Page 155 of The Trouble with Flings

“No,” she says, smiling nervously. “But open it anyway.”

I push the door open, and she steps slowly into the room. I stay quiet, watching her take in the crib, dresser, changing table, and glider we picked out in Seaport, the family crest with SS I had made for the headboard matches the one on the crib Grant made for her apartment, and the mobile and matching lamp with the Guess How Much I Love You bunny on them.

Her gaze moves over the crib again, and her breath catches. “Is that your bear and my bunny?” she asks, stepping forward.

“Yeah. I had your mom send me your bunny.”

She snags it from the crib, hugging the bunny to her chest. Her back is to me, but emotions roll off her as she spins around, and those happy eyes land on the mural behind me. The breath rushes from her lungs.

It’s all pastels, with dunes rolling toward the ocean and gulls soaring overhead. A sailboat drifts across the horizon in the distance, and near the center of the mural are two worn, imperfect, irreplaceable stuffed animals facing each other on the sand—her rabbit with its stitches and missing eye, wearing yellow rain boots and a matching hat, its chewed-on ears poking through, and my childhood bear with the worn fur and red bow tie. The bear is holding a bouquet of wildflowers, and flying above them is a single purple dragonfly.

“Fitz, this is…” Her eyes tear up. “Overwhelmingly perfect.”

“I had Grant and Holden paint it for us.”

She turns sharply, brows knitting. “Holden?”

“I hope that’s okay. You said the project he was working on had to mean something to him, and when I saw him painting down at the marina one afternoon, he was telling me how grateful he was for your help and that he wasn’t sure how to thank you.”

“He said that?” she asks with disbelief.

“Not exactly those words. He said you were cool for a principal and that I could tell you thanks if I wanted to.”

She smiles. “That sounds like him. I love that you asked him to paint, and that Grant painted this for us, too.” She looks back at the mural, her expression a little dreamy. “I can’t believe Holden kept it a secret. We text all the time. That sneaky weasel.”

“He’s a good kid, and he’s lucky you took him under your wing.” I slide my arm around her waist. “The same way our baby will be.”

Uncertainty flickers across her face. “I don’t know about that for our baby.” She puts her hand on her baby bump. “Today made it so real. We’re having a daughter. There’s so much that can go wrong. It’s all so scary.”

“It is for me too,” I admit honestly. “But she’s just a baby, and we’re two smart, loving adults. She’s going to throw us for hundreds of loops, but there’s nothing we can’t figure out together.”

She looks at me then, and there’s something achingly vulnerable in her eyes. “You’re going to be such an amazing girl dad, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to keep her from turning into me.”

That cuts like a knife. “Please don’t do that. You’re the best part of us.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not. Look how long it took me to let you into my life. I don’t want our daughter missing out on all the good things that come with being softer than I am.”

“You’re perfectly soft.”

She gives me a deadpan look. “I’m stone. You’re silver. Our names say it all. You shine, and I’m hard to get through to.”

I think about every challenge she’s doled out, every careful inch she’s given me since the beginning, every moment she’s chosen to stay when her every instinct surely told her to run, and every tear she’s shed out of love or joy or sadness, and I refuse to let her deny her truth.

“My sweet, stubborn girl, you are braver and stronger than any woman I know. That brilliant brain of yours dissects everything, and I adore that about you. That’s what makes you who you are. You know your self-worth, and that’s a trait I hope you will teach our daughter. You think that makes you too hard. I think it saved you from other hurtful experiences.”

I pause, letting that sink in before saying, “People might have to work a little harder to get through to the real you, but don’t ever doubt that every single person who comes into contact with you sees the value of breaking through. And those who are lucky enough to do it know exactly how special that hard-earned trust is.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see that part of her hears me and believes me. But there’s still that other part. The part that’s scared and hanging on by its fingernails, making her doubt my words.

“See?” she finally says. “Hard earned. That’s not great.”

“That’s exactly what makes you great.”

“Fitz…?”

I wrap my arms around her. “I hear what you’re saying, and being too hard is a valid concern. It’s just not a valid concern about you.”

“Yes, it is,” she insists.