Page 167 of Pucking Rebound

“It’s okay, baby,” I coo, trying to calm her. “You’ll still have the C-section. Remember Dr. Ferris told us we would stick to our plan, even if she came early?”

“I am freaking out, Jordy.”

As am I.

“It’s all going to be just fine.” I drop my voice a few octaves and draw out my words to keep her calm. “Well, it looks like you’re not going to be pregnant for much longer.” I take a slow stride into the room, take her hand, and pull my phone out of my pocket to call the doctor to let them know we are on our way. My stress levels hit an all-time high but I hide it because the last thing I need is a distressed Lola. “C’mon, it’s time to meet our baby girl.”

“Our Blossom.” Lola takes one final look at the delicately painted pink petals scattered across the walls as she waddles out of the room, my hand on her lower back, desperate to be in the car and at the hospital already.

If she’s freaking out, multiply that by ten because that’s how I feel. My pulse is beating faster than a mariachi band in my eardrums.

Lola stops walking and lays her hand on my arm. “Calm down Jordan. Everything’s going to be okay,” she says, and I love how she can always read me like a book.

“I know.”

I also know our little girl will be a breath of fresh air; her laugh will be as soft and sweet as cherry blossom petals, and she’ll light up every room she’s in.

Just like her mom.

My Lola.

My Teacup.

And my little Blossom.

My girls.

EPILOGUE

Lola– 1 year later

“It’s really busy. What a turn out.” Smiling, I’m so happy for Jordan at how successfully his second exhibition has been received.

My husband is awesome.

Not long after Blossom was born, Tamara threw us the most extravagant wedding in the grounds of their family estate. Marquees with chandeliers, fireworks, you name it, she went above and beyond. Surrounded by our family and friends, we exchanged vows before dancing the night away in a whirlwind of epic celebrations.

I loved it even more because Blossom was there too.

“We’ve sold eight paintings already,” Piper whispers between us as she sweeps by and keeps walking, looking incredibly happy about that.

“Eight?” I say, looking up at my talented husband. “Isn’t your daddy super clever?” I bounce Blossom up and down on my hip, making her giggle as she plays with the ends of my hair.

A year old now, she’s as cute as a button, all blonde hair and brown eyes, just like the two of us. I’m praying she inherits her daddy’s height and not mine.

“I think that one is my favorite.” I use my chin to gesture at the painting of me at eight months pregnant.

When Jordy told me his second exhibition was called Edmonton in Bloom, I thought it was a follow up from his winter cityscapes collection, which sold out on launch night. How wrong was I? Because every painting and intricate sketch on display tonight is of me.

Not that you can tell, but at the same time you can.

There are paintings of my eyes.

Some just of my mouth. Smiling. Laughing.

There’s one of me standing looking out over the city from the window of his penthouse, which he must have painted not long after our first New Year’s Eve together because it looks like the night I told him I had developed feelings for him, and unbeknownst to me, was already pregnant.

There are paintings of me sleeping. Some of me cradling my belly in my hands, and some of me from the back with Blossom’s head peeking out over the top of my shoulder.

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