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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

WELCOME TO THE WORLD

BOWIE

It’s the wee hours of the next morning. The hospital room feels like a furnace, and unfortunately, nothing I do cools the room. One of the nurses said they’re having issues with the HVAC. My shirt sticks to my back, and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on my forehead. Poppy’s cheeks are flushed, her hair damp at the temples. She’s exhausted. I lean over her, trying to blow cool air in her face, desperate to do something— anything to help.

“Your breath is hot,” she mumbles, eyes squeezed shut, and I jerk back.

Right. Of course it’s not helping. I feel useless, my heart hammering against my ribs. How do I fix this for her? I’m supposed to be her rock right now, and I’m floundering.

What if I can’t do this? I’ve been a good dad to Becca, but I started from a place of fear and uncertainty, and now here I am again, starting over with a brand-new baby. I’ll have two kids, just like my dad. Two souls depending on me. And Poppy, the love of my life, counting on me to be steady.

I stare at her face. Her beautiful, angelic face. She’s breathing through a contraction, her jaw set as she stares at me with resilience in her gaze. She’s so much stronger than me. She’s the champion here, the rock. And she’s looking at me with so much trust and love, it’s humbling.

Before I know it, her grip on my hand tightens, and the room moves into a blur of instructions and encouragement from the nurse. And then Dr. Talbot is there, smiling warmly.

“Are we ready to have this baby?” she asks.

“So ready,” Poppy grits out. She lets out a sound that’s both pain and determination, and my heart aches with how much I love her.

“You’re doing so amazing, Poppy. You’re incredible. I love you so much,” I tell her as she pushes.

When I see that little guy’s head for the first time, I start to cry, and then his shoulders slide out. I cut the cord and a tiny cry slices through the air.

He’s here. My son. Our little boy.

Dr. Talbot places him in Poppy’s arms and I’m torn between which one to stare at. My emotions are on overload. I kiss Poppy’s forehead.

“You did it,” I whisper.

We stare at him, his scrunched-up nose settling as he’s next to his mama, his tiny fists flailing. All earlier panic dissolves, and it’s replaced by something vast and quiet and warm. A knowing that sits deep in my chest. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. All I have to do is love them the way I’ve wanted to be loved, and that’s already been established. I love them with all my heart.

Poppy and I exchange a trembling smile, tears in our eyes.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers.

“Yes, he is.”

“Jonas Everett Fox, welcome to the world,” she says.

We chose this name to honor our grandfathers. Jonas was my mom’s dad and my favorite grandpa, and Everett is Poppy’s.

“It fits him,” I say.

The next few hours are like living in a dream bubble. Poppy nurses the baby, and we stare at him and each other. Later, I hold Jonas while Poppy drifts in and out of sleep. I doze myself and when I’m awake, I’m surprised by my earlier panic, because this just feels like heaven.

It’s late afternoon when Mom brings Becca to meet Jonas. Poppy has washed up and looks peaceful as she holds Jonas bundled in her arms, his tiny face peeking out from the blanket. I can’t resist stroking his downy hair. He has a full head of hair— just like his dad , according to the nurses.

Becca steps forward slowly, her eyes wide and bright, as if she’s crossing into sacred territory.

“She’s been waiting for this moment all morning,” Mom says, “asking every five minutes if it’s time yet.”

Now that she’s here, she takes her time, each step smaller than the last until she’s close enough to see her baby brother.

I lean down and whisper, “Becca, this is Jonas, your baby brother. ”

She tilts her head, studying him like he’s the most fascinating creature. She tries to whisper too, but it’s more of a whisper-shout, “He so little.” She looks up at me and then Poppy, as if needing confirmation.

Poppy smiles, shifting slightly so Becca can see better. “Isn’t he? He’s your brother. You can say hi, if you want.”

Becca’s hand hovers near Jonas’s blanket. “Hi, baby Jonas,” she says gently. She glances up at me, eyes shining, and I nod, squeezing her shoulder.

“You’re a big sister now,” I remind her. “He’s going to love you so much. You can show him all your favorite things.”

At that, Becca’s face lights up. She leans in and whispers to Jonas, “I show you all my favorite things!”

Poppy lifts a corner of the blanket so Becca can see more of Jonas’s tiny fingers. One of them twitches and Becca gasps, turning to look at me in amazement.

“He moves!” she says, as if his small stretch is the best performance she’s ever seen.

I chuckle, pressing a kiss to her temple. “He’s going to move a lot, and he’ll grow really fast too.”

