Page 19

EIGHTEEN

DIA

"A mother bear's love knows no bounds; nurture your passions with the same intensity." — Unknown

I go to every treatment with him now.

I sit beside Justin in a too-cold infusion room that smells like antiseptic and defeat, my hand wrapped around his while poison drips into his veins.

He always jokes about the chairs, says they’re the most uncomfortable recliners ever made and that the nurses here could probably win bar fights with one hand tied behind their backs. He calls his favorite one “Chainsaw Suzie” because of how fast she rips the tape off his skin when unhooking the IV. It’s like she wants to cut him with tape.

But the truth?

There’s nothing funny about watching someone you love get sicker before they get better.

The treatments make him pale. The nausea comes in waves. Some days his hands shake so hard he can’t hold a fork.

So I cook.

God, do I cook.

Anything I can find online that boosts white blood cells, helps fight fatigue, keeps him steady. Chicken broth with turmeric. Mashed sweet potatoes with Greek yogurt and flax. Smoothies with spinach, ginger, and almond butter, even though he gags halfway through every single one.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he groans the first time I hand him a green one.

I deadpan. “Only your taste buds. Your immune system will thank me.”

He drinks it anyway. Gags dramatically. But he drinks.

That’s the thing about Justin.

He fights, even when it hurts.

Especially then.

We shave his head together.

He comes home one afternoon, looking at me with that quiet resignation that makes my heart crack. “It’s falling out worse than before. It’s time.” he says simply.

I nod.

We sit in the bathroom. He leans over the tub. I buzz the clippers to life.

Neither of us says much while I do it.

But his hand rests over mine the whole time.

When I finish, I smooth my fingers over the bare skin.

He looks in the mirror.

Says, “Damn. I look even meaner now.”

I smile through the tears I won’t let fall.

“You look like the man I’m in love with.”

He turns to me, serious. “Even like this?”

I rest my forehead against his. “Especially like this.”

At night, we lie together in bed, his arm wrapped carefully around my growing belly. He talks to the baby, his voice raspy from exhaustion but still filled with that steady, grounding strength.

He tells them stories about rides through the mountains, about the first time he met me, about how he once punched a guy named Rollo for using the last clean towel at the clubhouse.

The baby kicks when he talks. Always.

It’s like they know his voice already.

And I think maybe they do.

We start birthing classes in the community center downtown.

At first, we laugh our way through the ice-breakers. Our instructor, a perky redhead named Rachel, tries so hard to make everyone feel comfortable.

Justin deadpans his name as “Doctor Doom” when asked to share something unique about himself.

Rachel blinks.

I wheeze.

But it’s the breathing exercises that stop us both cold.

We’re told to sit face-to-face and practice the rhythm of labor breathing—me inhaling, him guiding the exhale, matching the tempo. It’s meant to build trust.

The second our eyes lock, it gets too real.

He sees the pain I’m holding back. The fear that he won’t be there. The panic I won’t let myself name out loud.

And I see his.

But we do it anyway.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

And we’re a team again.

Maybe the strongest one I’ve ever known.

One night, I catch him curled in the nursery rocker, staring at the half-built crib.

He’s thinner now. Hollow-cheeked. Still strong, but fighting for every ounce of energy.

“You okay?” I ask from the doorway.

“Just thinking.”

I walk in, sit sideways on his lap despite the awkwardness of my belly between us.

He groans. “Woman, you are solid now.”

“Don’t complain,” I tease, kissing his cheek. “I still make your green death smoothies.”

He huffs a tired laugh.

After a moment, he says, “I want to be here when the baby takes his first steps.”

“You will.”

“I want to take them on him first ride.”

“You will.”

“I want to teach them how to be good. And brave. And whole.”

My voice breaks. “You will!”

But inside, I wonder. I spend more time in the kitchen now. Cooking keeps my hands busy. My mind focused. My heart from sinking.

I print out recipes and write little notes on them in ink. Things like: He liked this one—made a face but cleaned the bowl. Or too spicy, scale back pepper next time.

I don’t know why I do it.

Maybe because I’m terrified there might be a time when I have to remember everything.

And I can’t risk forgetting even the smallest thing.

One night, after a rough treatment leaves him too weak to get out of bed, I find a soft lullaby on my phone and curl beside him with my head on his chest.

