Page 32 of Crazy In Love

Which is a nice break, honestly. To see her like this, to appreciate the fine lines of her cheekbones and the long, cascading mahogany hair she tied up hours ago. She uses a thick scrunchy that I know, I can just tell, is made of smooth silk that would create the perfect sliding friction when rubbed between a man’s fingers.

Her shirt rides up, exposing the bottom half of her ribs and delicate vines with draping flowers expertly inked into her skin. The designs sneak from her back to her belly, proving she didn’t go with a small, spring-break tattoo like most girls get. No. She decorated her body with an entire piece that would have taken hours and hours, days, extended across several weeks, sitting in an artist’s chair. It would have meant layers and careful planningand, when it was all done, a hell of a lot of money exchanged from one hand to the next.

Ireallyshould put a blanket over them.

I settle back in my recliner and tap my phone screen for the millionth time since the sun went down, a long white cord snaking from the wall to my device, because fuck knows, without it, I would’ve drained the battery hours ago.

No texts. No missed calls. No baby.

I peek toward Fox’s phone, dumped on the couch cushion by her feet and seemingly forgotten, but her battery remains intact, the time glowing on the screen proof that if the baby was here, we’d know.

One of us would have been alerted.

Groaning, I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling, as minute by minute, time passes through a sieve at the speed of… insanity. Sixty seconds never felt so long, and even when they pass, I merely start again and count the next. Then the next.

Two minutes feels like two hours, which gives me all the more time to obsess over the mortality rate data I tried eons ago to expunge from my mind. For every elevated breath sound Franky or Fox expels, time seems to go slower. Because their ability to sleep is as cruel as eating a meal in front of a hungry man.

Hell, if Fox hugged me the way she hugs Franky, maybe I could close my eyes, too.

“Jesus.”What the fuck is wrong with me? I press my hands to my face and my fingers to my eyes, forcing them shut and holding the lids down, if only to force a little darkness, like that might help me sleep. But then my phone vibrates against my leg, silent, really, but right now, in the state I’m in, it could be a cannon blast piercing my thigh.

Startled, I fumble my phone, spinning it around, then spinning it again, and because the cord tangles, I yank it free of my phone and toss it aside.

Finally, I spy Tommy’s name on the screen. A text, not a call.

I hurriedly open our chat and am met with a beautiful, soul-cleansing, heart-squeezing photo of a baby girl’s foot.

Just her foot.

Air explodes from my lungs, collapsing my chest and drawing tears to my eyes, but I look at the speech bubbles popping up at the bottom of the picture, so I wait. And wait. And wait some more, and when the bubbles continue, but the words don’t come, I consider smashing my fucking phone against the wall.

But then he hits send.

She’s here. If you guys are awake, come on over. Alana’s begging to see you all. If you wanna wait till morning ‘cos Franky’s asleep, she’ll understand.

Then he sends another.

Don’t call me. I don’t wanna spoil her for you. Come meet your beautiful niece face to face. You’re gonna be obsessed like I am.

Wait till morning?

Is he fucking insane?

I bound off the chair and shove the phone into my pocket, and though Icouldleave these two here to sleep, sucking in a few hours of pre-dawn baby snuggles all on my own, I know it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to turn on my heels and bolt out the front door. Every scrap of decency I’ve ever owned not to blame my actions on ‘but I didn’t want to wake you.’

If I bring Fox and Franky to the hospital, I risk Fox grabbing the baby and claiming first rights.Best friend. Aunty. Loud as fuck. Blah, blah, blah.

I could just go. They’ll get over it eventually.

Fuck.

I walk to the couch and slow my breathing. Calm my thoughts and regulate the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. It’s like I’m readying for a fight. Bursting with bloodlust. Prepping to go toe-to-toe with someone bound to leave me busted and bruised.

But none of that is true. There is no threat.

There’s just a woman who deserves to meet this baby as much as I do, and a little boy who deserves it a million times more than both of us combined.