Page 82 of Poison Aches

“Why? Do you feel attacked?” I ask with a chuckle.

There’s no way Astraea would feel attacked by this poem, not now anyway, she’s freaking happy and at peace.

But judging from the look she’s giving me, I know she knows I’m the one who’s under attack.

And I know exactly who she’s thinking of now.

“Why are you reading that anyway? Are you…”

“Eh, stop!” I raise my hand to her. “Don’t even try to go there. I chose English lit for this last semester to supplement my GPA, and I happened to come across this poem then, so I was just… re-reading.”

“Your classes are done, Ivy.”

“I was swiping through and came across it, so I was reading it again,” I repeat.

“Because you resonate with it?”

“No…” I scoff. “Because I’m exhausted and ready to get this done, so I can sleep for the next few days! Where is she?”

“Don’t change the topic, miss! You picked a Warsan Shire poem for your last class!” she states knowingly.

“Why the fuck not?” Kimberly, my equally neurotic, unhinged, beautiful, badass friend who so happens to be the reason why I’ve been dragged through this bridal hell for weeks, demands as she comes barreling into the room like a hurricane, holding baby King at arm’s length with a frown on her face. “Isn’t she the genius behind the poetry in theLemonadealbum?”

“She very much is!” I quickly grab onto the lifeline Kimberly just cast my way. “If Beyoncé approves, who are we to stand in the way?”

“Damn straight!” she says as she makes a beeline for me and drops the chubby, incredibly adorable fifteen-month-old in my arms, right on top of my iPad. “Your turn!”

“My turn…?” That’s when the smell hits me. “Holy shit, what did you feed him?”

“He soiled his diaper again? This is the third time in a few hours,” Astraea says with an indulgent smile as she looks at her son.

Her son.

It’s crazy how life just flips for the better sometimes.

I stare down at the baby in my arms and before I know it, a warm feeling bursts in my heart.

Baby King is just as handsome, majestic, and commanding as his father, but he’s freaking beautiful, sweet, and quietly charming, just like his mother.

At a glance you can tell he was blessed with the very best parts of both his parents.

Captivating sharp blue eyes that will make your heart melt, cute dark curls atop his head, a slightly chubby, beautiful face that I’m sure was molded by God Himself, and that baby scent—which is right now covered by another stink bomb, but you get it—he’s the cutest, most beautiful, and incredibly calm but bossy baby in the world.

He blinks up at me, watching me carefully, as if judging me.

“Dude, does he ever cry?” I frown, watching him.

Astraea laughs. “That’s because you’re here!”

“Wait, what?”

“He never cries when you’re here, Ivy. Why else do you think I’m always relieved when you come over?” She shrugs. “I don’t know what it is about you, but he’s so freaking calm with you.”

I look up at the new mom.

If I didn’t personally experience it in the delivery room with Alex King that hellish day, I’d swear this beautiful woman with her shiny, wavy hair, bright brown eyes, and a permanent smile on her face never gave birth.

Instead, she looks like she just got back from the captivating beaches of Barbados, where she was eating fresh fruits and seafood, with her hair blowing in the fresh breeze.

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