Page 82 of Letting Go

The doors open immediately. And,holy shit, there he is.

Caden.

Still inside. Like the universe took pity on me for once.

He looks shocked; like genuinely stunned, as if he was about to sink into a dramatic spiral of Scotch and solitary brooding. His head turns toward the panel like he’s going to press another floor, maybe run.

But before he can eventhinkabout escaping, I launch myself at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’mso sorry-”

I barrel into him, arms flying around his neck, legs locking around his waist like some emotionally unstable backpack. My face buries itself in his hair and I blurt into the scent of his cologne:

“I wasn’t scared aboutus; I was scared aboutKeira-and that was stupid because she’s already kicked me out of the apartmentin her head. Marrying you is the literaldream, and I love you, and I don’t care if you want a break, you’re not getting one, so tough shit-”

He’s laughing now, shuddering with relief, even as he tries to peel me off like I’m some clingy koala with an emotional support disorder.

“Jesus, woman, at least let me put the ring on you,” he says, breathless and smiling like hecan’t believethis is his life.

I loosen one hand, suspicious,is this a trick?

But he shifts, somehow managing, with impressive coordination, to balance me while still prying the velvet box from his pocket. A few awkward manoeuvres later, he slides the ring onto my finger.

My hand looksinsane. In the best, mostusway. Slightly messy. A little ridiculous. Andperfect.

“Yes,” I whisper against his mouth, the word shaky and soaked in everything I’m feeling.

I kiss him hard.

Behind us, the elevator dings.

But we don’t move.

Because this,this, is where I’m meant to be. In his arms. In his life. Wrapped around him like I’ve always belonged there.

And I do.

Finally. I really,finallydo.

Chapter 31

TWO YEARS LATER

Deep breath in.

And out.

I sit up in bed like a woman with purpose. It's 6 a.m., my lower back is doing the tango with Satan, and I’ve been having contractions since last night. They're closer together now. Regular. Sharp. Relentless.

It’s time.

I gently shake the love of my life, my husband, the father of my about-to-exit baby. He grunts, rolls away, and gives me a noncommittal hum in response.

So, I slap his bare shoulder.

He jackknifes up in bed like someone lit his ass on fire. “What? What happened?”

“It’s time,” I say, calm as a cucumber in hell. “We need to go to the hospital. I started having contractions last night, but they’re closer together now.”

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