“Tell me a story,” I whisper.

“What kind?”

“Any kind. One where you live.”

He pulls me closer and tells me about a house by a lake, the sound of gravel under tires, our baby learning to ride a balance bike with training wheels.

He describes the wind. The peace. The laughter.

And I close my eyes and try to believe it’s real. We’re building a life out of broken pieces.

Patch by patch.

Day by day.

And some days are harder than others.

But every morning he wakes up beside me, I thank whatever’s out there listening.

Because he’s still here.

And so am I.

The next day starts with BW showing up uninvited and absolutely smug about it.

He’s standing on the porch, holding a bag of groceries in one arm and a bouquet of mismatched flowers in the other.

“Toon said you were craving peanut butter. I brought peanut butter. And bagels. And some random yogurt Karsci swears is ‘good for pregnancy bowels.’” He makes a face. “Whatever that means.”

I can’t help but laugh.

BW may look like trouble and talk like sarcasm wrapped in denim, but the man’s got a soft spot a mile wide.

“Toon’s asleep,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “Bad night.”

BW nods. “He told me. Nausea again?”

“Worse than usual. He couldn’t keep water down.”

BW’s smile fades. He sets the groceries on the kitchen counter and glances toward the hallway.

“Want me to check on him?”

“Let him rest,” I say quietly. “He fought all night just to breathe without groaning.”

That silence settles between us. The one that’s full of fear neither of us wants to name.

BW claps his hands once. “Alright. I’m organizing the pantry.”

I blink. “You’re what now?”

“Pantry. Baby’s coming soon. You’re nesting, he’s dying—sorry, maybe dying, ” he adds quickly when I flinch, “—and someone has to keep this damn house from imploding. I pick me.” This is my brother. When he feels like things are beyond his control, he finds something to control. In this case, it’s my pantry apparently.

He pulls open cabinets and mutters to himself about expiration dates. I sit on the stool and try not to cry.

They all start showing up like that.

Not just BW.

Tank stops by the next day with a handmade mobile for the nursery, little felt motorcycles and stars that spin gently when the fan’s on.

“I don’t know what babies like these days, my boys are grown,” he says, awkward as hell. “But I figured stars are peaceful, and bikes are, well. Us.”

I hug him. He panics and nearly drops the damn thing.

Then there’s my mom, who shows up with a notebook full of “emergency contact lists,” printed schedules, doctor’s notes, and instructions for how to swaddle with one hand.

“This baby will not arrive in chaos,” she declares.

I don’t have the heart to tell her this baby is literally being born into chaos.

Kylee comes too, shy but steady. She’s Red’s ol’ lady and truly one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She has always been my favorite at the produce stand, even before she fell in love with a Hellion. She brings a playlist of lullabies and asks me to promise to play them when I rock the baby at night.

“I wish I had these when I was little,” she says. “You should have them now.”

Even my dad, Tripp, starts stopping by more often. Not for long. Just long enough to check in on Toon, drink half a cup of my terrible coffee, and sit on the back porch like he’s watching the trees for threats.

He doesn’t say much.

But when he leaves, I always feel safer.

Toon’s getting thinner.

Some days are better than others. There are good ones—days where he can eat a full meal, sit in the nursery with me and build furniture, tease me when I groan about my swollen feet.

And then there are the bad ones.

The ones where he can’t get out of bed. Where I have to help him to the bathroom, hold the bowl while he vomits, wipe his forehead as he trembles.

He always says the same thing.

“I’m still here.”

And I always answer, “You don’t have to be strong today.”

But he is.

He’s strong every damn day, even when it breaks him.

Maritza throws us a “pre-labor brunch.” It’s not a shower. She insists on that.

“We already did the shower,” she says. “This is to feed the two of you, remind you you’re loved, and force you to eat pancakes shaped like motorcycles.”

She makes good on all three.

The clubhouse is packed with the people I never thought I’d call family.

The food is ridiculous and delicious—eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, muffins, and a whole table of weird-ass snacks that everyone swears are “pregnancy-approved.”

Toon manages two whole pancakes and a piece of toast.

It feels like a miracle.

When I sneak away to sit outside for a breather, BW follows with a bottle of water.

