Page 13

TWELVE

DIA

"Be like a bear: strong enough to stand alone, yet wise enough to work together." — Unknown

The cemetery is quiet.

It always is.

Even when the wind cuts across the grass or birds cry out in the trees, the noise doesn’t reach this place.

Not really.

I kneel beside Clutch’s new permanent headstone, fingers brushing over his name like I need the stone to feel my apology.

Benjamin Henderson.

Son.

Loved deeply.

Missed eternally.

There’s no mention of me here, but I don’t need it.

He’s in me.

Always has been.

I sit cross-legged beside the grave, hands resting on my belly, still small, still barely visible, but there.

I wonder when my belly will pop out.

“I guess I should start with the obvious,” I murmur.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words come easier than I expect.

Maybe because I’ve said them out loud a dozen times by now.

Maybe because I know, wherever he is, he probably already knows.

“It’s yours.” My voice wavers.

“But for a moment, I was worried it wasn’t. The timeline makes it yours. Justin’s treatment makes him sterile so I guess it’s time to really wrap my head around it. Benji, we’re having a baby.”

The truth hangs in the air.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

“I’m sorry about things with Justin. It’s not planned. I obviously didn’t expect to see him and in time have all these feelings again. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t actually get closure the first time. I wasn’t ready. For any of this. For you leaving. For someone else seeing me when I didn’t even know if I could look at myself.”

I exhale, slow.

“Justin’s been, well, everything. Kind. Strong. He doesn’t flinch when I cry or when I can’t find the words. He listens. He sends soup and doesn’t ask questions and shows up when I don’t even know I need someone.”

I press my palm flat against my chest.

“I think I’m falling for him. I think maybe I already have. Or maybe I never stopped loving him.”

The tears start, and I don’t fight them.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to love him when I’m still stitched together by the memory of you.”

I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie.

“I feel like I taint your memory by having these feelings for him. But then this part inside me feels like you knew and you always will know, he had me first.”

I blow out a breath.

“Part of me, the part that knows you, thinks you would want me to be with someone who will support me and you would want me and your baby surrounded by the familiar.”

“And now he’s sick. Cancer. Gallbladder. He’s keeping it from the club, from most people. And I’m trying to be strong, but I feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m carrying the weight of you, the baby, and the fear that he might not make it either. How much loss can I take?”

I glance toward the row of trees at the edge of the cemetery.

“If it were you, if you were here, what would you tell me to do?”

I close my eyes and imagine his voice.

Not angry.

Just that low, certain tone he used when he knew I wasn’t taking care of myself.

You love who shows up.

You stay soft.

You don’t hide.

And you don’t run from the ones who would bleed for you.

When I stand, the wind picks up and carries away the last of my tears.

“I’m going to move in with him,” I whisper.

“Not because it’s easy. Not because I’ve stopped loving you. But because it’s what I’d want you to do for me if the roles were reversed.”

I touch the stone one last time.

“Thank you for loving me while you could.”

And then I walk away, the sun warm on my back, my heart cracked wide but open again.

Two Months Later

I step inside with a box under one arm, my other hand resting on my lower back.

My feet are throbbing, my ankles look like they belong to someone ten months pregnant, not seven, and I’m sweating in places no one should sweat in October.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter.

Justin is behind me with two more boxes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You sure you don’t want me to carry that one too?”

“I need to feel like I’m contributing.”

“You’re growing a human. That’s contribution enough.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue.

We’ve been prepping for this day since I said yes.

Justin didn’t ask questions.

Just kissed my forehead and got to work.

Now, the house smells like paint and new beginnings.

The nursery’s still just an empty room with a rocking chair and a couple of picture books, but it’s ours.

The dual suites give me space when I need it, but lately.

.

.

I’ve been drifting more and more into his.

Like tonight.

Later, after most of the boxes are stacked and the sun starts to drop behind the treetops, I collapse onto the couch and peel off my socks.

“My feet hate me.”

Justin drops beside me, lifting one of my legs into his lap.

“Want me to work my magic?”

“You say that like you’ve got credentials.”

“I’ve got hands. And sympathy.”

He begins to rub my arch, slow and firm.

I groan.

Not a polite groan either, no it’s a full-blown God bless you, man kind of groan.

Justin chuckles.

“That good?”

“I might marry you out of foot related gratitude.”

“Noted.” He smirks.

He moves to my other foot, and I close my eyes, head tipping back.

“You okay?” I ask softly, voice slurring from how relaxed I feel.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is quieter than usual.

“Today’s good.”

“You sure?”

He nods, still massaging.

“It was a light week for treatment. No drip this round. Just pills.”

I open one eye.

“And?”

“And I didn’t puke. Yet.”

I smirk.

“Progress.”

He grins back.

“Told you I’m tough.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I don’t deny it.

Because I do love it.

I love everything about him.

It’s just mixed up inside me.

The past us and the current us aren’t the same even though we are still us.

I let my hand drift across his thigh, light and slow.

His fingers pause on my foot.

The shift in energy is immediate, still soft, but charged.

Our eyes meet.

Neither of us speaks.

Instead, I slide closer, legs draping across his lap, hands curling in his shirt.

He leans in first.

His mouth finds mine, and it’s not hurried or wild.

It’s steady like Justin.

Gentle.

His lips linger.

His hands curve around my hips, warm and sure.

I breathe him in, cedar soap, the faintest taste of mint toothpaste, and kiss him deeper, hunger creeping in like fire catching kindling.

He shifts, lifting me with care like I might break.

I feel huge.

He touches me like I’m delicate and still wanted.

We make it to his bed one kiss at a time.

He lays me down, hands brushing over my belly like it’s a sacred thing.

I kiss his jaw, his neck, the scar near his collarbone that he never talks about.

He’s slower now—different than the last time.

It’s not just sex.

It’s connection.

His hand slides under my shirt, and I let him feel the curve of my stomach.

I watch his expression shift.

Not fear.

Not uncertainty.

Just awe.

He undresses me like he’s memorizing every new mark and curve.

His hands on my hips, mouth on my shoulder, eyes never leaving mine.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice thick.

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

When he’s inside me, it’s not about forgetting.

It’s about remembering.

Who we are, what we’ve survived, how fragile and raw we’ve both become.

I clutch him to me like I need him to anchor me.

And when I come apart, it’s not loud.

It’s not wild.

It’s quiet and deep and so full of love that I could cry.

After, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers stroking slow circles into my back.

Neither of us speaks for a while.

We don’t need to.

Eventually, I whisper, “I don’t know what happens next.”

“I do,” he murmurs.

I look up.

“Yeah?”

“We keep going.”