Page 68 of Breakaway Daddies

“Fine, fine. If it’s a girl,” I say with a calm certainty, “I want to name her Belladonna Seraphina.” The room falls into an abrupt, profound silence, the kind that seems to stretch on forever. “And if it’s a boy, Jackson Parker.”

The silence lingers, heavy and palpable. I crack one eye open to gauge their reactions.

Thomas is blinking rapidly, his expression one of disbelief, as if I’d just announced I was naming the child Darth Vader. Rowan’s mouth is slightly agape, caught in that awkward moment of trying to find a tactful response.

Bruno’s brow furrows deeply, the familiar shadow of his brooding demeanor settling in like a storm cloud.

“Seriously?” Thomas is the first to speak, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Belladonna?”

“It’s unique,” I retort, lifting my chin defiantly. “And Jackson Parker is nice. I like them both. So, yeah. Those are my choices.”

They don’t say anything at first, the silence stretching between us like a taut string.

Then Bruno, always the quiet one with a voice that seems to rise from the depths of his chest, murmurs, “I thought this wasourchild.”

The words land like a blow just beneath my ribs, stealing the breath from my lungs. I press my fingers to my temple with my good hand, already weary, trying to keep my frustration in check.

“Well… yeah, kind of. But I’m the mother. Doesn’t that mean I get the final say?” I say with a hint of defensiveness.

The glance they exchange is devastating, as if I’ve yanked the floor from beneath them. Their excitement, their joy, it all collapses inward like a squashed spider.

They fall silent, and the room takes on a chill, as if someone has thrown open a window to winter winds. I want to reach out, to pull back the words that have already taken root in the air, but honesty binds me.

It’s my body, my baby. Isn’t it?

The doctor returns, clipboard clutched tightly in hand, and a smile stretched across her face, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Everything looks okay. The CT scan is clean. You’re good to go home, but no driving for a few days. Make sure you get plenty of rest.”

I nod, relief flooding through me, grateful for the green light to leave. As I begin to push myself upright, all three of them spring into action as if I’m as fragile as a porcelain doll.

Rowan extends a steadying hand toward my elbow, while Bruno is already maneuvering to slip his arm beneath my knees, ready to assist. Thomas fumbles with my belongings on the tray, handling them cautiously, as though they might suddenly become hazardous.

“Guys,” I groan, pressing my palm against my forehead in exasperation. “Please. I’m not made of crystal. I can walk.”

They pause, exchanging looks of concern that resemble the expressions of scolded puppies. Still, they reluctantly give me space, hovering close by, wary that any misstep might shatter me all over again.

As I rise to my feet, a throb pulses through my wrist, and my pride stings even sharper.

Despite understanding their intentions are nothing but kind, I can’t shake the overwhelming sensation of being the most cumbersome burden in the room, and the solitary figure holding all the strings of control.

I mutter something under my breath, feeling the absurdity of not being able to drive my own damn car. My wrist aches beneath the tightly wrapped bandage, each pulse of pain spreading a wave of discomfort, while a dull throb settles behind my eyes, eroding my patience.

“I can do stuff, you know,” I huff, the words escaping with more frustration than intended as Rowan walks beside me, as if he anticipates my every falter.

Rowan turns his head slightly, meeting my gaze with eyes filled with gentle understanding, his voice carrying a softness that doesn’t waver. “We know you can. But right now, you don’t have to.”

His words lodge in my chest with a curious mix of warmth and unease. It’s a kindness that feels sweet yet leaves a residue of feeling small—not in an endearing way, but in a way that highlights my vulnerability and reliance.

I glance downward, my boots catching my attention with their scuffed surfaces, a testament to neglect. My nails, once vibrant, now lie bare, unpainted for days, and my sweater hangs loosely.

The person I see doesn’t feel powerful or punk rock, or like the version of myself I recognize.

But then Rowan reaches over, his hand gently enveloping my uninjured one, offering a comforting squeeze that bridges the gap between us. “We’ve got you, Jinx. Okay?”

I manage a smile, faint but genuine, breaking through the wall of uncertainty. “Okay,” I whisper.

The drive back is suffocatingly quiet, the silence stretching thin and taut like the strings of a violin about to snap. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as neon signs smear into colorful streaks and headlights ripple like distant stars across the car roof.

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