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“Lucas . . .”
“You have to know that Maddi and I both love you.”
“I . . .”
“I love you.” I tell her something I have been trying to tell her for days now. “I love you. Maddi loves you. Like Maddi said, we are your family.”
She sobs. I smile, then press my mouth to hers and say, “I’m not letting you go. Or giving you space. Or taking time. This is us. This is our future, our family. I’m happy, Maddi is happy, and I hope like fuck that you’re happy, too.”
“I am,” she says quietly.
“Then all the rest can be figured out.”
“You’re not mad?”
The simple question catches me off guard.
“The only thing I’m pissed about is that you’re upset. If I had known your history, I could have saved you the worry you’ve been feeling since yesterday. I hate that my question about having kids is what brought this on.”
“You know I love you, too. Right?” she asks.
I feel my muscles relax even while my hold on her tightens. I needed to hear that. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear it until right now, but I needed those words from her.
“Thank you for that gift, baby,” I say. Her face softens. “I promise to do right by you.” I cover her mouth with mine and kiss her deep and wet, then pull back and tuck her head under my chin. “Can I ask you something?”
Her head tips back, and her eyes meet mine. “Anything.”
“Have you ever tried to find your parents?”
“I got my records when I turned eighteen, but in the end, I was left with more questions than answers. All I know is that I was left at the hospital after my mom gave birth to me.” She pulls in a breath and continues, “I was born two months early—and addicted to crack. I don’t know much about my mom besides the fact that she was an addict. She didn’t sign my birth certificate.”
Christ.
The image of her as a baby, in a hospital all alone, just about kills me.
“I wonder if she thought she was doing the right thing by leaving me there. I wonder if she thought that a nice family would adopt me.”
“I bet she did.”
I hope she did, though I know from a friend who adopted a child that not too many people are willing to take a chance on a drug-addicted baby.
“Can we take a nap?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I nod. She curls her body around mine, and I hold her knowing I’m holding my future in my arms. A future that I’m really fucking looking forward to. A future where she will never have to worry about being unloved again.
Three days later, I listen to Courtney laugh as I place a bright-yellow hard hat on her head. “I probably look like a dorky bumblebee,” she says.
I grin, then let my eyes roam over her from head to toe. As usual, she looks beautiful. She’s wearing a black silk blouse that gives me glimpses of her black lace bra underneath when she moves a certain way, a tight yellow pencil skirt, and black heels that I’m already imagining digging into my back when I take her in my office.
“You’re the sexiest bumblebee I’ve ever seen,” I tell her.
She laughs again, hitting my chest lightly with the back of her hand. Since her breakdown a few days ago, things have been good. Better than good. She seems even more open with me and more affectionate with Maddi, which is something that I wouldn’t have thought was possible. She might think she’d forgotten about her infertility, but I think it was still there, in her subconscious, holding her back from us.
“Are you ready?” I ask, putting on my own hard hat.
“As ready as I will ever be.”
I take her hand and let her into her house. As soon as we walk through the front door and into the living room, I feel her excitement as she looks around. Even with walls still waiting to be put up and the floors still needing to be put down, the place looks perfect. The stone fireplace is exactly as I drew it up—before I ever met Courtney. I can picture her and Maddi reading a book in front of it, or her curled into my side and watching the TV that will hang above the wooden mantel. She lets my hand go and walks to the kitchen. I see her gaze out the window over where the sink will be.
Something heavy and unwanted starts to fill the pit of my stomach. Courtney and I have never talked about money, not once. I know she works for Abby. I know she goes to work every day, Monday through Friday. But I doubt being a paralegal pays enough to afford this place, the construction, and the apartment she’s renting.
