Page 60 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby

Two Years Later

Grand Cayman Islands

The waves were slow and lazy that afternoon, rolling onto the shore like they had nowhere else to be.

A breeze stirred off the water, soft and salty, just enough to keep the heat from being overwhelming.

I lay stretched out under a striped umbrella, the sand warm beneath my towel, my hand resting lightly on the gentle rise of my stomach.

We’d found out I was pregnant the morning we left for the airport. We’d been trying for a few months—nothing tracked, no apps or alarms, just letting life happen. Still, seeing the positive test while I was brushing my teeth had knocked the air right out of me.

Webb hadn’t panicked. He’d kissed me on the forehead, calmly tucked the test into the drawer, and asked if I still wanted a window seat on the flight.

Now, two days later, we were parked on a beach in paradise, pretending we weren’t already half in love with something the size of a jellybean.

I turned to him, my sunhat low over my eyes. “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

Webb shifted in his chair beside me, reaching over to adjust the umbrella until it cast more shade across my midsection. I didn’t have much of a bump yet, but he’d been hovering around it like it was made of porcelain.

“I think it’ll be a girl with your mouth and my patience. Which is to say no one’s safe.”

I arched an eyebrow and sat up. “Did you seriously just move the umbrella?”

He didn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Webb, I swear, if you keep covering my stomach, I’m going to end up with a weird tan. Like some kind of sun-worshipping Neapolitan bar.”

He ignored me and grabbed his phone, tapping quickly.

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t?—”

He held up a finger, reading dramatically, “‘According to a semi-reputable parenting forum, exposing your pregnant belly to the sun for more than seven minutes may result in the baby being born with an intense love of heat, extreme sarcasm, and the inability to wear pastels.’”

I glared at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He cleared his throat. “‘Also, possibly a third nipple.’”

I snorted and chucked a shell at his leg. “I refuse to be educated by Reddit and fear-mongering moms in capri pants.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, lowering his phone with exaggerated disappointment. “But this is how chaos babies are born.”

A few minutes passed in silence, with only the sound of the ocean and distant seagulls. Then I heard him stand. When I cracked one eye open, he was kneeling beside me, brushing sand off his knees.

He leaned in and, and with complete sincerity, whispered to my stomach, “Please help me convince your mommy that she can’t keep doing what she’s doing in case you end up crispy.”

I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the sunscreen. But something in his voice stuck with me. There was genuine concern in it—not the dramatic, controlling kind, but the kind that comes from loving someone so much you can’t help but worry, even when it makes you look ridiculous.

I exhaled slowly and moved the umbrella back, adjusting it until the shade once again covered me.

“I don’t want a crispy baby either. But if it comes out sarcastic, that’s definitely on you.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help reaching out and taking his hand. I wouldn’t change a damn thing about us, and I couldn’t wait to have Webb’s baby.

Flash-Forward – 7 Months Later

The Webb Residence (a.k.a. the chaos zone)

To be clear, the plan had been peace. A quiet, low-lit, candle-scented home birth, with soft music, calm breathing, a competent midwife, and Webb holding my hand, saying soothing things in his low, grumbly voice.

That plan lasted exactly thirteen minutes.

I’d just gotten into the birthing tub—trying to decide if the warm water helped or made me want to throw something—when the front door banged open, and Marcus’s voice carried down the hallway.

“Is she crowning? Do I need gloves?”

“ Get out! ” Webb bellowed from the hallway.

I gripped the sides of the tub and hissed through another contraction. “Tell him if he comes in here with mechanic gloves on, I’m naming the baby Marcusina.”

Webb popped back in, pale and already sweating. “He’s gone, I think.”

“He thinks,” I muttered, panting. “That man once broke into our kitchen through a window because he smelled cinnamon rolls. Lock the door.”

He disappeared again, yelling something about boundaries and family planning.

Our doula, Clara, bless her, remained calm throughout it all. She just smiled gently, checked the baby’s heart rate, and murmured words like “progressing beautifully” and “just breathe.” I wanted to hug her and also scream directly into her face.

Another contraction hit like a wrecking ball. “Webb!” I yelled. “I swear, if you’re hiding again, I’m divorcing you!”

He staggered in like he’d run a marathon. “I’m here! I’m here! I was just…uh…re-boiling water.”

“For what?” I growled. “We’re not making pasta!”

“I don’t know. It’s in all the movies!”

Before I could respond, there was a knock, not on the front door—on the bedroom door.

“Hey,” Jesse called, voice muffled. “I brought snacks. Can I trade a granola bar for a baby name reveal?”

“ Get out !” both Webb and I shouted in unison. Clara didn’t even flinch.

By hour four, the brothers had “accidentally” stopped by one by one.

Jackson popped in, claiming he thought it was poker night. Elijah brought a baby blanket and tried to donate a slow cooker “in case we wanted something warm afterward.” Wes just wanted to see if we were alive.

