Page 90 of The Celtic Resolution

“Isn’t he?” Saoirse glances at me. “He’s a fighter just like his father.”

“How… how long does he have to be in this?”

“I think another month or so, depending on how he develops. He’s been amazing so far, but he was born three months too early, so…” Her voice cracks slightly and I reach for her hand, squeezing lightly.

“You did an amazing job for him. Keeping him safe, protecting him.”

She rolls her eyes as they sparkle with tears. “I was so terrified that I ruined him or didn’t protect him. A doctor told me that having a cryptic pregnancy was the luckiest thing because it also protected him. A terrible, alarming situation, and look at him. He’s just… living.”

“I love him already.” It’s alarming how certain I am in that feeling. This heavy, warm sensation in my chest just blooms hotter with each second I spend by his side and when I look in Saoirse’s eyes, I know she feels the same.”

“We have to name him.” She glances at me. “I’ve been calling him Clover since he was born because y’know, Irish luck. But he needs a real name.”

She waited for me to pick a name? I’m surprised but very grateful. “Do you have any ideas?”

Nodding, Saoirse sniffles slightly. “I want to name him Liam. It’s a good, strong name. Irish. And I wanted to include my brother, Brenden. So Liam Brenden Del Prete?”

“Gifford,” I correct quickly.

Our eyes meet. “But he needs something of you.”

“He has everything he needs from me. And my name holds nothing but pain. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Bruno, it’s also your name.”

“I know. Unless you agree to marry me in six months.” I chuckle. “But I’m serious. He needs strong names. Gifford is as strong as it gets.”

“Are you sure?” The disbelief is clear on her face, so I lightly squeeze her hand.

“So sure. He’s a survivor, strong and resilient like his mother. He’s a Gifford through and through.”

38

SAOIRSE

“It’s weird being away from him.” High up on the hospital roof, New York stretches out before me like a glittering blanket that twinkles and sways with the wind rushing past. It’s cold, but not enough to send me back inside, not yet.

“Well.” Bruno appears by my side and hands me a champagne glass. “We have spent the past month eating, sleeping, and breathing the NICU. It’ll do us good to take five minutes to ourselves.”

“Will it?” Accepting the glass, I eye the amber liquid curiously.

“It’s just apple juice,” Bruno says. “Didn’t think alcohol would be a wise choice just in case?—”

“In case Cian calls because there’s something wrong with our baby?”

“There’s nothing wrong with our baby. He’s perfect.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“No, I know itistrue. Sure, he was born too early and came into the world stressed like his mother, but he’s strong. Tell me.” Bruno leans against the railing and angles himself to look at me.“How many times in the past four or five weeks have we had an emergency with him?”

My eyes narrow. “Seven.”

“And when was the last one?”

A deep sigh rushes out of me as I speak. “Three weeks ago.”

“Exactly. He’s been the picture of perfect health since then. He’s growing every day. He’s getting stronger every day. He’s just like his mother, and just like him, his mother needs a moment to breathe, so please.” Bruno’s warm hand closes over mine around the glass. “Drink your apple juice and enjoy these moments of just being Saoirse for a moment.”