Page 57 of The Same Backward as Forward

I told myself that I had time, that babies, especially first babies, didn’t comethatquickly, but each contraction hit me like my body was being split in two. I tried to make it to the door, feeling my way through the darkness, and suddenly, there he was.

“Harry.”That name came first, then the other one, the true one.“Toby.”

“I’ve got you, Hannah.” He lifted me off the ground, and my head lolled against his chest as he continued. “The Same Backward as Forward.”

The next contraction hit, the worst yet, but I didn’t scream, the same way he hadn’t, as I’d nursed him through agony all those nights.

He was here.

He was here.

He was here.

And she was coming.

Somehow, he got me into my bedroom and onto my bed. I could feel myself on the verge of losing consciousness, but his voice brought me back.

“I wrote to you.”

The lights flickered, and suddenly, I couldseehim. All I wanted was to see him. “I hate you,” I said, but the words came out tender—a love song.Ourlove song.

“I know.” He pushed my knees up, put two pillows beneath my head, pressed sweat-drenched hair back from my face.

“For leaving,” I clarified, thinking of that damn letter. “I hate you for leaving andonlyfor leaving, and, for the record? I love you, too.”

My voice gave way to a scream, and his hand slipped into mine. I held on so tightly I half expected the bones in his fingers to break, but he never even flinched.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, breathing the words the moment I could. “I love you,you bastard.”

“You’re almost there.”

I glared at him. “I want the letters you wrote me.”

My glare triggered his smirk, like not even the years and the miles he’d put between us could circumvent that reaction. “They’re postcards, actually.”

He looked years older than he had the last time I’d seen him—harder, sun-worn. His tan wasn’t even. His shirt was threadbare. Facial hair marked his jawline, and still, I knew every line of his face.

“I want,” I said, my body seizing with pain, “mypostcards.”

“One more push,” he told me, “and you can have them.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I didn’t realize I’d said a damn thing until he said it back.

“I love you,” Toby Hawthorne told me. “I have loved you from the moment you dumped a half-dozen lemons on my bed. From before that, even. From the moment I saw you folding paper, from the first sugar castle, from the instant you promised me a merciful death andlied.”

I couldn’t do this, but I had to. For the baby, I had to. I pushed, and I screamed.