Each of them was screamed at, and each of them fled. And through it all, Webb was a wreck.

He was sweating, pacing, drinking water meant for me, dropping things, whispering apologies to my uterus. At one point, he read aloud a meditation app transcript in a soothing voice until the midwife gently took the phone and turned it off.

“Gabby,” he said around hour six, kneeling by the tub with damp hair stuck to his forehead, “I love you, but I’m going to pass out.”

“If you pass out,” I gritted, “I will birth this baby and then beat you with it. ”

“Roger that.”

When it finally happened—when that last wave hit, and I pushed and screamed and cursed like I was summoning demons—everything stopped.

And then she was here. Loud. Red. Perfect .

Clara placed her gently in my arms, and Webb made a sound like his soul had been kicked through his chest. He sat behind me in the water, arms wrapped around mine, both of us staring down at the tiny human who’d just rocked our world sideways.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hi there, little girl.”

“She’s ours,” I croaked softly. “Webb, she’s really ours.”

We stayed like that for a long time, skin to skin, hearts in our throats, until Clara gently started doing her checks. Webb looked like he wanted to bubble-wrap the whole room.

“Is she okay? Is she breathing? Is that normal? Should her head look like that?”

“She’s perfect,” Clara assured him.

And then came the knock, this time on the bathroom door.

“I made cupcakes,” Marcus called. “They’re baby themed.”

“Swear to God,” Webb muttered, rubbing his face. “I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”

I looked down at our daughter, who blinked sleepily up at me. “Welcome to the circus, sweetheart.”

Webb

I’d held things before, but I’d never held anything like her.

She was so small. Warm and wriggling in a way that made my chest ache. Her skin was a little wrinkled, a little red, and her nose was mine. She had this deep little crease between her brows already, like she was preparing to be unimpressed with the world—another gift from me, probably.

I couldn’t stop staring.

I hadn’t expected her to look so much like me. Gabby had done all the work, and yet, somehow, this tiny creature had come out looking like I’d photocopied my own face and shrunk it down to baby size.

My throat felt too tight for words. It was like someone had pulled everything I was into a single thread and stitched it into this girl’s bones.

“Webb, you can turn around now,” Gabby called softly.

I blinked and glanced over my shoulder. Gabby and Clara had finished whatever medical, sacred, mysterious ritual they’d made me turn away for—something about "placental integrity" and "not traumatizing the dad."

Gabby was being helped out of the birthing tub, her skin still flushed and glowing in that post-apocalyptic-miracle way that only women can manage after bringing life into the world. She looked exhausted, gorgeous, and stronger than I’d ever thought it was possible to be.

“Can I lie down before I shower?” she asked, leaning on Clara for support.

“Absolutely,” the doula said gently, guiding her toward the bedroom.

I followed, still cradling our daughter in my arms like she might vanish if I didn’t hold her just right. Once Gabby was tucked into bed, I climbed in beside her and settled our baby between us.

We didn’t talk for a moment. Just lay there, staring down at the girl who’d made everything bigger and quieter and louder and heavier and lighter—all at once.

Gabby reached over and brushed her fingers along my arm. That quiet little touch between us said more than anything either of us could manage right now.

After a while, she whispered, “So, have you decided on a name?”

I let out a breath and shook my head slowly, eyes never leaving the baby.

“I’ve got a million names still floating around in my head. I need a minute to narrow it down now that I’ve seen her and know what she looks like.”

Gabby smiled softly. “Okay.”

We just lay there, watching her sleep, her fingers flexing every so often like she was grabbing onto invisible dreams.

A little while later, she squirmed and let out a gurgle. Gabby turned to me.

“Did you put a diaper on her?”

I flinched. “Oops.”

She sighed, smiling despite herself. “We’re gonna need a clean blanket to wrap her in. And when I get in the shower, you’ll have to change the bed.”

I glanced at the rumpled sheets, then at Gabby. “I’d lasso the moon for either of you right now. Changing a bed’s no hardship.”

A couple of hours later, I stood barefoot on the porch in a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, holding her in my arms. She’d started fussing, and I didn’t want to wake Gabby—not after what she’d gone through tonight.

So, I’d wrapped the baby up in a clean, soft blanket and stepped outside into the night.

The air was still and warm, and the stars were scattered like diamonds across a deep, velvet sky while the moon hung above the treetops, big and bright.

I rocked her gently, walking back and forth, and then just stood there, looking up at that glowing crescent.

It hit me then—I knew her name.

Delta.

Not just because it was beautiful and felt right on my tongue but because of what it meant—the Mississippi Delta. A place we’d escaped to more times than I could count. Our safe place. The beginning of everything. She was our Delta—where everything shifted and started to flow a different way.

I looked down at her as she opened her eyes.

“Yeah,” I whispered, grinning softly. “Delta. You had me at the last of your momma’s screams, baby girl.”

And right then, holding her under the stars, I knew—this was it.

This was perfection.