“You doing okay?” he asks, sitting beside me.

I nod. “Yeah. I think... I think I’m finally ready.”

“For the baby?”

“For everything. ”

He gives me a look. “Even if he’s not?”

I swallow hard.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that.”

“But you’ll get through it.”

I glance at him.

“Because you’re not alone,” he adds.

And I finally let the tears fall.

Later that night, when we’re back home and everything’s quiet again, I find Justin in the nursery.

He’s standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the edge of the crib.

He doesn’t look tired tonight.

He looks... peaceful.

“Everything’s ready,” I say, stepping behind him.

“I know.”

“You okay?”

He nods. “BW told me you cried.”

I groan. “He’s a snitch.”

“He also told me you’re the strongest person he’s ever met.”

I blink.

“Did he also say that with his mouth full of sausage?”

“Most definitely.”

We laugh.

Then I take his hand and place it over my belly.

“Soon,” I whisper.

“Soon,” he echoes.

We’re not guaranteed forever.

Hell, we’re not even guaranteed tomorrow.

But what we have?

This love, this family, this fierce, wild, broken, beautiful life?

We’re holding onto it with everything we’ve got.

I can’t sleep.

Not because of the kicking—though the baby is currently practicing for the X Games inside my ribs—and not because of the backache or the heartburn or the fact that I’ve peed five times in the last two hours.

It’s something else.

A stillness in the air.

A kind of pause.

Like the universe is holding its breath.

I roll onto my side—slowly, because at this point turning over feels like steering a cruise ship—and find Justin already awake.

He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting gently over my hip. He doesn’t move when I look at him. He just watches me.

“You feel it too,” I whisper.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s close.”

“I know.”

We lie there in silence for a minute, listening to the ceiling fan hum.

Then he says, “Remember the night Clutch took you on your first ride?”

My throat tightens. “Yeah.”

“BW followed behind. Tripp made him, but he reported it back to me. Wanted another pair of eyes on the road in case something happened.”

I smile faintly. “You were watching out for me even then.”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admits. “Not at first. It felt wrong. You were his.”

“But you still wanted a connection to me.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

I trace the tattoos on his forearm with my fingertips.

“I’m scared,” I admit.

“Of labor?”

I shake my head. “Of what comes next.”

He pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine.

“You don’t have to be brave right now.”

“I want to be.”

“I know,” he says, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “But it’s okay to be scared too.”

His voice sounds stronger tonight. Not physically, his body’s still wrecked from treatment earlier this week, but emotionally.

Like he’s already crossed into whatever comes after fear.

I want to follow him there.

We get out of bed around midnight and sit on the back porch wrapped in a blanket. The autumn air is crisp, but not cold. The kind that smells like pine and smoke and something ancient.

Justin hands me a mug of warm milk—my grandmother’s old sleep trick according to my mom—and takes a sip of his own tea.

We don’t speak for a while.

We just sit.

Rocking slightly in the wooden chairs Tank fixed for us last month.

The stars are bright tonight.

Justin leans over and says, “Do you think they know? Babies? When it’s time?”

“I think they do.”

“I think ours is stubborn,” he says, smirking.

I laugh. “Wonder where they got that from.”

He grins.

But it fades too fast.

His face goes serious. Quiet.

“If I don’t make it,” he says, “I need you to know.”

“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t do this.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t. Not tonight.”

“Dia—”

“No,” I say again, firm. “Because you’re not going anywhere.”

He looks at me with those eyes that always give me more than I’m ready for.

But I hold his gaze.

“I will fight for you,” I whisper. “I will scream at doctors. I will drag you back to chemo by your collar. I will cook so many kale-chia-something casseroles your body won’t know what hit it.”

He chuckles softly.

“I will not let you go quietly,” I add. “So you don’t get to say goodbye tonight.”

He nods, lips tight. “Okay.”

I curl into his side, and he wraps the blanket tighter around us.

And for a while, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

He talks to the baby again before we go to sleep.

He rests his head against my stomach and whispers, “You come when you’re ready. We’ve got you.”

The baby kicks like they understand.

I cry.

He kisses the stretch marks he once said looked like lightning.

And we fall asleep, heart to heart.

Tomorrow, everything might change.

But tonight?

Tonight we are whole.

And that’s enough.