Becca beams at me and then at Poppy. “I like him,” she says proudly. “He’s perfect.”

We laugh. I have to admit I’m relieved. I was certain she’d learn to like him but not sure how she’d feel to have our attention divided. We’ll see how it goes when we’re home and he’s more demanding, but this is such a great start.

“He’s perfect just like you, Becca,” I tell her.

She can’t possibly smile any wider at that, and my heart quadruples in size.

We take him home the next day and it’s surreal. I’m still in disbelief that I’m living this life. The McGregors greet us at the door, voices hushed as if the baby might wake with the slightest sound. So far, he seems to be able to sleep through anything. Mrs. McGregor, usually so brisk and no-nonsense, gazes at Jonas with melty eyes.

“Just look at those fingers,” she murmurs, completely charmed, and Mr. McGregor grunts his agreement.

Martha reluctantly comes over and sniffs the baby and then nuzzles my hand when I pet her.

Becca waits impatiently, bouncing on her toes. “I show him my pictures!”

I smile at her excitement. “Lead the way,” I tell her.

We follow her to her room and she points to the new one: a small silver frame holding a photo taken just yesterday of Becca and Jonas.

“Me and my baby brother,” she says proudly.

“It’s perfect,” Poppy says, blinking back tears. She points at her eyes. “Happy tears,” she tells Becca.

After a nap, the crew arrives. Rhodes, Elle, and Levi sweep in carrying food and flowers. Weston, Sadie, and Caleb follow, whispering praises about Jonas’s hair and discussing who he resembles most—my hair and eyes, and Poppy’s lips. Henley and Tru with baby Avery peek over Poppy’s shoulder and coo. Penn lurks at the edge, looking nervous.

“All right, Penn, come on, your turn to hold the baby,” I say.

“What? No…that’s okay.”

I ease Jonas into his arms and he holds him like a precious artifact, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“He’s so tiny,” Penn whispers. “Oh my God. How do you not break him?” He looks over at Weston, then at me, panic flaring. “I mean…I kind of want one now, but I see what you mean about needing a playbook, Weston. Where to even begin?”

We all laugh .

“You’ll be fine when the time comes, Penn,” Poppy says. “You learn as you go. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.” She laughs.

Our friends only stay long enough to leave their gifts and to stare at Jonas for a few minutes.

“Call us when you need to sleep and want an extra set of hands,” Rhodes says as he hugs me.

Things get a little stressful for Poppy when she tries to feed the baby and he fusses, rooting but not quite latching. Terms I never thought I’d know or be using, but hello, fatherhood up close and personal.

Poppy’s forehead furrows and she gets more and more concerned when it’s not working. I hover uselessly near her, adjusting the pillow where she wants it but feeling generally helpless.

My mom steps forward, and before Poppy or I can say anything, she reaches down and actually repositions Poppy’s boob, lining it up for Jonas like a football being placed for a field goal.

“There,” she says matter-of-factly. “He should latch better like that.”

For a moment, Poppy and I are stunned speechless. Poppy’s eyes are round and her cheeks are pink. Then Jonas latches on, and Poppy breathes out a sigh of relief.

Helpful, yes, but also the kind of boundary crossing that’s just a little too much. Poppy smiles weakly at my mom, a mix of gratitude and shock.

“Thank you,” Poppy says.

My mom steps back, folding her arms with a satisfied nod.

There’s a beat of silence and then my mom clears her throat. “Yep, it’s probably time that I get my own place, isn’t it? ”

I catch Poppy’s eye. She looks relieved and is biting back a laugh.

“You said it, not me,” I tell Mom, raising my hands in mock surrender.

Mom grins. There’s no argument this time—no guilt, no pushback—and I’m grateful. Maybe we’ve grown beyond those old patterns. She’s proven she can be helpful, despite it being mortifying at times, and now she knows when it’s time to step back.

“Maybe after Thanksgiving,” she adds.

“Okay, Mom. Thanks. That sounds good. Somewhere close, though, so we can see you often.”

She pats my arm. “I like the sound of that.”

When we crawl into bed that night, Jonas asleep in the little bassinet on Poppy’s side, I turn and face Poppy.

“I’m in awe of you,” I tell her. “And I feel like the luckiest man alive.”

She turns and smiles at me. “I’m so glad you opened your heart to me, Bowie. I love our life. I know we’re just getting started, but I love it so much.”

I lean in and kiss her.

“Me too, little mama. Me too. Life is beyond good.”