Page 128 of Desperate Games

Every glitter blob, every crooked bow, every candy cane drooping a little too far to the side—it’s all hers.

And honestly? I think it’s the most beautiful tree I’ve ever seen.

I keep reading, letting the rhythm of the words soothe us both, letting the warmth of the moment wrap around me like armor against the ache in my chest.

Because even if the storm is still raging outside, in here?

It’s just us.

Me and my girl and my babies safe inside me.

And all of us are here, just waiting for the man who’s become my whole world to come home.

Please come home safe, Remy.

I send that prayer out into the universe, willing it to come true, and I sit and cuddle and read.

The minutes tick by oh so slowly, and I listen to the wind rustling through the tall pine trees standing sentinel over our home outside.

I’d never been to Roseland before Remy brought me here, and it is every bit as pretty as its name. I already have plans to plant rose bushes everywhere in our backyard this spring.

Funny how quickly the future comes, bleeding into reality.

And when Callie finally drifts off, head heavy against me, I brush a kiss over her hair and whisper into the quiet, into the magical glow that seems to fill our house from all the fairy lights and holiday decorations, into the dark storm only I seem to feel.

“Hurry home, Remy.”

Mom’s voice is calm, but I can hear the panic under it. Because even thinking he might not come back is too much to bear.

And it’s when that awful thought starts to take hold that I feel the first pain, and I call my mother.

A few hours later.

“I think it's time. You need to get to the hospital, honey.”

I shake my head, sweat beading on my brow even though the December air creeping through the cracked window is cool.

Stubborn.

That’s me.

Always has been.

“Not without him. I’m not doing this without him.”

Mom rubs my back, sighing. “Andrea, twins come early sometimes.”

“Ohhh, oh, oh wow, ow, owieee,” I groan, gasping and clutching my abdomen as another contraction rocks through me.

“That’s it, I’m calling an ambulance,” Mom says, grabbing her phone.

“Mom, noooooh!” I snap, and the word breaks off into a strangled groan as another wave of pain rips through me.

My whole body seizes, bending me forward, one hand on the table, the other on my belly, swollen and heavy at eight months.

I’ve been trying to hold them off.

To breathe through it.