the bed, missing Asher. Pulling his pillow close, I inhale his scent. It’s a mixture of his manly body wash, laundry detergent, and something that’s just pure him. Can other people smell it, I wonder, or is it some sort of pheromone meant only for me?
More and more lately, I’ve come to believe Asher is right. That we’re meant to be together. That even if it weren’t for the babies, we’d have somehow ended up with each other. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday. He often says he feels like he knew me before he met me, like something from an old love song. I thought he was just being romantic. But in the back of my mind, far beyond the reaches of my mortal memory, I feel he’s onto something.
I may have been spiritual before Christopher, but I’ve never been a religious person. And I never thought everythinghappened for a reason. What reason could there possibly be for Christopher having a rare chromosomal anomaly? For Addison losing her leg? For Ava and Trevor not being able to conceive? And there sure as hell couldn’t be a reason why Dallas lost his wife and son in a tragic accident.
But this—Asher and me—it niggles away at me that there is a reason for it. And it goes beyond the babies.
Smiling when an elbow or knee jabs me, I poke back. It’s near the top of my stomach by my ribs, so I know it’s the boy.The boy.That’s how I’ve come to think of them.The boyandthe girl. Because somehow, in my hormonal stupidity, I’ve made others responsible for naming them.
It’s hard not to roll my eyes at Bug’s outlandish suggestions. I think she’s suggested the names of the entire female cast ofGame of Thrones, Dune,evenThe Hobbit.I never react, which is why she hasn’t done it as much lately. A few weeks ago, when she suggested Khaleesi, I simply asked her if the baby girl was going to be the queen, would that makeherthe princess? She stomped away, not at all getting the reaction she’d hoped to get from me.
I have all the confidence in the world that Bug will come up with an appropriate name. And despite Asher’s disapproval of the whole situation, I’m dead set on being true to my word and going with whatever she ultimately decides.
Confident after feeling several rolls, kicks, and punches from all sides, I get out of bed, put on my robe, and barely make it to the toilet without peeing all over myself.
I love being pregnant. But one thing I won’t miss is having to run to the bathroom every thirty minutes.
I stare in the mirror, replaying the words that just flew through my brain.I love being pregnant.
This is what most women experience. The joy and anticipation. The bonding with a baby or babies they know won’t be ripped away from existence and reduced to ashes in a jar ontheir dresser. This is what makes life worth living. And I leave my room with a smile.
My good mood is soured when I enter the kitchen to see Darla sitting on a bar stool slumped over a cup of coffee.
I raise a brow. “Drinking coffee now?”
“I’m in high school, so yeah.”
I don’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. I’m sure if I did, we’d end up in another meaningless debate or with her storming off like she normally does.
She’s been in school for two weeks now. She rarely talks about it. She leaves the house at seven fifty-five every morning without ever needing to be woken up. She returns at six after soccer practice, because thank the Lord for small favors, Christian was right and she made the team. I fear if it weren’t for that, she’d be home by three thirty, back in her room on the phone to Mel. Or maybe texting Christian.